The Color Of Things

The Color Of Things

  A Small Story by Michael Hayes

  Cover Art by Rohan Hayes

  Published by Small Stone Productions

  Copyright 2012 Michael Hayes

  ****

  ****

  A small stone fell beyond the mountain range—

  the valley trembled with fear.

  Who dares wake a slumbering monster?

  I lifted my head—catching a glimpse

  of God’s pale hand descending.

  Death’s stare staggered across my bed

  as I counted God’s fingers,

  the same as mine,

  able to make a fist.

  “Come God, let us pound the earth

  make Death stand still.”

  But the stone lay silent—swallowed

  by a vast mountain.

  “Come God, let us pour wrath upon the valley—

  guide my hand in battle.”

  But the hand of God was old and tired—

  needed elsewhere

  to support his weary head.

  The Color Of Things

  RED

  Most days start off as normal days. At least that’s what little Lenny Helzerman thinks. He thinks that there aren’t any good or bad days—it’s just the stuff that happens during the day that makes it good or bad or memorable or forgettable. Little Lenny Helzerman doesn’t expect anything more from one day than he does any other day and he doesn’t give anything more to one day than he does any other day. It is all the same. And this suits him just fine.

  So, on this day or that day, down at the chicken coop behind the Helzerman’s house, little Lenny Helzerman began to hate chickens. Or fear them. He’s not sure which. Now, if one were to ask him about chickens, little Lenny would say that they can be funny and that they flop around the garden after his dad chops their heads off and that the rooster likes to jump on the hens’ backs and that chickens go to bed really early, but he wouldn’t say anything about hating chickens, at least not in a way that would make one think that he was afraid of them.

  So, on this day or that day, down at the chicken coop behind the Helzerman’s house, little Lenny Helzerman sat on a cement block watching the chickens through alternating circles in the chicken wire. And if he closed one eye and cupped his hand around the other eye, he could see the chickens just like the little circles in the chicken wire saw them. And he thought it was funny how the chickens’ heads would bop in and out of view as they strutted and scratched and pecked their way around the coop. And it was while he was doing this that he noticed something red on one chicken’s neck.

  Little Lenny Helzerman opened his eye and dropped his hand so he would not lose track of the chicken with something red on its neck. The chicken with something red on its neck acted like everything was normal and went on scratching and strutting and pecking at the ground. The chicken acted so normal that little Lenny would have soon forgotten that there was something red on its neck if another chicken had not also noticed that there was something red on its neck. But it did. And the other chicken began to cluck and peck at the red something.

  And it was on that day or this day the chicken with something red on its neck stopped strutting and scratching and pecking its way around the chicken coop. And it was on this or that day all of the other chickens in the chicken coop stopped scratching and strutting and pecking at the ground. Little Lenny Helzerman felt goose bumps ripple up his arms and something metal tasting dripped in his mouth as he watched time stand still in the chicken coop. A long errrrrrr sound came from the throat of the chicken with something red on its neck as all of the other chickens slowly surrounded it—their heads bobbing from side to side like they were trying to get a better look at something red.

  And one of the chickens lurched forward and Lenny winced and a frenzied clucking sound erupted and the chicken with something red on its neck began to run and time began to whir in the flapping wings and pecking beaks and the something red began to grow and red began to flow and red dripped on the ground and chased after the wounded chicken and got trampled under chicken feet and pooled in the corner of the chicken coop where it mixed with the dust and turned to mud.

  And on this day or that day, down at the chicken coop behind the Helzerman’s house, little Lenny Helzerman watched the injured chicken fall to the ground and flap madly against its demise as all of the other chickens (mother, father, brother, sister, friend, cousin) clucked and pecked until the red chicken was dead.

  GREEN

  Green is the first thing little Lenny Helzerman can remember. Green on the grass. Green on the trees. Green on the bushes and weeds. Green crawling down Miracle Hill coloring the fields outside of Pumpkintown all the way to Table Rock Mountain where the green fades into blues and grays that leap into the sky and float away forever. Little Lenny Helzerman didn’t know the name for green then but he wanted to learn it. Green is a good name.

  In the heat of a South Carolina summer, green sizzles and fades and turns to shades of brown. The green hose with the brass nozzle lay like a snake in the front yard of little Lenny Helzerman’s house. Down the yard and across the street lived Joey Bishop. Last fall little Lenny Helzerman had driven his tricycle down the front steps of Joey Bishop’s house. Little Lenny Helzerman had only ridden down two steps when the force of the impact tossed him over the tricycle’s handle bars and head first into the third, fourth and fifth steps, all the way to the concrete sidewalk that leads to and from Joey Bishop’s house.

  The crash left little Lenny in a heap at the bottom of the steps with a scraped face and a bloody nose and a mouth full of sobs that he just couldn’t swallow before tears puddled in his eyes only to flood his face an instant later. And from that day on Joey Bishop had called little Lenny Helzerman Crybaby Helzerman even though Joey Bishop was too afraid to drive the tricycle down the steps and dared little Lenny to do it which of course (not being a scaredy-cat) little Lenny did.

  But that was last fall and this day is hot and summery and the two boys have been playing outside all morning. Their reddish-brown skin glistened with sweat and turned the dust covering their half naked bodies into rich red clay that their mothers will never be able to get out of their cut-off blue jeans. In short, it was the kind of day in which water would be a welcomed relief and the green hose with the brass nozzle that lay snake-like in little Lenny Helzerman’s front yard was ready to strike.

  “Just stand right there and I’ll squirt you with the hose pipe,” little Lenny Helzerman instructed as Joey Bishop moved to a bright, sun-shiny spot in the middle of the yard. Little Lenny picked up the hose right behind the brass nozzle, tried not to let on that the hose was hot to the touch and walked over to the spigot. Now, with age you get smarts and little Lenny Helzerman had learned the hard way just how hot water in a hose lying in the front yard in the middle of summer can get and in a few seconds Joey Bishop will get the same kind of smarts.

  Little Lenny Helzerman turned on the spigot and told Joey Bishop not to move as he positioned himself a few feet away from Joey and aimed the nozzle straight at Joey’s nose.

  “Don’t squirt me in the face, Lenny.”

  “Okay,” little Lenny agreed and aimed the nozzle at Joey’s stomach. “Just close your eyes so none splashes in them.”

  And there in the front yard as Joey Bishop closed his eyes little Lenny Helzerman twisted the brass nozzle on the hose to let out a stream of hot water redirected right into Joey’s face. A horrible scream filled the air and stuck in the humidity and bounced off walls and mailboxes and trees and brought mothers running out of front doors and down steps and over sidewalks and yards. And a warm feeling of revenge coursed through little Lenny Helzerman just like the hot water coursed through the hose and s
calded Joey Bishop.

  And in this moment on that day right before his mother yanked the hose out of his hands and right before Joey Bishop’s mom scooped her hysterical child into her arms little Lenny Helzerman (amazed that Joey Bishop hadn’t moved an inch since the hot water hit him square in the face) muttered to himself, “He’s too stupid to run.”

  BLACK

  Papa Dobson died when little Lenny Helzerman was four. Or five. He can’t remember which, but it was definitely before his family had moved to South Dakota for a year, because his parents didn’t make him go to kindergarten the year they lived in South Dakota, and little Lenny would not forget something as important as that. Come to think of it though, maybe Papa Dobson had died when Lenny was six. Or seven—after they got back from living in South Dakota. In any event, Papa Dobson was dead, and other than knowing that Papa Dobson had owned the hardware store in downtown Clemson, the fact that he was dead is about all little Lenny Helzerman knew about Papa