The First Chapter of an Inktober Surprise…

It’s that time of year again. The pumpkin-spice everything is rolling onto the shelves, the stores are purple and orange for Halloween, and writers everywhere are clicking away on their keyboards.

And no, I’m not talking about Preptober.

While some writers are using October as the month to prepare for the prestigious “NaNoWriMo” (AKA National Novel Writing Month, a global competition to write 50k in one month), writers and artists sharpen their pencils for a different reason.

That reason? Inktober.

Inktober is an art-driven contest in October where artists are given 31 daily one word prompts. They must draw something off of that prompt. Writers choose to write short snippets based off the word prompts.

Including me! 🙂

I’m using Inktober as a chance to take a mind break from rewrites and get back to something easy and simple. While I can’t disclose too many details (as I plan on using it to create a really fun surprise for y’all), I am sharing the first chapter today, under the super-secret codename: Project Watercolor.

So, here is the first chapter of Project: Watercolor, using the Inktober prompts “Backpack” and “Discover”.

***

My world is an explosion of sound and color, and red days are the worst.

On the plus side, I can finally see the color of my favorite hoodie.

Agreeing to go shopping with Mom was a big mistake. I’ve never seen the Walmart so busy— there’s people everywhere, mostly populating the summer wear section and grabbing every summer-related item they can get their greedy hands on. I’m pretty sure I saw two middle-aged women wrestling over a watermelon back in produce.

Has the entire world forgotten to do it’s last-minute shopping and decided to come to this specific Walmart? Because the constant gray of my vision is painted crimson as all the voices take part in a verbal massacre.

Why did I ever say I needed a new backpack?

I shove my hands inside my hoodie pockets and half-run after my mom as we finally escape to the parking lot. Not that it’s much better— there are still the blares of car horns, squeal of tires, and the rumble of the interstate. But the red is splotched with more pleasant sound-colors: the bright yellow of tittering birds, bubbly rose pink greetings between friends, and the earthy green tone of wind rustling the leaves in the trees.

“Well that was hectic.” Mom says, looking even more bewildered than I am. Her voice is an aqua waterfall, spilling brilliant blue tones onto my watercolor world. “Are you pleased with your purchase?”

I nod, looking at the backpack and wishing, just a little bit, that I could see it’s true color. My mom said it was purple, but it was hard to see purple— purple only came from respectful compliments, or certain bird songs.

But it did look pretty cool splotched with the seven or so different sound-colors, and there were lots of pockets. One could never have too many pockets.

The color fades when we get inside the truck, faded away to a steel gray as the engine starts up and we drive back to the interstate, back to the ranch where there is rarely a speck of red in the colors. Well, except when my brothers get on my nerves. But that’s only occasionally.

And after that, I think I’ve had enough red for today.

###

Home.

Never have the lush, rolling fields of the ranch been so appealing. The minute I open the truck door, the slate and gray is awash with the rough brown nickering of horses and the whistling bright green of grass blown about in the wind.

The ranch. Really, all I’ve known since I was born.

Teal and orange shouts of playful war shatter the quiet and I turn in time to see two of my brothers tear from the hay shed, stick-swords in hand.

“En garde, compadre!” My older brother Aiden shouts, his marmalade words blending together with my younger brother Jacob’s teal-laced cackle of resolve.

“Pretty sure you just combined two languages there.” I called out to them, my own words splatters of coral in the mix.

Aiden rolls his eyes and ends up getting thwacked on the shoulder by Jacob. Then they’re back at it, running along the fenceline with threats so fierce that if it weren’t for the sunshine-yellow hues in their words, someone might think they were spitting blood-strewn curses of hate.

But that’s just my brothers. In all honesty, any enemy who comes against either one of us would soon discover their grave mistake. You mess with one of us, you mess with all of us. And as much as we get on each other’s nerves sometimes, at the end of the day, we’re still best friends.

“Hey Claire!” Jacob stops the fight to point to the barn. “Colton’s with Frankie in the barn. He’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks Jake!” I look toward my mom. “Should I help you with the groceries first?”

“No, go find Colton.” She chuckles. “He’s probably been waiting a while.”

“Thanks.” I run my new backpack inside before I can have the chance to drop it and get it dirty, then pull on my farm boots and jog out to the stable.

It’s never hard for me to find Colton. Once we discovered the loft space above the stalls, it became our own hiding spot, like a treehouse without the tree.

And now, bright rainbow streaks are trickling down the gray wood, combined with the rich umber tones of Colton’s guitar.

I love hearing him play.

I’m quiet as I climb up the ladder, listening and watching. I’ve often wondered what normal people experience when they hear music. For me, it’s not just sounds— it’s a color show.

Colton’s playing one of my favorite songs, fast and bright. With every note color spins and twirls through the air, onto the walls, like someone took a paint gun and started rapid firing. His fast playing weaves tangerine streaks into the overall bright green, yellow, and pale pink color of the song, his skill and prowess twisting gold at its edges. It’s a longing, yet hopeful and witty tune, and it always makes me want to spin around in circles until I fall over from laughing too hard.

I get to the top of the ladder and stop, just to enjoy the color show. Colton doesn’t know I’m here— he’s lost in his own world of the music, eyes closed, playing without sight so he can feel the sounds. The colors are twisting and dancing around him, so vibrant that I can actually see his brown hair and blue eyes when he finally looks up.

He stops playing when he sees me, which makes my heart sink a little because I miss the colors. Music is the only time when I have my full range of color sight, and I can actually discern the true colors of what I see.

But I smile all the same, because color or no color, spending time with my best friend is always a treat. “Hey Colton.”

“How was “the city”?” He uses air quotes, his eyes glancing between me and the wood boards. I make a note of it so I don’t end up staring him down.

After seven years of being friends with Colton, I’ve learned to watch for cues that his autism is acting up, and remind myself to slow down a bit so I don’t overwhelm him.

“Everybody and their second cousin were there.” I grumble, sitting down by the dusty tack chest where I keep my most precious (and weatherproof) items. I pull out my leather notebook and scrawl a few lines to remember for later— song lyrics I don’t want to forget. Sometimes they come as fast as a blink of sunshine in the rain, disappearing before I can catch them, so it’s best to scribble them down before I forget them.

Colton puts up his guitar. “I tried to tack up Frankie for a ride, but he’s in a frisky mood and I couldn’t catch him in the field.”

I sigh. “I thought we were doing better with that.”

“He’s backsliding.” Colton’s jaw tightened, and his slate-colored voice turns to storm gray. “Or maybe I messed him up.”

“Frankie’s still young.” I tell him. “He’s gonna have to relearn some things before he’ll have it down pat. It’s just part of training a horse. I’ll grab Brillie, we’ll bring him in, and then we’ll see what we can do about that friskiness.”

Colton nods, fiddling with the latches on the guitar case. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

I put up the journal, locked the tack box, and scrambled down the ladder, pausing to help Colton get his guitar down. He puts it into the tack room while I run out to the riding horse paddock.

I snatch a halter from the hooks on the fence rail and slip through the cowboy gate, scanning the five-head herd of Galiceno riding horses. Even though everything is grayscale now, I’ve seen these horses in enough color scenarios to know who’s who.

Ranger, Aiden’s bay gelding, is of course the first to approach, asserting his role as head honcho . Close behind him is the little mousy buckskin mare Mom loves to pamper, Kittie, moving in step with her black half-brother and Henry’s favorite horse, Raven. Far off, barely a gray speck on the other side of the pasture, is the troublemaker, Frankie. I know that he’s actually gray because his color never changes, no matter the sound I hear. She lopes ahead of them all, nickering at me.

“Brillie Bean!” My coral-colored voice tints the world with cream-gold at the sound of her name. For a moment I can see her true color— glowing dappled palomino, with an ivory mane and tail. She stops a few feet in front of me, head already lowered for the halter.

“You’re an eager beaver today, aren’t you?” I scratch her in her favorite spot behind the ears, grinning as her lips flap open and close with pleasure. “Think you can help me catch Frankie?”

I tie on the halter, then lead her over to the fenceline. Looping a halter over my shoulder, I knot the leadline to create makeshift reins, then use the fenceboards to boost myself onto her back. One ear flicks back, and I feel her shiver beneath me, raring to get to work.

“All right, Brills.” I use my leg to turn her toward Frankie. “Let’s go catch your friend.”

I give her more leg and she shoots forward, loping across the field toward where Frankie is peacefully grazing. He lifts his head when we approach, snorting with almost a question to his tone.

“Come on, Frankie.” I jump off Brillie and approach him, looping the lead rope of the second halter around his neck while he’s occupied with a particularly juicy dandelion. He suddenly realizes he’s trapped and snorts, backing up.

“Ho, bud.” I knead the crest of his neck, finding the reflex touch point that makes him lower his head. I scratch his forehead, murmuring a praise while I gently tie on the halter.

“Time to go to work, Frankles.” I click to Brillie and she approaches, standing still while I use the fence again and vault onto her back. Ponying Frankie, I direct Brillie back to the gate, where Colton is leaning against the fence with the other three horses surrounding him in line for attention.

“Thanks, Claire.” He sighs, staring disdainfully at Frankie. “I just… couldn’t catch him.”

“Well he’s caught.” I dismount, leading them both toward the gate. “So don’t worry about it. Help me out with the gate?”

He slips in and takes Frank while I lead Brillie out first, maneuvering her out of the way while I hold the gate for Colton.

Twenty minutes later, we’re both tacked up and riding along the small gravel road that stands in between my house and Colton’s. It’s not a busy road, and it’s good to ride along to get Frankie used to different textures underfoot.

I release a long breath of air, letting the remaining red from shopping melt away with the bright green of summer wind, the bubbly blues and pinks of chattering swallows, and the nutmeg-brown of squirrels chastising us from the trees. Brillie and Frankie round out the colors with copper and wheat splashes of snorts and sighs.

“One more summer.” Colton says suddenly, his slate voice filled with the periwinkle of nostalgia.

I shift to look at him, confused. “One more summer?”

“Until high school.” He says, fingers rubbing Frankie’s withers. “We both enter ninth grade this year.”

“We’re home-schooled.” I chuckle. “Will it really be that different?”

“Well no, but still. It’s high school.” He stares out across the pastures. “It’s a whole new season.”

“Well we’re gonna crush it.” I tell him, grinning at the thought of all the possibilities. “It’s going to be perfectly awesome.”

He nods. “Yeah, busy more like it.”

“We’ll figure it out. It’ll be great. Think of all the new opportunities to do stuff.” I straighten, spotting a familiar landmark.

Colton sees it at the same time and gives me a side grin. “Race you to the tree?”

He’s already off before me. I laugh and click to Brillie. She bolts forward, the sound of her hoofbeats electric violet in the air with excitement.

The big hickory tree that stands at the exact middle of the road between our properties is a favorite meeting point. Colton and I have spent many hours hanging out near this tree, and it makes the perfect end point for short races.

For a few seconds, Brillie and Frankie are neck and neck, then Brillie uses her speedy long legs to pull ahead. By the time the hickory tree comes up, she’s going too fast to stop and we gallop past it.

I chuckle with victory, glancing behind me to see Colton pulling Frankie to a stop, grinning wide and breathing hard.

Then his expression changes to fear and neon yellow spews from his shout of, “Claire, watch out!”

I whip my attention forward in time to see a black SUV speed down the road towards the driveway to Colton’s house, wheels spewing gravel and far too fast than what was safe. I stop Brillie in time, and the car roars past, too fast and too close, making Brillie snort and jerk up on her back legs in an attempt to get away.

“Easy, Brillie Bean.” I rub her neck, shifting my weight forward so I’m not tossed off. She snorts and calms down, skin shivering.

The car is already parked at Colton’s house. Odd. I’ve never seen a car like that on this road before. And whoever was driving it must be from the city. No sane local would drive on the road like that.

“You okay?” Colton asks, jogging up behind me on Frankie.

“I’m fine. But what an idiot!” I scowl at the black car, slight red dripping on it from my words. “Who on earth could be so inconsiderate?”

Colton’s silent. When I look at him, waiting for an answer, I realize how pale his face is.

“Colton?” I blink, confused. “What’s wrong?”

He licks his lips, swallowing. When he finally speaks, the storm gray color in his voice is heavy.

“That’s my social worker’s car.”

***

So? What are your thoughts so far? Are you intrigued to hear more?