Yellow walls:
She never liked the colour yellow. In fact, she hated it. It was so obnoxious, like it screamed to be heard, to be seen, to be noticed. Not only seen, but to be seen as happy and content. Rodgers' ex-wife, Marry, loved the colour. She had plastered it all over the walls and made sure it complemented every striped curtain in the dining room. So every time Lisa went to make her morning coffee, she had to be reminded of what she had done, what she had ruined. It made the silent room eerie with nothing but guilt and the clinking of the coffee cup.
“You know, Rodger, green is quite in style right now. I think it would look great in our dining room,” Lisa suggested while setting down the pot roast the smell filling the room with the once warm feeling the house emulated.
“Now why would we spend money to paint over a perfectly fine colour?” he muttered back, almost snorted.
Rodger hated change. He wore the same clothes Marry picked out for him four years ago when he took his manager job and had the same hairstyle he wore in high school. Lisa felt like she never really moved in. Everything around her was another push out the door. Sometimes she vented to her friend. She didn’t like to admit it, but she did. How trapped she felt, not in her own world but in the world built brick after brick by Marry. Oh, that beautiful smug Marry. How Rodger never truly moved on. How she never truly moved on either. But when her friend Ann wasn't there to vent to, all she could do was hold it all inside. Those damn yellow walls.

Lucid dreams:
The boy couldn’t help but toss and turn in his bed. Tomorrow would be long, but tonight felt even longer. As time went on, his mind began to wander, and his imagination began to dance across the walls, great big elephants and small elegant elves. What was once a laundry bin magically transformed into a pot of gold. He felt truly euphoric, his mind floating up into space while his body fell a million miles down on his still mattress.
Suddenly, a loud thud against his window tore him from his world of wonders. His head cocked back only to see something that couldn't be described in words.
The warm gold tinted light kissed his shivering skin. “Hello, my son,” the embodiment of light echoed, as a million voices spoke in unison. The boy froze.
“I am here to give you the one thing no human has been able to grasp,” it continued. “I am here to give you the meaning of life.”


Outer Parks:
He hated staying in one place. No matter where he went, he was always the weird one in the room, the one who poisoned the atmosphere with awkwardness and unknowing. He wasn’t beautiful enough to get away with being clueless; people didn’t find his silence charming, just strange.
So, like a lone pea, he stayed on the roads, trailing behind all the other cars. Being on the road made him equal to everyone else, equally vulnerable, equally unknown. At any minute, he could die, but everyone stayed close, as if sticking together might keep something from going wrong.
The only difference was that they all had places to be. He had nowhere.
Sometimes he’d look up at the moon and pray. He didn’t know who he was praying to, God, the crickets, maybe something he couldn’t comprehend. He just prayed. He prayed for belonging, for a home, for a companion. He didn’t want the moon to be the only one who followed him wherever he went.
And for the next few years, as he aged, the moon seemed to age with him.