The Shape of Color
By Rick McQuiston
Blake noticed it first. He paid more attention to his lawn than anyone else in the neighborhood. Even with all his effort, Jack Tameron next door boasted sharper blades. But Blake was getting closer and they both knew it.
His stomach burned and churned as he stood on his porch trying to wish it away. He stared at the deep dark green, nearly blue-purple patch in the middle of his lawn. This particular shade and shape of color was unnatural, bordering on wrong.
It was coarse, almost like feathers woven together.
He removed his worn Detroit Tigers cap, wrinkled up his face, and scratched at his receding hairline. One of the few things he had going for him was the lawn.
No woman, no prospects. He had a dead end job existing at the mercy of officialdom, a sword always over his head.
But he had the lawn.
The strange area was small, maybe three by three, but the texture of the patch allowed for cloud-like flights of fancy. One tilt of the head and there was an outline of a wolf’s head, complete with sharp ears and snout. Another re-focusing of the eyeballs produced images more akin to piece of 3-D art hanging in a corporate bathroom.
Blake stood on his porch and watched as the patch easily shape shifted between the absurd to the meaningless, then back again.
He ran the usual suspects through is mind. Maybe it was some type of Crabgrass or Nut Sedge or even Foxtail. Or maybe Grubs, fungus, animal piss, and possibly...human error. None of those checked out.
“I need the expert,” Blake mumbled to himself. “I need expertise. I need the expert.”
The phone rattled with desperation.
“Bernie? I’m having a problem with my front lawn.
There’s a spot on it...but not a copper spot...or anything...it’s a spot is all. Come or call when you can. Thanks.”
Blake crushed himself into an orange chair with gray-white piping that was magnetically pulled to the front of the house by a 13-inch tv. He stared at black and white nothingness, overcome with concern and helplessness regarding the only good thing in his life. The phone jarred him and Blake sprang animal like for it.
“Discoloration, yeah, it’s darker than the rest. And like…feathers or scales or something. It’s weird man.”
Bernie rattled out a host of possibilities that didn’t fit, then finally agreed to take a first hand look in the morning. Blake felt relieved, but was unable to relax. He walked back to the porch and focused his attention on the spot. It was growing. Its perimeters were now as large as an office desk and the shape of the color was undeniably more disturbing. Blake spewed a concoction of obscenities and headed toward the spot, but then was caught by his own rules.
“Nobody on the grass except to cut it or to treat it,” the voice of God thundered through his head.
The razor sharp edging job he’d done the day before stood at attention in perfect vertical lines. He stood at the border of the lawn….staring, admiring. And he was pleased. There was nothing to be done until Bernie could come. It was unbearable. Blake walked inside, sat down with a bottle of Jack and a bottle of pills and begged for sleep.
* * * *
The dim light illuminated the face of the clock just enough to reveal the time. Blake rubbed his eyes and rolled over. Five fifty a.m. It was mostly dark, but the glimmer of the sun determinedly fought its way up on the horizon. Birds chirped their morning songs and a dog barked from a backyard. Blake sat up and pulled on his slippers and robe. He was exhausted, but anxious to inspect the lawn.
A flashlight’s beam, in conjunction with the porch light, offered enough illumination for him to see that the dark spot was completely gone. Only smooth, chemically, naturally colored green grass was visible.
He cut the beam and strolled back into the house.
Explanations flowed through his head like gutter rain, but all were useless, like gutter rain.
Results. Any lawn jockey would tell you. It’s about results. Period.
* * * * *
The early morning shadows created by the rising sun battered against front door with attitude, resembling a misshapen dog’s head, or a mishapen wolf’s head, or a perfectly shaped devil’s head. It was hard to tell.
Blake felt much better after a third cup of coffee, secure in the knowledge that his baby was safe and thriving. He sat down in his chair with his newspaper, propping a pair of battered slippers up on a battered ottoman.
While thoughtfully contemplating an article on the price of gasoline, he noticed a dark stain on the carpet near the front door. Had he spilled grape juice? It looked like grape juice. Had he been drinking grape juice?
He edged up out of his chair, leaning in the direction of the stain, clutching his newspaper in his strong, right hand. He squinted all one-eyed and confused. The stain had a consistency completely inconsistent with the carpet. Almost like feathers or scales or something. He got on all fours and slow crawled toward the shape of color. He squinted and crept, squinted and crept. Then a vice fell on his arm and he thrashed over on his back in pain, the newspaper crackling as his nerves clamped down.
As quickly as it attacked, it dissipated. He pulled himself up to his knees and pushed the sleeve of his robe back. A dark spot on his arm pulsated alive.
He screamed in agony and horror. Blake scratched wildly at his arm, thrashing about like madmen coursing through his blood. He could feel it in his blood.
Blake managed to sit up on two knees and breathed deep, looking down at his arm as the strange shape of color spread from his forearm to his bicep to his shoulder to his heart to his brain.
Blake heard a knock on the door as his head grew light.
“Hello? Hello? Blake, you in there?” Bernie called out softly. “Blake….you in there. Your lawn in there?”
Blake tried to scream for help, but there was nothing.
Then the shape of color turned dark red.
* * * *
Jack Tameron sipped his cup of lemon-ginseng tea as he surveyed his front lawn. A smooth sheet of lush green grass stared back at him. He looked over at Blake’s lawn. It was nice as well, maybe better than his, but that would change soon. As Jack smiled at himself, he noticed something out of place on his driveway,… a dark stain near his Volvo. He was certain he didn’t get any oil on the cement when he changed it the day before but the stain was there, there was no doubt
about it.
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