Crimson - Melinda Jean

Creeping in the crack after the sun has just melted a crimson line appears, as if the crime does not matter, as if nothing of consequence exists in the breath into another. She lie on the carpet her blood slowly soaking in, giving her warmth. She can move her head, just slightly and there through the looking glass she can see the slash across her throat had dripped and pooled, no longer the beaded look it had earlier. 'It looks worse than it feels,' she thought, still numb from shock she supposed. She didn't feel angry as she imagined she might feel being a chosen victim to some altered mind's attempt to conclude her life. Maybe others never imagined death and those moments into entering. There was an odd sense of peace and the room was expanding as the light and colors slowly left, another melting, like her body's heavy limp-like quality melding in the rug, the floor, becoming a piece of this house, her home, and the walls have scooped at the edges like a cup, she was being drunk into some other color, crimson the color beneath the door it filled her pouring in from underneath, filling her backwards.

Crimson - Greg

Mollie stared at the crimson pool expanding around Rocco’s supine body laying neatly on the white tile floor. Smoke wafted gently from the chrome barrel of the pearl handled revolver she held in her manicured fingers.

Damn him, she thought, that blood is going to be hell to clean up. But the seeping sharp vermillion against the brilliant white of the tile froze her annoyance as she admired the striking clash of colors. Colors could do that to her. She loved colors and once considered a career as a fashion colorist. This, this was strikingly bold, but tasteful--just like Rocco.

Even now, dead on the floor, he looked in great in that cut Armani suit. Great except for the ridiculous look of shocked surprise on his face. That was all wrong. She wanted to adjust his face the way she sometimes adjusted his collar or straighten his tie. Wanted to close his mouth, put his stiff hand down by his side that for some reason was still held in front of him like he was trying to stop traffic. Or block the bullet. Mostly she wanted to adjust the eyes which were as wide as that actor–what was his name? Marty Feldman?

She sighed. Let’s face it, she thought, there were things she would miss about him. And not just his dapper clothes. He was a good looking man, and a woman liked have a good-looking man on her arm. And he liked his women to look good too. That’s why he chose her to be his girl. Well, most of the time. And he gave her extra money to look good too. It took money for a girl to look nice.

She wouldn’t miss his coarseness though. Or the way he talked when he was drunk. Or how he was rude to all of her friends, and had even threatened to beat up Jonni, her gay hair dresser. She winced at the memory. He was really clueless certain things, and she certainly wouldn’t miss that.

On the other hand, he was a man, and a girl needed a man. Even a rough coarse one like Rocco. Needed to feel his warmth close to her and that sense of feeling safe and protected and desired. At least for a little while.

The one thing that she could not accept was that he was a lousy lover. She looked at Rocco anew and suddenly he didn’t look so dapper. She set the revolver down on the counter and opened the broom closet, taking out the mop, the bucket and several heavy-duty reinforced yard waste bags. Typical, she thought, men make the mess and women clean it up.

Prompt: Crimson 6/9/07

Crimson - Dixie

I roll the word crimson around in my mind, looking for an image, a sensation, a memory. What I get is another word: scarlet. Dramatic red. Scarlet O'Hara. The Scarlet Pimpernel. Will Scarlet. Finally, a personal image arrives---Scarlet the cocker spaniel. There she is: carmel colored, scruffy, her macrame leash dragging on the ground, her big brown eyes wide-open to the world.

I only knew Scarlet as an old dog, but I heard stories about her from the Welfare Department people and also from Candace herself, Scarlet's owner. Young Scarlet was so cute it was ridiculous. When she wagged her tail, her whole body wriggled, her ears fluttered, and her toenails twittered on the sidewalk as she did her doggie dance. Scarlet went everywhere with Candace. Usually dogs are not allowed in the Welfare Office, but when Candace came in, Scarlet was greeted happily by all of us, including the director. We had treats for Scarlet at our desks, and doggie toys. In fact, Scarlet got so much attention, we would sometimes forget about Candace and not realize it until she was heading out the door, perfectly content, it seemed, to avoid explaining herself to some nosey social worker.

Candace was not a street person, though she hung out there a lot. She had an apartment. Once she worked as a clerk at the Welfare Department, before her shit hit the fan. She used to be included in the many-roomates houses that the girls in their 20's shared. But somewhere along the line, Candace started to crumble. She got fat. She withdrew to her separate studio apartment. She stopped working. The lives of girls in their 20's are so busy and chaotic that only a few people noticed the changes, and they didn't know what to do. It was Scarlet who stopped the free fall for Candace.

Scarlet came from the Pets in Need people. She supposedly had a "bad temperament," or so her owners said when they turned her over to the dog pound. Candace's neighbor forced Scarlet on her, "just for a week until we place her." Past the chewing puppy stage, but not yet full grown, Scarlet was a little wild, a little spooked, and in need of some serious grooming. Candace had no idea about what to do with a dog, but when the week was up, Scarlet stayed, and a long period of contentment began for both of them.

As it turned out, Scarlett outlived Candace, but this is not that story.

Jumpstart prompt: Crimson
6/9/07

Crimson - Maya

Like rubies. Like garnets. Like blood:
Crimson.
Streaks in the sky at sunset.
Cascades of beads hanging in a doorway.
Similar to magenta and burgundy,
But deeper than the first, brighter than the latter.
A glass of Cabernet on a table at an outdoor cafe in Paris,
backlit, with sunshine streaming through.
One of the colors I would paint my soul, along with purple (both amethyst and lavender), and that particular shade of blue-green deeper than turquoise.
A little dark for paint, though some rooms might be just right
with polished wood and windows looking out over a pine forest.
Perfect for dancing shoes:
Crimson.
Like Dorothy’s ruby slippers,
Paired with a twirling skirt and starlight.
Running in rivulets, fascinating, life leaking out, torn body lying in the street –
Turn-your-head-away crimson.
Or lipstick – yes – that sensual creamy dark color
perfect for full lips just puckering to kiss.
And nail polish, of course, on fingers and toes –
Just before the feet slip into the dancing shoes.
Crimson.
The color for bad women, whorehouses, cartoon villainesses –
The ones who have power and use it for their own gain -
Sleeping Beauty’s stepmother had lips painted crimson.
Good girls wear pink, maybe rose,
But crimson – that’s for women,
Women who know who they are and aren’t afraid
to thrust it into the world.
It’s not subtle,
Crimson is not for the shy, the reticent, the lazy.
It demands attention, loyalty and seriousness.
But it’s not without fun and celebration,
It’s not black, you know.
It’s drama, excitement, life.
Lift your glass –
Praise life –
Praise your life –
Offer a toast to your own soul –
The colors you throw into the world –
The crimson facet of the kaleidoscope.



Prompt: Crimson 6/9/07