When autumn comes around, I’ll suffer at every sight Of falling golden orange leaves; The pain will nip, as the cold will bite.

I remember falling, Falling into the gaze of your eyes— How orange and golden they were, Like the setting sun’s skies.

Oh how brutal it’ll be, To see your eyes on every tree! I will be just like a leaf, And fall to death with autumn grief.

looking out my window seeing the leaves change color the ones that used to be green are no longer now they’re red and yellow brown and orange a lot of orange and as the leaves change so do I so do my feelings I can quite understand it I can’t quite tell you what I feel but I know it’s a bit different than before maybe I’ll go back to feeling the way I did like the leaves will fall but then be revived in the spring but for now I’m a mucked up puddle with orange leaves that people have stepped on trampled over but you can still tell they’re orange that’s me I’m still me even though I’m different I feel different I act differently but like you can count on the orange sun to rise and set without failure, each day you can count on me to come back stronger than ever I just have to get through this that’s what I keep telling myself, anyways sometimes it’s real hopeless sometimes I feel like that forgotten leaf the one that fell and was trampled on stepped on on stomped on but maybe someone noticed and picked it out of the muck I just need someone to pick me out of the muck out of the gross, slimy, mud of what has become me life

Fiery embers sporadically jumped across her vision, their balletic motions pirouetting into a firey ring.

With a light sting to her fingers, she turned the page. Orange-illuminated print from the book burst into color. The room became the rising sun’s lightening ablaze or the striped tiger running with vitality.

Her book’s characters jumped into action, their burning glow highlighting her surprise.

As the tall grandfather clock across the room ticked closer to midnight, the loud anticipation from the room thickened along with her beating heart.

She heard the lively characters’ metal swords clanging with an increasing vigor. The polished sounds of their boots seemed to chime faster and faster with the black wood clock. The flame in the nearby fireplace appeared to consume and only grow larger.

Until suddenly, a deep chime resonated through the room, announcing the predatory arrival of midnight. She felt the ground rumble steadily and the absence of shouting. The tangerine color that filled the room was now gone along with the riot.

Every candle, lamp, and flame had burst into ashes; Fading away with the sighing twelve chimes.

The world outside remained impassive, unaware of the girl now enshrouded by a heavy darkness. Her spirit blackened and the book that had lain in her lap, was shut close.

Nothing rhymes with orange No matter how you try And though rhyming is quite borange You have to wonder why

A rhino with a horange On the African savanna A tall tree that’s adoranged With a bushel of bananas

A house with a red doorange Please come in, and stay a while I’ll make you a bowl of porrange That is sure to make you smile

You know what’s mine is yourange So make yourself at home If you’re weary, travel worange Here you’ll never be alone

We can laugh until we’re sorange We can talk until it’s night We can cry until we’re torange Between what’s wrong or right

Now I know it’s very sad But it’s not a cause to mourange I just wish I could know why That nothing rhymes with orange

In the heart of a small, bustling city, there was a quaint café tucked away amidst the chaos. Its name was “The Orange Brew,” a charming little spot known for its warm ambiance and delectable treats. The café’s interior was a delightful blend of rustic and modern, adorned with wooden furniture, vintage photographs, and vibrant splashes of orange.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow through the café’s large windows, a young woman named Lily found herself drawn to the cozy corner table bathed in the soft, orange hues. She had always been captivated by the color orange; it held a special place in her heart, evoking feelings of joy and creativity.

Lily settled into the comfortable chair, her eyes wandering around the café. The walls were painted in a soothing shade of orange, creating an atmosphere of warmth and energy. The flickering candlelight on each table danced in harmony with the orange accents, casting playful shadows on the walls. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the aroma of orange zest, filling the air with a comforting and invigorating fragrance.

As she sipped on her cup of orange-infused tea, Lily couldn’t help but feel a sense of inspiration enveloping her. The color orange seemed to awaken her senses, igniting a spark of creativity within her soul. She reached into her bag and pulled out a worn-out notebook and a set of vibrant orange markers.

Lost in her thoughts, Lily began to doodle and sketch, using the orange markers to bring her imagination to life on the crisp white pages. The color flowed effortlessly from her pen, creating vivid landscapes, whimsical creatures, and intricate patterns. Each stroke of orange seemed to unlock a new idea, a new story waiting to be told.

As the evening progressed, Lily’s table became a vibrant display of orange, with sketches and notes scattered across its surface. The color had become a symbol of her artistic expression, a metaphor for the boundless creativity that resided within her.

The café patrons, intrigued by Lily’s colorful display, began to gather around her table. They marveled at the intricate details and the vibrant orange hues that seemed to leap off the page. Some shared stories of their own connection to the color orange, while others simply basked in the warm and inviting ambiance that the café exuded.

In that moment, the color orange became more than just a part of the café’s setting; it became a symbol of community, of shared experiences, and of the beauty that can be found in unexpected places. It reminded everyone that within the chaos of everyday life, there are moments of inspiration waiting to be discovered, and that sometimes, all it takes is a splash of color to ignite the fire within.

“The universe is neither good nor bad.” The self help podcast proclaimed. I figured I should make some use out of my hour long morning commute. “Good and bad, opportunity and complications, they just exist. What you look for and how you frame things is what you will get out of what simply exists. You have to synchronize yourself with what you need.”

I snorted. So if I look for money, I will find it? I doubt it’s that easy, I thought.

The podcast continued. “You will doubt. This is part of the process.”

I raised my eyebrow, though the recorded voice could not see it.

“Pick a color, any color,” the recorded voice suggested.

Orange, I thought. Orange.

“Now that you’ve picked your color, pause this podcast. For the next 24 hours, keep that color in your mind. Be alert. Watch for it. Come back tomorrow for part two.”

Shrugging, I paused the podcast. Orange it was, then. C’mon universe, show me what you’ve got.

The first thing I noticed was the orange tiger lilies on the receptionist’s desk. Then more and more orange items caught my eye.

A orange highlighter in my desk drawer. Orange crayon art done by a co-workers child. Orange flowers on a co-workers blouse. An orange car in the parking garage. A road worker wearing an orange hard hat. Almost every billboard on my drive home had some orange in it. The next door neighbor’s kids shooting hoops with an orange basketball. Orange roasted carrots with dinner.

By the time I left for work the next morning, I was seeing orange everywhere I looked. I pushed play on the podcast then shifted my car into drive, passing my mailbox with the orange metal flag on the side.

“Welcome back,” the calm voice began. “I’m willing to bet you have had an interesting 24 hours. Whatever color you picked, you should be seeing it everywhere.”

True enough, I thought.

The podcast continued. “Whatever color you picked, there is not more or less of it in the world than there was yesterday. You and your perceptions have changed. You are now in sync with that color.”

The voice paused. “Now you may be thinking this is all well and good, but what does the color blue or the color orange have to do with your goal of making more money, finding love, being healthier, actively creating or what ever your specific goal is? The answer is - everything. If making more money is your goal, being in sync with financial opportunities is unlikely to cause you to win the lottery or find a bag of money on the street.”

I snorted. I guess the speaker had heard that particular objection before. I returned my focus to the podcast.

The speaker was saying. “If you actively focus on opportunities around money you are more likely to recognize the opportunities already existing in the world. You may see a job posting you might have overlooked before. You might see a commercial that will cut your cell phone expenses in half. If health is your goal, a friend might offer to join a gym with you. You may decide to take the stairs instead of the elevator. “

Okay, I was starting to buy into this a little.

“For the next 24 hours, think about what is important to you. What parts of your life could benefit from some synchronicity. Now pause this podcast and come back tomorrow.

What did I want?, I thought, willing to give this whole synchronicity thing a try. I want to spend more time with my family and less time working.

At lunch, I was getting into the elevator when I noticed the CEO already in this one. Normally, I would have waited for the next one, but today I stepped in.

“Jim,” the CEO said into his phone. “The bottom line is we need more people to make the proposed expansion work. Even if we could find the right people, we have no where to put them.” He paused. “Jim? Jim?” He lowered his phone.

“Dropped call?” I asked casually.

“Happens every time.” He answered, “I should know better than to try to use my cell phone in the elevator.”

I took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to eaves drop, but… elevator.” I shrugged.

He chuckled. “No problem.”

“Have you considered letting employees work from home, maybe sharing office space here on alternating days?” I asked. Then I held my breath. Was I being too forward?

“Well, it has been mentioned, but it wasn’t actively considered.” He responded. Then he paused. “You’re Mike from HR, right?”

“Yes,” I answered, surprised he knew my name. “I work with Karen’s team.”

“How do you think Karen would feel about her staff working from home? There are documented challenges on managing remote teams. Do you think she would be willing to accept the added complexities?” He asked.

“It’s come up in conversation several times, how she would like to get to her son’s ball game before the 8th inning, how tired she is of take out for dinner but by the time she gets home, it’s too late to cook. I think she’d be open to it.” I said.

The elevator door opened and his phone rang. “Hi, Jim, sorry about that. Will you hold for a second?” He smiled at me and held out his hand for a handshake. “I think you are on to something. Expect to hear from me in the next day or two. I’d like to hear your ideas.” He put the phone back to his ear. “Jim, I’m back. I was just talking with Mike from HR…”

I didn’t hear anything after that, as we had both gotten in our cars. Maybe this synchronicity thing was working, I thought as I swerved around an orange traffic cone.

He sits on a fence as his black, curly hair blows in the wind. Captivating. His beauty is captivating—the type of beauty that gives a boost of dopamine upon sight. Her eyes are fixated on him, but his eyes are aimed at the scenic sunset above. Its orange glow makes the brown of his skin look richer, almost golden in color. She feels as if she’s admiring a painting that a more adept person might find all the stories held within, but she is simply stuck.

A love-lorn woman who feels more like a love-struck girl and who was forever bonded with the title admirer. Although she's technically more than that now since they’ve become friends. Or were they more like mere acquaintances? This trip they’ve gone on together was supposed to help her forget and rediscover herself, but all she’s discovered is that she’s a coward. A coward at her job who could never stand up to her boss, who belittled her constantly. Here she is now, a coward of the heart who couldn’t tell the man in front of her how she felt.

She looks away from him, her eyes moving to the sunset. Its orange glow blazes like the sight of bravery in action. Bravery was something she herself could never acquire. She finds herself wishing she could be the orange light of the sun. If she could blaze like a fiery fire, then she could burn every ounce of cowardice inside of her.

She clears her throat. He is unmoving, and the brave orange glow of the sun has enraptured him as much as the sight of him has enraptured her. She moves forward, nearing him and calling his name. Finally, his gaze moves towards her, lighting up at the sight of their drinks in her hands. He hops off the fence, coming down with the grace of a trained athlete.

Grabbing for one of the drinks in her hand, his hand lingers longer than it has to. He smiles a smile like clear skies after a week of dreary rain. She smiles back, but then her mind becomes foggy and her palms sweaty as her heart gains speed like a course-less ship spotting land. How sickening! Her love-sick crush feels like a never-ending cold.

He takes the drink, and she looks at her empty hand, still dazed.

“I’m glad you came,” he comments, taking a small sip of his drink.

“Me too,” she replies, her mind still hazy from his smile.

“I just love the air out here! It’s so fresh, and I don’t know, something about it makes me feel alive,” he says, and then dramatically takes a deep breath.

“Uh-huh,” she comments, still hazed.

“What about you?” He wonders, his eyes straying back to the fiery orange glow of the sunset.

“What about me?” She asks back, her tone confused, but she turns toward the view of the sunset.

They stand a bit apart, their shoulders so close to touching.

“How does being here make you feel?”

Like a coward, she thinks, but she doesn’t dare say that aloud.

“I could stay here for a good while, but I’m still a city girl,” she answers.

He jokingly lets out a groan of disappointment.

“I thought I finally converted you,” he says, his tone light.

“Never! My lungs are too full of smog,” she replies.

The sun’s almost gone, and its brave orange light will be gone until tomorrow morning. She wishes for the sun’s glow, hoping that its bravery will emanate from her, even if only for a minute.

“I wouldn’t brag about that,” he says with concern. “Tomorrow, let’s head over to that flower park, we drove past before.”

“Sure, that sounds like fun.” She says, taking a deep breath after. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“What?” He asks, curious.

The night is here, and its darkness is a comforting blanket. A sure way to cover her as her cowardice takes over once again, but she does not let her cowardice win. Instead, inside of her, she feels the fiery hotness of the sun’s brave glow.

She lets her love for him be known and glow like the sun just before it says goodbye.

He was careful, meticulous even, placing down the drop cloth on the floor in the sunroom, straightening the edges, palming out the wrinkles, paying close attention to the corners of the room where the fabric was starting to wriggle away, exposing a splinter of floorboard. He certainly didn’t want to have to make any more work for himself than was absolutely necessary. No drips, no mess, no additional work. Smart man. Meticulous man. Fascinating man.

I watched him from the other side of the room, leaning back into the elegant red wingback velvet covered chair, this chair, the one which in 18 months time will hold our awkwardly propped up newborn son, windy smile destroying us and remaking us, propelling us into an unknown future, together. I watched how he moved with effortless ease, stroking, padding, pulling, smoothing. I watched his body move gracefully through the space as he assembled the assorted paraphernalia needed to paint this one wall. Paint, roller, tray. This one wall that looked out to the west, across the tops of crammed in houses+, trees like broccoli poking up above red rooflines, the scorching afternoon sun sending the wise into a Sunday slumber, blinds down, water glasses full, music soft, and sand brushed mostly from feet.

He has everything he needs now in front of him. The can of paint promising transformation, paint roller the handle of which was flecked with a rainbow of colors, and paint tray. Paint, roller, tray. He’s ready. Am I?

Paint, roller, tray. Faint, holler, stray. Taint, collar, fray. I played with these words in my head, making up rhymes, nonsense songs, all to the beat of Baaba Maal whose music filled our world those days. And I watched him, my eyes drinking him in. I was being carried off on some cloud that I was marveling at, that I was scared of, that I wanted to resist and yet was powerless to refuse. I was drifting, floating, pinching myself to double check reality, smiling each time I landed.

He leaves the room for a few minutes and returns with a screwdriver, kissing me en route back to the paint can, our eyes locked for a fleet. I feel a jolt of energy course through me, weakened yet fantastically alive beneath his touch, in his gaze. He twists the screwdriver under the lip of the paint can and pries the lid open. Orange. Orange? A color that will later cause some controversy much deeper into our relationship. Ochre he corrects me.

The next hour, or dreamy two or three are spent marveling at his exertion. It’s hot and getting hotter in this glass baked sun drenched room. His naked back speckled with beads of sweat, spider streams that etching out the landscape of his back. I was still learning about his body, how it moves, how it responds, how it dances, how it listens and answers me, how it makes love to me. His scent becoming more familiar to me every night we spend together, the noises he makes as he sleeps, when he wakes, all becoming gently encoded in me. He discarded his sarong when he started painting, and now his white underpants are patterned with orange - sorry - ochre stripes. He stretches and swoops, dips and dives, reaches and rolls. The wall comes alive beneath his touch, just like me. The color expands its reach across the wall, streaks of lime in the paint give it texture, movement, depth. It’s exhilarating to witness this transformation at his hands. Marvelous to see it blossom so quickly under his gardeners hands, a joy to experience how it starts to pulse a rosy hue as the sun starts to sink and settle itself behind the now red ochre roofline, and a wonder to begin to see the genius in this man.

And so why do i never let him paint anything orange? Was it because of the orange outdoor wall he teamed with a green flowerbed walll, and it was truly hideous and i had to live with it for waaay too long? Is it because I want to keep safe the memory of that first orange - sorry - ochre wall, a direct path back to what it felt to come alive at his touch in those very early days. Or maybe I should just let him paint orange wherever he wants

I would like to see, to dance, to run, to flee, this horrid life I live, in thoughts and prayers, I give,

Read the lyrics I wrote, it’s a song dedicated to you, couldn’t fit it on a note, in alternate lives I pursue,

Though, I am terribly afraid, I have forgotten your favorite color, have you ever told your mother, that you and I were once lovers?

Somewhere in the orange hued sky, there is a place for you and I, where there are a million monarch butterflies, in death, forever, I love you, Clementine

I grew up in your average town, with the average grades, and your average looks. I grew up alone. I wasn’t physical alone because I lived with my dad but I was emotionally alone because he never showed he cared much if at all. I’ll be twenty tomorrow. He wouldn’t remember if it weren’t also the anniversary of the worst day of his life. I go and sit on the couch and take out her diary. It’s pink and fuzzy with her initials DSP stitched on the front. Every day she would write he entry in a different color pen. I smirked at how silly my mom was. I never got to meet her so all I have are the moments to try to learn about her. dad never speaks about her and when I’ve asked in the past it’s been a lot of one word answer or yes and no. Not much detail from him. I turned the page to the end and read over my moms entry from today.. but from 20 years ago. June 25th 2000. I started to read aloud. “ sitting here… on the tailgate of the truck looking out at Robert cutting the grass. He always said he liked to start cutting the grass as the sun was settng cause if he had to do it might as well make it enjoyable. He loved the sunsets almost as much as he loved me. The burnt orange redish look, he always said that was his favorite color. I can feel my baby girl kicking inside my belly. It’s like she can feel my happiness at this moment. This beautiful moment looking at the dimming sky and my handsome husband. It can’t get any better than this. “ That was the last entry. I read through this everyday and everyday I wonder if things could have been different. This entry is time stamped 6:52pm. I was born June 25 2000 7:24 pm. It wasn’t even an hour after my mom wrote about how happy she was did all of that change. I guess that why my dad doesn’t experience joy much. I always wonder if my dad’s favorite color changed from that night. My mom died on the bed of his burnt orange truck with red and orange skies. He brought me into this world in those same skies on that same night. I’ve never had the courage to ask him his favorite color, but I’ve never seen him cut the grass at sunset.