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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “a Finch in the Window” Down in the Dirt, v150 (the October 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book the Light in the Sky the Down in the Dirt Sept.-Dec. 2017 collection book		get the 418 page May-August 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Red

Amber Shoemake-Doughty

    Michael saw red.
    A metallic taste rested on his tongue, a taste that was all too familiar. He sat on the edge of the freshly made bed, staring at his hands. His fingers danced on the tips of his knees, mirroring the movement of the weeping willow outside his motel window.
    “Not again,” he muttered, playing with the stickiness of the substance that covered his body. “No, not again.”
    Michael sobbed and laughed. His body was light and free.
    And red.
    All red.
    As he stood up a chill filled the room. He walked to the bathroom and gazed into his reflection. “Ugly,” he said, voice shaking.
    Then he laughed.
    He brought one hand, one red hand up to his face. Very deliberately, he rubbed the color all over, starting from the center of his forehead tracing all the way down to his chin. He was sure to leave no spot uncovered. This red face mask was what he was craving. A heat came over him, making his body move from side to side. He looked back up, his teeth bringing a white light to his face. “Better.” The weeping willow swayed contently in the wind.
    Michael’s hands were warm and coated. A wave of heat came over him.
    A knock at the door turned his smile into a scowl. He stood up and glanced toward the entryway. He walked to the door, leaving behind a perfect red stain on the ugly white sink.
    “Michael Thomas? It’s the police. We are here to help you.” The man’s voice was like static. “Open up. We won’t hurt you.”
    Michael looked at the sliding door behind him. He backed up, each step taken with extra care. Not a single noise was made as his bare feet lifted on and off the ground. A red droplet slid down his arm to the edge of his finger. With one last step, the droplet met the carpet.
     “Okay Michael, if you won’t let us in I’m afraid we are going to have to come in by force. This is for your own safety.”
    Michael’s heart race increased and a bead of sweat rolled down his head, leaving a pale streak where the red was painted. He turned to the sliding glass door and began to run, only to be stopped in his tracks by the gentleman from the front desk who helped him get his room. “Traitor,” he whispered.
    As the men in white suits approached, the weeping willow outside sat still. They grabbed Michael, covering their hideous white suits in the beautiful, wet red color.
    Michael laughed.
    They saw it too.
    They saw red.

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