This prompt was to write a piece that was inspired by a color; but with the twist that you cannot mention the color in your story.
It was dark. Pain was global. I couldn't reach through the fog to find anything else. Just pain. It took a lot of focus just to breathe. I delved a little deeper, set my focus, and reached out. Beyond the pain was a sticky substance on the floor. I reached a little farther. I could feel the edge of metal in the concrete. That must be some sort of frame or support for the room. It was sticky too.Pick a color and see where it leads you. I hope you'll find these little assignments fascinating!
I tried to twist my hand to grab that sliver of metal. I slipped on the sticky substance. It wasn't tacky, but slick now. I raised my fingers to my nose, and sniffed. My hand smelled of iron and protein, like raw hamburger. I really wanted some light, just so I could see. I thought about that for a minute. If I could see, would it paralyze me with fear? Maybe. So maybe, I didn't need to know what color this liquid was. Maybe I needed to put that out of my head completely.
My hand slipped and pain shot through the dark like a knife of white light deep in my skull. I was injured, and I kept forgetting. Probably, that was the result of a brain injury. Still, I could not bring the recent events to my consciousness, and I couldn't figure out just where I was. I lay still, letting go of the thin rail of metal in the concrete.
I focused on my breathing, and pushed the pain as far back as I could. It felt like trying to push the canvas away from a collapsed big-top at the circus. I rested, then pushed again at my mind. My fingers rubbed the liquid, acknowledging the viscosity of the liquid that was both sticky and slick. It was like honey mixed with transmission fluid. Again, I pushed conscious thought down and tried to probe my memory.
Sudden light filled my mind. Hot, explosive light seared away every dimension of what I hoped to see. I paused, breathed, then tried again more slowly. The events came clearer. There was a jeep. We were driving... where? To Inchon. Of course! We were on our way to bring supplies to a forward aide station. The big cross on our hood decried our duty and was our promise of safe passage.
We heard a whistling sound that had a certain keening edge to it. Incoming mortar! Our driver reacted to the sound more than what he thought he saw. He swerved left, meeting no resistance and seeing no actual threat, he jerked back to the right. We met the mortar there, just against the rock cut next to the road. The noise was so loud it extinguished itself. I don't know how long we lay waiting for help. I didn't remember being picked up or transported, but here I was. Alone, so far as I could tell. Wondering what color this liquid was, here in my makeshift prison. I knew what color it would be. I didn't need the light. It was blood red.
Ta for now,