let it bleed

Dark leaves fall from shaking trees and float in the gray, murky water as Bianca trudges through the rainstorm. Her parents told her not to wander in such weather, but she had been cooped up for days, waiting for the storm to end. Lightning strikes in a white slash across the sky. A field of flowers decorates a nearby hill with buds of varying tones of black. Bianca treks up the hill through the silvery blades of grass as the rainwater rushes in the opposite direction.

When Bianca reaches the top of the hill, the sight that awaits her almost makes her fall back down. Behind a clear wall of glass lies a world Bianca has never seen. Everything is painted with vibrant streaks and shades. She can feel the warmth of the sunlight shining through the trees and the daffodils that dance in the breeze. She can feel the coolness of the river flowing over the rocks and the leaves that sway between the stalks. Thinking she is hallucinating, Bianca peels her eyes away for a moment to look back at her own world of black and white. Dark dirt lies under the dull sky. Dark streaks outline the ridges of the trees. Leaves fall from the branches, different shades but not…not like the vivid canvas in front of her.

A girl sits near the border, drawing on paper. Bianca races to her, almost tumbling down the hill in her haste. Maybe this girl can help her make sense of the world before her.

In her excitement, Bianca slaps her hand against the strong glass so hard that she startles the girl. She makes a noise of surprise, but Bianca can’t hear her across the border.

Bianca motions to the world on the other side in awe. The girl quirks an eyebrow at her and then begins to write on her paper around a floral drawing. She holds her paper up to the glass. Colors, says the word circled on the paper.

“Colors,” Bianca says to herself, testing the word out.

The girl on the other side seems to understand, nodding enthusiastically. She looks around and then picks up a leaf. Bianca examines this leaf and its color. Then the girl writes on her paper again.

Green, the paper says.

“Green,” Bianca says.

Bianca has never seen anything as beautiful as a sunset in color. Iris, the girl on the other side, teaches her all of the colors, and Bianca sits through the rainstorm and points them out as she begins to understand. The daffodils are yellow, and the river is blue! And oh, the sunset, such a beautiful blend of orange and pink! But as the sun nearly finishes its descent, Iris apologetically waves goodbye. She must be home before the night, Bianca assumes. That’s fine, because Bianca cannot see the colors so well in the dark. She decides she will be back as soon as the light rises again.

Bianca skips home, singing all the names of colors she has learned so that she doesn’t forget. She sings all the way home, and she swings open her front door, and sings all the way to her room, forgetting that she is drenched in–

“Where have you been, young lady?” Bianca’s mother screeches.

Bianca stops, winces, and turns to face her.

“I heard your song,” her mother says coldly. Before Bianca can intervene with an excuse, her mother shouts, “Harold! Get down here! Family meeting, now!”

Bianca’s father sludges down the stairs, and then Bianca is sitting on the chair opposite her parents. She is soaking the furniture, but neither of her parents seem to care.

“It’s clear that you have seen the world of color,” Bianca’s mother says.

“Why didn’t you tell me about it sooner?” Bianca squeals, still unable to contain her awe.

“Because you can never live in it,” her mother says, and Bianca’s elation comes to a halt. “The seal between our world and the world of color can never be broken, or else the color will bleed into our world, and we will lose everything we have.”

“We have nothing!” Bianca cries. “We have no color–”

“We have our own ways of expression, just as beautiful,” her mother snaps. She goes to the wall and removes a charcoal drawing that she created of her family. It plops on Bianca’s lap. “This is our way. This is how we live. You may see it as simple, but simple does not mean lacking.”

Bianca stares at the dull drawing on her lap. Her father twiddles his thumbs.

Bianca still returns to the border every day at dawn. She stares at the colors that prance around her. More than anything else, she stares at Iris. Iris’ hair is golden like the sun, and her eyes are blue like the river. Bianca traces letters on the glass, and in return, Iris continues to write words around her drawings. Bianca wants to draw, too.

She brings paper and tries to copy Iris’ flowers, but her mother’s charcoal cannot emulate the vibrancy of Iris’ floral designs. Iris praises Bianca’s charcoal skills, seeming genuinely amazed at the images that different shades of charcoal can create, but Bianca breaks the charcoal in frustration and sobs. She leans her forehead against the glass. Iris leans her forehead against hers from the other side.

From the other side. Always from the other side.

A few days later, Bianca sits across from Iris and opens her charcoal kit. But this time, there is no charcoal. There is only the hammer that Bianca stole from her garage.

Iris raises her eyebrows in confusion, but Bianca motions for her to step back. Then the hammer smashes against the glass. The crack isn’t deep enough to go through yet. The hammer smashes again.

Distantly, Bianca hears her mother running behind her, shouting for her daughter and a missing hammer. The hammer smashes again. The crack goes through.

Color bleeds into Bianca’s world. The silvery grass and dark leaves turn green. The puddles and the sky turn blue. The dirt turns brown. The flowers on the hill turn varying colors of pink, red and yellow.

The hole in the glass isn’t large, but it’s enough for Bianca to lean her head through. Iris approaches and gently touches her forehead to Bianca’s.

Tears flow down Bianca’s rosy cheeks as she laughs in hysterical joy. Iris giggles softly too. Her golden hair intertwines with Bianca’s head of scorching red curls.

There’s a thud as someone falls to their knees in the background.

Story by Greta Schmitzer Design by Emily Miller

Light without its shadow wields waves of warbling warmth. The air is sticky caramel. Brightness, like a flashlight hitting the pupil–bullseye!–singes sight with bruises.

Shadow without its light slurps pigment from a straw–listen to it gulp! There’s a something that feels like nothing, telling our eyes to hush.

Light peeks into the darkness, resurrecting attention. Color furnishes vision and screams, “Look at me!”

Shadows trail sunlight, contouring the world’s curves, splotching the ground with stains–a haven from heat. Mimes seek shadows’ copy-cat caliber as silhouettes practice by our feet.

Light and shadow gaze at their complexions in the mirrors of their opposites, stroking each other’s egos, embracing their diversity.