short fiction · 2026-10-13

Language as Color

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

In the quiet room, she heard the word 'dawn' and saw a smear of pale gold across the air, like watercolor on wet paper. Each syllable was a brushstroke: the 'd' a soft ochre, the 'awn' a widening halo of peach. When he spoke her name, it burst into vermilion, sharp and sudden, then faded to the deep indigo of silence. She wondered if everyone tasted the rainbow, or if she alone carried this prism in her skull, translating sound into hue.