Decided to do my first DPchallenge on the suitably depressing subject of Dystopia!
If there is still time click on the link and write something yourself. Saying that I’m probably too late myself as it’s Friday 00:10 in the UK right now (deadline is today).
Anyway, he’s my effort. WARNING: there will be typos, bad grammar, mixed tenses and some bad language…
Pink paint covers my slippers and bare legs. I can feel it pinching the hairs on my calves as it dries and cracks. I should really get cleaned up.
The sun is peeping over the roofs of the house across the street. It makes my square windows glow with a peach hue that clashes wonderfully with my pink walls. It is going to be another perfect day. Sun is supplied from the south with a cool breeze from the north to give us a comfortable ambient temperature. I can’t remember the last time I saw a cloud.
I have to wipe pink paint from my watch with my elbow to see the time. It’s just past six in the morning. I wanted to see what was under my astro turf lawn, and possibly plant some real grass if I discovered some earth, but I’ve run out of time. The neighbours will rise soon and I couldn’t find any grass seed in the hypermarket anyway.
I have an idea. I pick up all the leftover paint in the random pots and slosh it onto my front lawn. Fetching an old broom from the garage I brush the colour into the coarse blades of artificial grass. It look nice, in a different kind of way.
‘Oh, my dear lord!’
It sounds like Arthur is up and about.
‘Hi, Arthur! What do you think of my pink house?’
At the ripe old age of eighty-three Arthur is a toned and tall, square jawed, dark haired hunk. He is still technically a pensioner and thus tends to speak his mind.
‘You’ve turned into a fucking freak, Mr Williams!’ he shouts across the street. ‘I’m calling the police. People like you should be castrated.’
‘Castrated? I didn’t paint my house with my penis, Arthur.’
He has disappeared into his back garden before I can give him any kind of meaningful explanation. I can hear him as he rants at his wife about my decorating skills. Sometimes I think Cheryl, his eighty-five-year-old button nosed wife, wishes that a woman’s average life expectancy was still eighty-four.
Arthur’s shouting has brought out more of the neighbours. Some stand in their driveways holding their hands up to their mouths. Others gawp out from behind authority approved curtains. All of them are taking photographs on their phones. Give it ten minutes and my house will go viral. Give it another five minutes and my house’s very existence will be wiped from digital memory.
‘Jesus, I didn’t know things were this bad for you.’
‘Hello, Morris, didn’t see you sneak up there.’
Morris is my next door neighbour. Like everyone else he is ridiculously handsome and has a ‘keep off the grass’ sign on his astro turf lawn.
‘You know, you should have said something. We could have got you some help,’ he says to my pink house because he can’t take his eyes off it.
‘Morris, I’ve only painted my house pink.’
‘You know they’re going to put you in prison. You’ll be on the register as one of those social deviant anarchist type people. They may even try correcting you.’ He turns to me, his tired eyes betraying his age, and says, ‘I know Jade left you but this.’
‘She didn’t leave me! I asked her to go.’
I miss the Jade I met a century ago at a tech fair. She was sweet, fiercely brilliant – and different. We were happily married but inevitably the cell regeneration procedure was not enough – some things you can’t hide – and a snip turned into a nip that turned into a tuck, which spiralled into a lift and ended with a full body and face re-imaging.
One night, after a romantic meal for two during which she asked if I wouldn’t mind changing to a smaller nose and a bigger penis, I lay in bed staring at a woman I didn’t recognise. She was utterly beautiful but then so is everyone else. When the alarm finally announced the arrival of another perfect day I gentle asked her to leave.
I can hear sirens. Two good-looking police officers arrive in an unmarked black car. It turns out that neither of them are particularly fans of pink.
‘Is this your house sir?’
‘Yes, officer! Do you like what I’ve done with the place?’
‘Come on, officer,’ I say and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t you think it’s exciting and just a little bit different?’ But he isn’t listening. He’s looking with shock at my palm on the shoulder of his midnight blue uniform. I immediately remove the hand and immediately regret it. I’ve left a perky pink handprint on the shoulder of his dark jacket.
The pain is excruciating. Every single muscle in my body contracts simultaneously in a cataclysmic seizure as 150,000 volts jumps through my nervous system. I collapse to the ground shaking uncontrollably. Someone is moaning loudly. No. That’s me. I’m trying to apologise and explain why they really don’t need to taser me. I just want to tell them why others should paint their houses pink or yellow or blue or green but my jaw is locked and my bitten tongue is swelling in my mouth.
From my place on the ground I have a wonderful but blurred view of my road leisurely curving away down into the distance. Both sides of the street are lined with row upon row of detached houses stretching away like it’s a trick with two mirrors.
Every house is painted in a trendy legislative grey Pantone 621; every front door is a carefully chosen Pantone 577 green; every garage door a dark grey gloss Pantone 426; every window frame a natural grey-green Pantone 5555; every drive a brushed black Pantone 433; every GM boxed hedge the same shape, height and modified vibrant Pantone 356 green; every single cherry tree lining the pavement with perpetual blossom is gently dropping blue Pantone 290 petals into the light breeze like magical summer snowflakes.
It’s all just so achingly perfect that last night it made me want to stab my eyes out with the handle of Jade’s toothbrush. Instead I decided to paint my house a sexy pink Pantone 806.