This is a story begun quite some time ago, the prompt for which was the title.

The Sky Is Not Blue

“Try this.”

A firm, even brush-stroke licked like a cat’s tongue across my canvas, leaving behind a swath of emerald green. Upward my head jerked from the depths of my cupped hands, as my eyes fixed on the radiant hue. Back and forth over its length they swept, like beaming search-lights, illuminating to my mind the shades and highlights, clarities and blurrings I could convey with that single stroke of color.

“Well?” Roger’s voice questioned from over my shoulder.

Another pause, and returning partially from my wonder-filled musings, I breathed, ever so softly:

“Yes.”

Then snatching up my own paintbrush from the puddle at my easel’s base, I set furiously to work on the picture which had appeared in my mind.

Two hours later, my brush gave a final ping as it fell into the jar of water. Simultaneously, a car-horn honked below.

“Your Mom’s here!” Roger called up the stairs. He needn’t have – I’d recognize that car-honk anywhere – but it was nice of him. Roger’s always nice.

“Yup! I’m coming!” I hollered back, rushing to gather up my supplies. Taking the steps two at a time, I careened to the ground-level, all the while blowing like a bellows on my painting to make it dry.

Sneakers slapped against partially-wet pavement, a car-door slammed, the engine hummed, and we were off. Turning from his seat on the passenger-side of the car, Roger flashed a grin.

“Well?” said he.

“Well what?” I replied, careful to angle my painting so he couldn’t see it. Of course I knew what.

“I think,” my sister’s soft voice intoned from the back seat, “That Roger wants to see your beautiful painting.”

I cocked a question-shaped eyebrow, “And what makes you think it is beautiful?”

She smiled sweetly – Morgan is always sweet – as her dreamy eyes stared into the distance, seeing nothing.

“Because your paintings are always beautiful,” Roger said for her, then reached out a hand, “Please? You owe me that much.”

“And much more,” I heartily agreed, handing the painting over. I could have sworn a faint blush snuck into his cheeks, but maybe that was the red rear-lights of the car ahead.

“Wow,” he whispered, wide eyes fixed on the detail-ridden canvas. Happily and shyly, I twisted a lock of reddish-brown hair around one finger until the tip almost turned purple. A soft touch from Morgan’s hand loosed the strangling thread as her gentle fingers glided down my long, wavy hair.

“Tell me about it, Roger,” she said, pale-blue eyes glancing in his general direction.

“It . . . it’s green,” he began, and as he continued, his speech took on the air of a poet, “And the center is shaped like a dragon, but then not a dragon. One minute it’s a ship sailing on an emerald sea, the next an owl flying through skies of glimmering green twilight, and then again a fairy, robed by mists of early-morning leaves. Like the ghosts of all things green. I’ve never seen an abstract so concrete before.”

“Verdant,” Morgan whispered, “That’s a new word I learned today – verdant.”

“Yeah, well, the whole thing’s pretty sloppy by all accounts,” I interjected, suddenly uncomfortable with their silent admiration. A funny thing, when considered, that the awe of my two most favorite people on earth should make me so abashed. Quickly, I took the painting from Roger’s hands and shoved it into the depths of my art-sack.

It was with a slight sense of loneliness that I felt Morgan’s finger-tips leave my hair. Leaning back, she closed her eyes, and floated into the singing twilight – as she liked to put it.

Five more minutes we drove, winding through the suburb streets, until Roger’s pale blue house appeared ahead. Our tires braked and gently rocked us back. Popping his door open, Roger snatched his barfing bag of recording equipment and other such tech, from the floor.

“Thanks for the ride!” he called over his shoulder, then trotted up the sidewalk to his house.

“Thanks for the studio!” I hollered back. A grin, a hand in the air and the screen-door squeaked shut. With a purr the car bore us away from Roger and his house.

“Sylvie,” Morgan murmured, about ten minutes later, “Roger was very good to ask his aunt to borrow her studio for the day.”

I nodded, though was unwilling to give Roger all the credit: “His aunt was good too. Trusting that beautiful room to two teens?” I laughed and shook my head. Morgan only smiled, laying her hand over mine.

“She likes Roger and trusts him to choose good friends,” she said.

Glancing out the window, I absently watched the city roll away, giving place to a wide prairie. But what really is a good friend? Me and Roger have never shared secrets or really helped each other in any way. He’s good at everything – specifically music and poetry. Me? All I can do is paint and dream of the day when Morgan might really become a singing star. She has the voice for it, and the mind to write wonderful songs. Not those modern rages or croonings you hear at the gas-station or over your dad’s radio. Real music, and songs that tell stories. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve shaken my head in wonder and bafflement at her mind. She sees the world like I never could – and she can’t even see it! From the day she was born, Morgan has been blind. Beautiful, but blind, so she cannot appreciate her own beauty. Perhaps that’s why she was made beautiful – because it could never really make her vain. Not that anything could make her vain, but still. Had I been born beautiful, I certainly would have become vain. But my splotchy freckles, crooked smile and rather shapeless nose (along with a host of other quirks) have rendered me quite a mirror-phobe. So I paint and try to create my own beauty in a different kind of frame.

There’s no way to give Morgan back her sight, and even if there were, I don’t think she’d care to gain it. She’s always been content – unlike me, who am always trying to get more out of life. It’s as if I move through life, picking up all the good stuff as I go, but life goes through her and picks up a little of her sunshine at each passing. Sunshine . . . Morgan loves sunshine. How it’s so warm and makes all the flowers bloom.

On the horizon to the West, a brilliant sunset was painting itself across the sky. At Morgan’s request, I described it to her. Never so well as Roger could do – said I – to which she replied that Roger’s way was good for making the infinite definite, while mine made the definite infinite. Morgan’s always saying funny things like that.

At last, we reached home, and leaving the car, went inside.

That night, after supper, when me and Morgan were sitting together out on the porch, I had a question.

“Morgan,” I began, “Why – please don’t think I am comparing – but why are me and Roger friends when you and him are so alike?”

A pause to consider, and Morgan said softly: “You’ve heard of yin and yang, or sun and rain?” I nodded and she went on, “It’s like that. You have a skill that Roger does not – not in the way you do – and so it awes him. He has a mind to create, and since your creativity in your painting so far exceeds and inspires his, he likes to be around you. Me - I am on the same level as him, though his composing is far better than I could do, and so because we are poetic equals, we do like to spend time sharing our ideas and asking questions, but we never really inspire one another. I like Roger,” she went on, “But as if he were a brother. He likes you, but not like a sister.”

I shifted somewhat uncomfortably at this. Feeling my movement, Morgan reached out a hand, which I took.

“His like of you is very good, Sylvie,” she said softly, “He wants to protect you and help you grow. His heart is set on giving to you. You don’t need to be afraid.”

A tremulous breath and I relaxed. Lightly, my fingers caressed Morgan’s pale, delicate hand.

“So how can I be a good friend to him?” I asked.

Unlike usual, Morgan did not even need to pause and think.

“Give as he gives and never try to take more than he’s willing to give.” She said.

I frowned slightly, “Is that all?”

“No,” Morgan laughed, “But it is the foundation of all. Roger is – so far – selfless. He is the best kind of friend. Only time will tell if that may change, and if it does, you’ll know. But for now, the best thing you can do for him is to also be selfless.”

“Like you are,” I intoned.

She smiled a sad smile, but did not reply. Morgan always does that when she means ‘no’ but doesn’t want to argue.

Over the bowing fields of grass, an enormous, pale moon was shining.

“Sylvie,” Morgan said after a while, “Paint the night for me.”

With a smile, I leant forward, drinking in every highlight, hue and shadow spread on nature’s canvas.

“Well, it’s bright and coldish – like water in a pool. The moon is so big and near you feel like you could stick out your tongue and taste it – like a bowl of sweet cream. Beneath it, long, long swathes of shiny grass are bending up and down as if the moon were singing and they were the dancers . . .”

~ ~ ~

Six years passed, and although we did have our first real disagreement at age seventeen, me and Roger never stopped being friends. At about the fourth year in, Morgan became very quiet and she almost stopped singing. All the songs she wrote now were sad and had words that talked about being trapped and needing rescuing. Or of being lost and scared – but there was always light at the end. Every day I took what she had told me about being selfless and I gave to her. Sure, Roger was my best friend, but Morgan was my best friend. I’m not sure how to put it, though Morgan would know how, but she means more to me than anyone in the world, even Roger.

I asked her why she looked so sad all the time, and she replied that she was in the dark for someone. That’s how Morgan says she is worried. I became afraid and asked her if it was me she was in the dark for. She smiled sadly, and reaching a hand to tuck my hair behind one ear – like she did when I was little – she said that, no, she was not in the dark for me. She said that the only thing I could do to help is to stay out of the dark for her. I asked if that would really make her happy, and she said that yes, it would. So I tried not to worry, and I certainly didn’t show it. After a while, she seemed to come out of the dark a little, and write happier songs, though they always had something in them about being trapped.

Over the years, mine and Roger’s habit of working ‘together’ (as in, a floor apart and in our close-roomed studios) established itself on every Friday. One summer, when we were both back from our separate colleges and I had just turned nineteen, we decided to both submit our best works to competitions. Roger did an online composers competition and I did a county-wide art competition. No, neither of us won any prizes, but I believe that is simply because we lack experience. Someday, we’ll get there.

Now I resume our story in the winter, during Christmas break. It was the day before I began a painting that would save Roger’s life.

~ ~ ~

Like a flock of silvery doves, the enormous, soft snow-flakes collected on the back of my finger-less gloves. Spread on each of my knees, my hands clasped, unmoving, as I stared fixedly at the canvas before me. The wind blew softly, nipping my fingers and nose and dusting my eyelashes with more downy flakes than they could bear. I blinked, straightened, and shook my head. It was there. The inklings of an idea, so close I could almost taste it! But then - I sigh - they aren’t close enough.

Glancing around, I give a chilly shrug, pushing my collar higher. It is a lovely day, and no perch better to view the sky from than this, Roger’s studio. Last year, his aunt gave it to him on rent (rent meaning he shares all his compositions and I all my paintings with our art-loving patron). Now, we two retreat here every spare day we can find.

In the room below, if I listen carefully, I can just hear the sounds of Roger’s Bach Hits Back Acapella Album, playing. How he can manage to listen and compose at the same time, I will never know. Though he is far more consistent with his art than I am with mine. I need inspiration – he only needs time.

Standing, I shiver as the blood rushes from my upper body to my legs. Now I need inspiration, and I know just where to get it. Glancing once more at my woefully blank canvas, I turn and make my way downstairs.

~ ~ ~

“Focus, Roger,” I mentally mutter to myself. I had such a great idea this morning! A song, entitled Walk On Snow. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to concentrate. And now I can’t seem to calm down either.

“Start softly with piano, then weave in a flute,” my mind says as my hands reach for the appropriate buttons to key it in. Thing is – I get what I should write the song with, and even how to, but the exact notes escape me. It’s like they’re trying to be a nuisance! I grit my teeth, refusing to be taunted. I am the hunter, they my quarry. There is no way I am letting those stupid notes-

A soft knock rattles my fuming. I jump to my feet and, with a broad smile, call “Come in!” I know it’ll be Sylvie and my sudden gladness blows into nothingness every brooding cloud. So the world’s not perfect? Sure seems like it is when she’s around.

The door swings open and Sylvie steps through.

“Hey,” she says, smiling, “Watcha working on?”

“Oh,” I reply, frowning slightly, “Just a lousy idea.”

She cocks an eyebrow ever so slightly and walks forward, looking past me to my computer screen.

“I wouldn’t call it lousy,” she says, “Maybe you’re just having some problems?”

With a sigh, I run my hand through my hair, “Yeah, something like that.”

“What kind of problems?” she pursues, perching on the edge of my desk.

“Well,” I say, stepping to the side and sliding back into my seat. With a deft move, I turn the volume on my music down and continue, “I had this idea – a title, instruments, meter and even atmosphere – but I can’t seem to figure out the notes,” I shake my head, “It’s hard to write a song when you don’t have a melody.”

She nods, as if she understands, and is quiet for a little while. Suddenly, I’m curious why she’s down here.

“So,” I say, “What brings you from your mountain-top to my dismal cave?”

She smiles, but sadly, and gives a short sigh of her own, “Oddly enough, I came because I need inspiration for a painting.”

I cringe, “Sorry, not too inspiration-ful today.”

“Inspirational,” she corrects.

I shrug and say, with a long, solemn expression, “Same difference, Watson.”

She gives me a shove and I grin, “Back to business,” she says a moment later, “Why not try making a bass harmony and see if your melody comes to complement it?”

My eyes narrow and I gaze off into “The space between spaces” as Morgan calls it.

“Ya know,” I murmur, reaching up to scratch my head, “That might work. I think . . .” My hands move slowly to the keyboard, then pause. One strays up and I scratch my head again. Itches – so annoying.

“Hey,” Sylvie says. I glance up and she smiles, jerking her chin at my hand, “You’ve got it.”

A pause and I grin an ‘Oh yeah’. Brain itch – this is going to be good.

~ ~ ~

He’s got it, and as he turns back to his computer screen, I can see the light in his eyes. I can hardly wait to hear what kind of song he’s going to make, but now I know he needs to be alone.

As I step to the door, I think he’s forgotten I’m here until he straightens and calls, quietly, over his shoulder.

“Hey Sylvie? The title is Walk On Snow. Try lavender.”

My eyes widen and I see the picture all at once.

“Yes,” I breathe, “Yes!” Then closing the door, bolt upstairs.

Walk on snow, lavender. Walk on snow, lavender. Walk on snow, lavender.

My heart thunders the words as I plunk down in front of my easel once more. Quickly, I mix a pale, almost periwinkle lavender. Softly, like a lilac petal, my brush strokes the hue onto my canvas.

Perfect.

~ ~ ~

[here the manuscript end]

The story continues with Sylvie and Roger being kidnapped by a gang that wants Sylvie to paint counterfeits of a very valuable piece wherein the sky is blue - or is it?

Morgan, meanwhile, works with a member of the gang to rescue Sylvie and Roger. 

But does she solve the gangster's riddles in time?

Who knows . . .