Blush Born Chapter 18 Colorful Revelations

Blush Born Midpoint Breakdown | Chapter 18 Colorful Revelations | Part One

Welcome to Find Your Colors! This is where I am building a conversation around the narrative of The Shards of Color Trilogy and more specifically the first book of this trilogy titled BLUSH BORN. I'm Jeff B. White and I am the writer and creator of these stories. Find Your Colors allows me to provide the breakdown of these chapters exploring the psychological concepts that are present within the narrative of BLUSH BORN, while also explaining how I created this world from my own personal story of struggle and survival. Last week I shared "Chapter 18 Colorful Revelations" and because of the sheer volume and length of that chapter, I decided it would be best to leave the breakdown for a separate episode. In the process of writing that breakdown I realized once I had completed it that it was 6,792 words. This would have activated all of the word limit issues and presented something that would have taken me two hours to record and would not be read by the 11 people who read my stuff. So I decided instead of doing that and sacrificing the valuable information that goes with this chapter, and because of the importance of this chapter, that I would break down the breakdowns. So that is what I have done. I am making this into a three-part sub-series that covers the three distinct points, the first one being culture and structures within the Colorista community as it compares to the rest of their world, and a brief look at some of the characters that were introduced. Later, I will be posting the second part that explores the real world inspiration behind the Rainbow King. Finally, I will be wrapping it up with the third part that explains the psychological foundations of the seven songs including the Rainbow King and Jethran's place in all of this. I'll also be making a special announcement that I'll get into later. This gives me time to still be able to provide content while I am working on my chapters that come after this. Hopefully, I will actually be building up a bank of content if I am able to win the battle against my inner saboteur who tells me that life would be more fun if I dedicate all of my time to working on my unpublishable manuscript that is based on a retelling of The Little Mermaid from the point of view of a sea witch named Octavia because Ursula is owned by the mouse with fat lawyers. The Breakdown If you have been reading along and have already finished this chapter, you probably felt the shift in the air. Something fundamentally changes here. The story opens wider, and the emotional rules of the world become much clearer. The questions Jethran has been carrying since birth are brought into sharper focus while new and much larger questions begin to take shape. This is undoubtedly the most important chapter in BLUSH BORN and quite possibly the most important chapter in the whole series. It acts as the midpoint of the story and fundamentally alters the direction of the narrative. It serves as the exact moment when Jethran's understanding of the world and of himself deepens irreversibly. Everything that has happened to him up until this point begins to reorganize itself. His birth, his Blush, Collis and the forced pills, the Attention Necessity label, his mother's lullabies, the colors awakening within him, and the strange pull of the Seven Songs all come into conversation. He experiences a breakthrough, starting to believe that his mother knew far more about him than he ever realized. He currently lacks the proof, meaning the pieces are just now falling into place. One of the things that makes this story so much fun is that it takes him a long time to get the answers he has been seeking. Even these new questions may remain unanswered in this particular book. But before that happens, there will be drama. On Colorista Culture and Avoiding Real World Associations You may have noticed a change in the story. I updated the name of the Coloristas, as well as their gendering. Within the culture of the Coloristas, the women are known as ristas, the children are called colorlings and also known as lings which is just the word for kids. While the men are known as colormen. I want to be 100% transparent and firm on this. This is not a reference to colored men or colored people. I’ve worked very hard on ensuring that the word colored is not even used in this entire narrative and across all three books. I don’t even say that when I’m describing something by its color. You will never read characters in my stories say that’s a yellow colored plant or say that that’s a blue colored shirt. They say that it’s the shade of or the hue of or it’s blue-hued or blue-shaded. They will describe something saying that it’s the color of. They also don’t say "of color" due to the racial gravity and weight that is applied to that term in the real world. Although the trilogy’s name is Shards of Color and that was an oversight that stared me in the face every single day that I wrote all of this without ever being seen. With that part aside, when we’re describing the world in the story we just use the phrase with color or about color. Because the world doesn’t suddenly become a world of color. The people who were once gray become people with color living in a world of vibrancy. They suddenly exist in a reality about color because color is physics and color is magic and color is reality. So while I do understand and anticipate some people reacting under the assumption that I'm placing real world racial terms into the story, I just want to be clear now that I'm actually working hard to do the exact opposite. The word colorman or colormen is actually taken directly from the world of Art History. Before pre-mixed paint in tubes existed, artists purchased raw pigments and mixed their own paints. Colormen took over this time-consuming task, grinding pigments with oils or binders, which allowed painters to focus more on creation. In another context, there is a term referred to as Farbenmensch. This is actually German for "color man" or "color person" and refers to an artist who thinks in color before line or composition. The German Expressionist Ernst Ludwig Kirchner used this term for himself. Further, while art history uses this to describe a person who is a supplier of pigments, it also can be used to describe a person who applies color in printing or a worker who mixes dyes. There are Coloristas in the story who when they are seen their fingertips are stained from the colors of the dyes that they’ve used and the pigments that they’ve used to color their weavings. Their entire society and culture and spiritual belief is based around the art of movement and around the threads and they see and feel and experience the world through the colors of their people. They are very well established as possessing a full cosmological relationship with the existence of color. And color is part of their actual racial name being that their race is Colorista. Before I did this I had already done very similar social linguistics and etymological creation of the other races that exist in the world. There are three races within this story. There are the Here of Evenhere, Silvarii, and Coloristas. First there are the Silvarii. Originally they were called fairies but I decided that was too regular for my story, so because they have silver skin I made them into silvari which is an Urdu term for silver. It's also Portuguese for woodland. So that word works on two levels describing this race. When I was coming up with their social linguistics and such I decided to just cut the word down the middle. I decided to name the women in their race Sils or sil. Their children, I decided to name sillies. It just felt really whimsical and seems like it would work for this group of people, plus because they are an extremely patriarchal society they treat children on the same level or less than they treat their females of their race. So that's why they call the children sillies, because it's just an extension of the women. However, the males carry an even darker undertone with their name. The men I named Varii. And I'll get further into this later but it allows for people in the Kingdom to hear that word and to mispronounce it and just start calling them fairies which becomes a derogatory term. Derogatory term but it's more just like a mispronunciation and the Silvarii took offense to it because it's not what they are. And while it is completely lost as to whether or not it actually was ever meant as derogatory it remains the fact that they deemed it derogatory and therefore it is. Because it doesn't matter what the intention is what matters is the outcome. Splitting the root word to reflect their patriarchal hierarchy is a highly effective worldbuilding technique. Designating the women as Sils and the children as sillies communicates their systemic oppression instantly. It establishes their societal value organically and bypasses heavy exposition. It’s simply the exact same path of naming these races in the story that I took with the Here. The men are called heremen, the children herelings. The women, who are deeply deeply oppressed in their society, are given the gender specific descriptor of wem. Which is partially utilized for the mental image of them being reduced to nothing but a womb. And that one of the very first laws that we experience in this culture is that they are deemed to be "in possession of the delicate female mind which is better suited for playing with the children until dinner time." And they are assigned a man to oversee their family if they have a child and they’re not married because they’re not deemed capable of managing their homes. Circling back, color men were instrumental in the development of new, brighter pigments, like chrome yellow and cobalt blue, for the Impressionists. Personally, I found that bit of information to be utterly fascinating. I utilize those exact terms in this book. Jethran possesses his blue magic that manifests as a cobalt blue mist. So this work wouldn't even be possible if it weren't for the work done by the color man and the color men years ago. That they are used to describe the male Coloristas shows that this term is based in real world architecture, outside of racial connotations. This means that the use of that term in the story allows me to honor the work that was done by those men by codifying their very existence into the fabric of the world within the story that benefits from the work they did in our world. Find Your Colors is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Easter Eggs and Character Naming Along with the update to the cultural linguistics, there is another small Easter egg that I just put in this chapter. Sometimes I think naming my characters has been one of my favorite parts, I think it's all my favorite part honestly, but dealing with a narrative where the story is so deeply rooted around the color it presents me with some cool opportunities. Of course I'm talking about the family that Fable and Jethran were having dinner with before they went to the Hall of Tapestries. This specific scene serves a few purposes in that it was an opportunity to show Jethran for the first time in the story actually feeling comfortable and relaxed. Being calm and learning to breathe for the first time without the crushing weight of the oppression and the fear that had been facing his entire life. One very important moment came when he was watching Yola's kids. He saw them playing and enjoying themselves and he kind of not in the narrative but it was kind of as if he thought, "Aw that's nice why aren't they at work?" Because he's only 16 years old but he's had a full-time job at this point for the last six years because of the Ling Labor Law that demands people above the age of ten work to be able to pay for the burden of their upbringing. When Cray tells him that they are only small splashes of color and their only duty is to enjoy their childhood. This very concept is completely foreign to him. The reason that this scene matters so much is because, as the book moves into the more whimsical and happier parts of the story it's important to continue reminding the reader of exactly the stuff that he's come from and how far he's come in the very short amount of time. Also, he is about to have his life completely flipped upside down in just a few moments and so it was necessary to have him have a moment of peace and exhale. But another crucial thing about this scene is the actual characters of Yola and her children and her husband Cray. Because you know... Crayola. The Coloristas are a culture based solely around color and so I get to play with giving them names that align with that way of life but, also sound completely like an actual character in a fantasy story. As for the children of Yola, they remained unnamed in this chapter. While I won't reveal it here today, we do actually encounter Yola's children twenty years later in the story and at that point in time we learn their names. When it happens, it's a moment that shows that the history of this world is built-in and it's a living and breathing place that existed long before we came along. Also this shows that within this narrative is life and that life continues living on even between books, not just for the main characters but for the whole Kingdom of Evenhere. What all of this is really trying to show and what I'm trying to say is that this is more than just a regular fantasy story with a boy doing some stuff and being a hero and whatnot. There is a living and breathing world of people to meet. Each person offers a distinct purpose throughout the course of these stories. There are even people who you see in the story and you think they're just like an extra or just somebody that's filling up some narrative device at that moment and then you find out later that they have a whole other level of importance. And there's pretty much no one who is mentioned or steps onto these pages who would be considered an NPC. Nothing that I do in the story is done with a sense of flippancy or with a lack of intentioned purpose and designed thought. It's important to me that they feel real and that they feel lived in, and mostly that whatever their purpose is in the story, that it's served in a way that lands with the reader leaving them entertained, educated, and seen. What's Next? Next time, I am going to present Part 2 of this breakdown where I will dive into the real world origins of the Rainbow King, my personal experiences as an LGBTQ activist that inspired the title, and the deeply personal inspirations behind the Colorista magic system. After that, will be part 3 where I will discuss the psychological foundations of the Rainbow King and the rest of the Seven Songs. And with that breakdown I will be making an announcement about the future of Find Your Colors. So you're not going to want to miss that! Let's Discuss! Jethran finally finds a moment to relax and to calm himself. After an entire lifetime holding his breath it's a beautiful moment for him. Do you know what it's like to have to go through your life unable to exhale because of all the nonsense? How did you finally reach a point when you were able to release it? How long have you been holding your breath? Are you clenching your jaw right now? Is your tongue pressed against the top of your mouth? If it is, why don't you go ahead loosen that s**t up and take a breath. Better? Maybe you've caught every episode of this or you've just got a chapter here and there or maybe you just tuned in for this specific breakdown. But now that we've reached this Midway point in the story there are some things that I'm curious about. I've discussed quite a bit of background information and narrative lore, a lot of it's been extremely personal, but vital to actually explaining the story. Do you feel that the narrative probably captures the real world aspects that I've described them to be representing? If you have been reading along with this, what do you think so far? How does the story land with you? Who's your favorite character? What are your thoughts? I would really love to know. Feel free to answer these questions in the comments section below or take them with you as you go. Read the Story Behind the Story Chapters 1, 2, and 3 of my memoir Shards of Hope A Tweaker Witch's Journey are all available to read for free right now on my website! If you're interested in exploring the true story that inspired the emotional journey of BLUSH BORN, head over and check them out. While you're there go ahead and join the email list so you can get updates about my publishing journey and other bonus content that is exclusive to my mailing list. All of that is available at www.jeffbwhite.com [https://www.jeffbwhite.com] Subscribe Today! Find Your Colors is a reader-supported publication and a listener-supported podcast. It is through the support of my subscribers that I am able to continue writing and sharing my stories with the world. If you've enjoyed what you've read here, please consider joining as a free or paid subscriber. And click this button for 25% off for your first year. If you prefer to listen, make sure to check out the podcast version featuring other content along with breakdowns on Spotify YouTube podcast and Apple Podcasts. Click the button below to join the conversation on Spotify. As always, if you read this all the way to the end or if you listened all the way through you are absolutely my hero. Thank you for allowing me the time out of your day, and the space in your brain, to share my story and introduce Jethran to the world. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe [https://findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Blush Born Chapter 18 Colorful Revelations

Welcome to Find Your Colors! This is the publication and podcast where we are discussing The Shards Of Color Trilogy and more specifically the first book in that trilogy titled BLUSH BORN. I am Jeff B. White and I am the writer and creator of these stories. Find Your Colors allows me to provide breakdowns exploring the psychological concepts that are present in the narrative of BLUSH BORN. As well I explain how I translated my memoir into this dark fairy tale. The first three chapters of my memoir Shards Of Hope A Tweaker Witch's Journey is available now exclusively on my website where you can truly dive into all of my work. Just go to www.jeffbwhite.com [https://www.jeffbwhite.com] and look around, read, and sign up for my email list. We're at the Midway! We have reached “Chapter 18 Colorful Revelations.” This is the midway point of the story, y'all! I am so excited that we've get this far. I wasn't sure I would get this far. This is the longest chapter in the book has a lot happening and is obviously the home of the midpoint shift so there will be no breakdown provided with this chapter. It will be sent out separately later in your inboxes. So keep an eye out for that in and let's go ahead and get started. Chapter 18 Colorful Revelations The gray light of the afternoon sun cast soft shadows across the Whispering Grove. Jethran and Fable had spent hours immersing themselves in the quiet rhythms of the Colorista community. They shared a simple meal of roasted root meat and sweet burgundy fruit with a young rista named Yola and her husband Cray. Jethran and Fable those watched as Yola’s colorlings played a game that involved chasing the shimmering threads that danced in the air around them. “It’s… It’s midday, don’t your lings need to be preparing for work?” Jethran asked as he enjoyed the feast. Yola stopped and looked at her lings, then at her husband. They looked back at Jethran smiling. “They are only but small splashes of color,” Cray said. The colorman looked at his colorlings as he laughed deeply. “They only have the duty of enjoying the freedom of youth until the time comes when they will begin weaving like the rest of us.” Jethran couldn’t imagine the concept of enjoying the freedom of youth. He took a bite of root meat as he thought of the years said he had spent working in the rock sorting facility. Fable had initially been wary of this place. Even he soon found himself charmed by the open display of feeling. “This place is nothing like the village where I spent my youth,” Fable clarified, his voice loud in the carved tree hut. “Living with color and freely enjoying emotion. Oh, sugar! The Silvarii Eldrus would be singing lullabies of calming and correction.” Jethran took a sip of the delicious seven-shaded hueberry juice Yola had made. He turned to Fable, a look of serenity falling upon his face. “The last thing I need in this place is calming,” Jethran said, a new realization settling over him. “I’ve never felt so calm. I don’t feel like I’m a Flaw here. I feel normal, as if I belong. I feel like I’m at home, for the first time. I feel like I’m just… Jethran.” The weight he had carried for so long was lifting. The pulse of shame that haunted him began to dissipate in the vibrant air. He found himself breathing deeper, the air itself feeling richer, fuller. For the first time, his lungs were drawing in the full spectrum of what it meant to be alive. He watched the colorlings, their faces alight with joy. Their very beings a celebration of the color he had been taught to hide. “Well, you’re not,” Yola chimed. “You’re not a Flaw, Jethran. You’re so many things but a flaw… Jethran… you are the…” “The what?” Jethran asked. Just then Winley Knowles approached them. Her hair shifting to a rich chartreuse as she interrupted. “Yola,” she said calmly but with an authoritative tone. “I believe I heard Sycamore request that you help him with the looming.” Jethran watched Yola as the rista quieted herself quickly and departed. He then looked at Winley with a questioning expression. “Young Frye, come with me,” Winley said, her voice left no room for argument. “There’s something important I need you to see.” Jethran scanned the area for Fable and found him holding court surrounded by a group of captivated colorlings. His nickel skin shimmered in the light of the glowing mushrooms on the nearby trees. Yola’s lings were sitting with him braiding his hair as he told them a story. Jethran watched for a moment, a wave of genuine admiration washing over him. Fable’s charm was an effortless force. Seeing him so completely in his element, holding an audience captive with nothing but a story and the mischievous glint in his pewter eyes, it brought a smile to Jethran’s face. “…and if you listen, I bet you can still hear it clunking around in there,” Fable said, his voice carrying across the quiet clearing. He then stood and swayed the bottom half of his body back and forth, as if he were a bell. “Fable, we have to go with Winley,” Jethran called, walking over and gently tugging him away from his small audience. “I’m not even going to ask what that story was about,” Jethran said as they walked away. “Oh? Just a silvarii story from my youth,” Fable retorted with a grin and a wink, dusting off his tunic. They met back with Winley Knowles, who escorted them deeper into the oldest part of the central tree. They found themselves in a circular chamber that seemed to pulse with an ancient power. Her hair was now the vibrant yellow of freshly cut grass. Fable noticeably rolled his eyes. The walls of this place were woven from what looked like pure starlight, threaded with fibers that pulsed with soft, internal light. “This is the Hall of Tapestries,” Winley said as Fable scoffed at her hair, which was now a subdued dark azure. “It’s ancient and sacred. The walls hold the Tapestries of Time. Each one depicting a pivotal moment in the histories.” “Histories?” Jethran questioned her. “There’s only one history.” Winley offered a smile. “Oh, but there are many histories. The history of the past and the histories of the future. Even now this is the history of the moment.” Fable scratched his head as he and Jethran looked at each other with confusion. For Jethran, there was an inexplicable familiarity to these tapestries. “The style of the weaving,” he whispered. “The way the threads intertwine, reminds me of the old blanket my mother used to wrap around me.” “These are no mere blankets, sweet boy,” Winley began, her voice reverent. “They are the true record of all that has been and all that has yet to be. All the histories are interwoven. They rely on each other, existing in their own space as well as in each other’s. The essence of these moments are captured in living threads. It is the legacy of who the Coloristas are. And... of who you are, Jethran.” She walked along the curved wall, her hand whisking a shimmering image. “Who are they?” Jethran asked. “Who is he?” Fable asked, pointing at Jethran. “One answer at a time,” Winley said. “The Coloristas are the stewards of Tapestries. We guard over them, we tend them, and we preserve them. Ours is the magic of time. We protect the histories. So that the histories that have been lived can inform the history that is being lived now. By doing this, the history that has yet to be is met with understanding.” Jethran looked into the Hall, curious if his history was somehow woven into this place. “Who is it that created them?” Jethran asked. Winley raised her hand, directing the two of them to follow. “The Seven Songs, the ancient Hues of Feeling, each Song was an emotion woven from the notes.” Fable bristled. His tradition had taught different stories. “No. The notes hummed the Seven Songs. That’s how they created the Pure Melody.” As Jethran stepped closer to the wall, a low beat seemed to emanate from the threads, a song that resonated with the pulsing power that stirred within him. The air grew thick, the pressure changing as if before a storm. The first tapestry, depicting a bustling market, began to shimmer. The woven figures, once static, began to move with a ghostly grace. The threads of light pulsed and shifted, playing out the scene before their eyes. Jethran could almost smell the scent of baked bread and hear the distant murmur of a woven crowd. Fable and Winley both stepped back in shock. Fable gasped, his wings giving a startled flutter. “What is this magic?” the Silvarii demanded. “It is not magic,” Winley said with an untempered awe. “It is the embrace of truth, memory, and grace. Transcending time, accepting that hope has found its way to Evenhere. It... it is responding to him.” The moving pattern depicted a merchant, his face worried, as he held a basket of bread. A Colorista, approached him, as a wave of azure light emanated from the merchant, revealing his hidden fear of not having prepared the bread properly for sale. The Colorista gently touched his arm, and the blue mist softened, replaced by a confident emerald, and the merchant was soothed. He headed to the marketplace where he sold all of his bread. “A display of emotional excess. Uncontrolled,” Fable scoffed. The old lessons of his people ringing. “Our proverbs warn against such things.” “No. That’s a display of truth,” Winley corrected gently, her hair shifting to a warm, emerald green. “Is it excess to show a doubting hereman the truth of bounty he holds in his hands? That is the power that comes from grace. She was Midgelle, the Lightgiver. She helped him see his worth.” Jethran felt a jolt, a powerful truth pulsing within the vibrant emerald of the tapestry. It was a color he did not yet possess. He felt a similar pull to the next tapestry, which depicted a family quarrel. As he approached, it too came to life. A father, his face tight with frustration, emanated a dull, angry aureolin. His child, cowering, was shrouded in a faint, transparent tangerine. A Colorista stepped between them, radiating a vibrant cobalt. As the deep blue touched the father, his aureolin softened, and the child’s tangerine glowed with a bright hue. “This the myth of Muralis the Listener,” Winley said, her hair now a calm, cerulean. “More chaos,” Fable grumbled, though with less conviction this time, his worldview being pressed. “The ancient texts of the Pure Melody speak of the dangers of such interference.” “Fable, the father’s rage was transformed. The child’s fear was allowed to shine forth,” Winley corrected, her tone a blend of serene authority and deep, ancient sadness. “Harmony is not the absence of emotion, little Silvarii. It is understanding its composition. Tell me, do your ancient texts speak of a truth that is found in hiding?” “Muralis,” Jethran breathed the name. “I’ve met her. Fable, the mist... My mist. It’s from Muralis.” Both Winley and Fable stopped and looked at him. She was enamored that he spoke of her so intimately. That he held her power. Jethran noticed the tears in her eyes as her hair turned a deep cobalt. Jethran then felt a second jolt, even stronger than the first. A cool, golden-apricot hue. He hadn’t yet experienced it, and now he realized this was a second color he’d never encountered. He glanced at his hand, a faint inner ring still open, awaiting a new color, a physical and emotional sensation connecting the abstract history to the empty space in his own Blush. It felt like a missing note in a familiar song, he had been searching for his entire life. They came to a large tapestry, a riot of color that depicted an entire era. As Jethran drew near, the wall exploded with silent life. Figures danced and sang, embracing and laughing, weeping openly as their tears watered colorful flowers at their feet. It was a symphony of pure feeling. “The Age of Chaos,” Fable breathed, the words an horrified reaction. “The Age of Songs,” Winley turned her gaze to him, her eyes soft with a profound pity. “Look closer, Fable. Does that look like pain to you, or does it look like a celebration? The histories you were taught were written by the one who hunted and burned my people during the Color Raids.” Fable looked again, truly looked, and saw the joy, the grief, the unrestrained life woven into every thread. “But... why?” he asked, his voice full of anguish. “Why would our world forget something so beautiful?” “Because the Uncrowned One is a demagogue of dust,” Winley said, her hair turning black. “He did not rise to power with an army, but with a whisper. He told the people their vibrant emotions led to chaos. He promised them a better, more orderly way. And those who feared their own feelings, the ones who would become the Big Aughts, they listened.” “They created a world so profoundly lonely that people learned to fear any deviation,” Winley continued. “Laughter became muted. Grief became a private shame. And love... love became a utilitarian bond, stripped of its wild color.” “It is why we protect these Tapestries. Why we guard the histories that were woven by the Seven Songs,” Winley said, her voice a low, confident hum. She paused, gesturing to the final, radiant tapestry that dominated the hall. Fable couldn’t stand it any longer. His voice cracked as he defended the truth as it had been written since the first Silvarii fluttered their wings in tune with the Hum. “Oh, sugar! Stop it! The Songs did not weave! They hummed. You can't just keep saying that like it's true! What you are saying is heresy!” Winley looked at Fable softly. “That is a thread outside the Pattern, a falsity woven into belief, little varii.” Listening to Fable and Winley debate, Jethran finally interjected. He asked such a simple question that carried with it such weight. “Isn’t a song nothing more than a pattern of hummed notes woven into a melody?” He paused, a new clarity dawning. “But they all have a beat. A rhythm... A pulse. It’s the Living Pulse. That... that’s what connects them.” Both the Silvarii and the Colorista stood, silent and stunned. It sounded like blasphemy, but it felt like the truth. Winley gathered her composure as she moved the curtain towards another branch of the Hall. “What you have seen so far has shown you the history of what has been. But there are others. They are the histories that have yet to be. These are woven by all Seven Songs in harmony. The tapestry you’re about to see is the Final Pattern. Jethran, it is the reason you are here.” She looked at Jethran, her gaze holding a awe and reverence. Jethran could feel a Pulse of sadness and immense joy all at once within her. “How can this be the reason?” Fable asked, cutting through the mystical pronouncement. “I was the one who suggested we…” the Silvarii stammered as his mind was drifting in a swirl of confusion. “How could a tapestry have… I'm the one who I said we should find this place… I'm not a weave.” Winley’s gaze softened, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “You misunderstand, little varii. I do not mean it is the reason he is here, in this Grove.” She turned back to Jethran, placing a gentle hand over his heart. “I mean it is the reason you were born, Jethran.” This was by far the largest of the tapestries, and despite its stillness, it shimmered with a kaleidoscopic array of all seven colors, radiating outwards from a central figure. The figure was a king. His face was serene, but powerful. His skin was a soft pinkish gold. He bore magnificent feathered wings, each colorful feather pulsing in waves. And as Jethran looked closer, his breath hitched. The King in this tapestry looked nearly identical to Jethran, a version of himself touched by age and wisdom. The hair was longer and of multiple shades, the same firm jaw, the same shape of eyes. It was impossible, and yet, undeniably true. Fable stepped forward, his eyes at first squinted as he peered into the tapestry. Then they widened. He looked at Jethran, then back at the image, then back to Jethran. Fable stumbled backward until the woven wall caught his weight. The foundation of his entire life was crumbling around him. He stared at Jethran. The Blush was not a flaw, not a curse. It was a vibrant, defiant song that had refused to be silenced. A song that was sung by a boy who refused to disappear. Lies, Fable thought, the word dismantling his inner truth. My whole life... a lie. The stories, the laws, the traditions of my home... they were chains held by a lock that kept the truth prisoner. And Jethran is the key. In that moment, the boy in front of him ceased to be just a friend he was travelling with. He was history. He was hope. He was the beautiful truth. It wasn’t the now baseless traditions that needed to be held despite everything. It was his friend who, at all costs, must be protected. No matter what. The weight of it all pressed down, until Fable felt his entire world itself had been shattered and remade. A divine purpose washed over him. He would follow Jethran to the seven edges of the Evenhere if he had to. He would guard this beautiful creature and protect Jethran with his life. Jethran, feeling an undeniable pull, stepped forward and placed his hand on the fabric. The moment his fingers made contact, he felt a dizzying sense of duality. It was as if he were both himself and someone else, a doubled pulse echoing in the depths of his spirit. The air in the hall cracked, the light from the woven stars intensifying. The very threads of the tapestry itself began to dissolve. The light fractured into glowing Spectras. Jethran then saw through the tapestry, as if looking through a window in space. He saw them. A living figure turned their head. One eye, a vibrant pink, the other a deep emerald, looked directly at him. The figure smiled, briefly looking past Jethran to see Fable behind him. Their gaze then fell upon Jethran, and with a deep warmth that altered Jethran on a level he couldn’t quite explain. Jethran realized the being could see him, they were smiling at Jethran so he returned the smile. And then they spoke as if speaking across a cavernous distance. “I’m beautiful,” they said. The entire tapestry blazed with an overwhelming brilliance in response. He stood in stunned silence, his mind struggling to process the impossible sight of his own face, a mirror image of his destiny, looking right back at him. The tapestry then returned to its original scene, but now hummed and shimmered as the others. Jethran’s eyes begin to sparkle with a bright new hue. He saw the magnificent wings of the Rainbow King as they slowly moved back and forth. He saw a beautiful beam of multismatic light shot from the central image, landing on a nearby Citizen of the Gray. The moment that the light landed on the gray citizen, their entire appearance changed into a beautiful person the color of magenta. Winley’s voice, now steady and certain, broke the silence, her hair shifting through all the colors of the rainbow in a slow, hypnotic cascade. “The Songs have many names for this figure, little spark. The Restorer. The Song Who Sings. But the Coloristas who have guarded this promise, we have always known him by his true name.” She then turned her gaze, full of quiet power, directly to the boy, she placed her hands on her own heart. “We have always known him as Jethran.” Jethran reeled, the world tilting around him. It was a blueprint. His own face, his own name, woven into the fabric of time before he was even born. The word Flaw exploded into dust, leaving a vast emptiness that was instantly filled with the beautiful weight of destiny. He stumbled out of the room, desperate for air, his mind a torrent of disjointed discovery. Fable, numb with shock, followed instinctively. Jethran was frantic. A rapidfire of his entire life poured from him. “Collis,” Jethran sneered. “It wasn’t Attention Necessity... It was a box for what they couldn’t control...” Fable and Winley noticed his hair streaking in a new shade. “The pills...” He shouted. “A gray poison to mute a song before it could be sung! He turned around violently as he heard her... his mother… his mother’s words, echoing across the years I love your beautiful story. “She knew...” He whispered. “She had to know... she was protecting me. She was protecting the world’s hope.” Jethran’s eyes felt a new coolness that he ignored as the colors awakened within him. “She stood in the way... every lullaby... every time we stood… in that mirror together... everything that she... He spun around to face Fable, tears streaming down his face, but his expression was one of stunning and brilliant revelation. His blush pulsing with a new vibrancy. “It was never about the Rainbow King.” Jethran laughed as tears streamed freely from his eyes. “Don’t you see!? It was about… me,” he laughed with a boisterous and genuine burst from his spirit. “It was about who I am,” Jethran paused, he placed one hand on Fable’s shoulder and the other on Winley’s. “I am… the Blush Born King!” As the words left his lips, flecks of saffron in his eyes ignited. The weight of his profound acceptance acted as a mirror to the world, showing it what it is meant to be.. A ginger color consumed his Blush entirely, filled the irises of his eyes, and washed through his hair, turning it a vibrant vermilion. It radiated from his palm and then erupted outwards in a concussive blast, a sound like infinite mirrors shattering into one another as it brought a new color into the world. As if every lie he had ever been told shattered with the releasing of this new shade of vibrancy. In the Whispering Grove, an expectant mother robin, with her deep cerulean feathered crest, found that the gray eggs in her nest had shifted to a warm tangerine. A jaybird transformed into a prismatic shade of burnt sienna. Just outside the Hall of Tapestries there was one last silver light. Beside it, hovering in the air, was one crimson light, one of aureolin, one of cobalt, and another of indigo. A Colorista in the distance yelled out. “Look! The sky!” Everyone suddenly looked upward as the stale slate of the sky itself seemed to melt away as it turned a soft peach that stretched to the horizon. Jethran turned, his own shock palpable as he took in the newly hued world. He gasped when he saw Fable. “You’re… you’ve changed color!” he said, a sense of responsibility washing over him. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to.” Though Fable’s tight curls were still sterling silver, his skin was now a beautiful shade of marigold, and his clothes were a vibrant saffron. A geometric segment of his magnificent wings had even adopted a warm amber hue. “Oh, sugar on a sandwich!” Fable said, marveling at himself. “Well, I suppose it’s my color now.” He grinned, a bit of his jovial self returning. “I like it! The ability to accept change makes us grow into better people. Right, Winley?” “It does add a bit of flair, doesn’t it?” Winley said. She stood smiling at them both, her hair now a matching shade of cool amber. Fable shot Winley a look, still unimpressed by her. He pointed towards her, then looked at Jethran and he asked, “This doesn’t mean I’m going to change color every seventeen seconds, does it?” The intense vibration of the new color calmed on Jethran’s body, settling into a mere fleck in each iris, making its place in the gray space that stood between the crimson and aureolin. Just as the other colors had done, it formed a new ring on the Blush of his cheeks and the palm of his hand. Strands of brilliant vermillion settled into his hair, a new thread in his personal tapestry. || What's Next? Now you’ve seen the moment when Jethran’s life is changed forever and the story begins down a path that leads both Jethran and Fable into a brand new world. This is a massive chapter with a lot of reveals and lore. The breakdown for this chapter will be hitting inboxes soon. It’s going to contain a breakdown on the real world history behind the Rainbow King and other ways that my life influenced this chapter. As well, it gives a look at the hidden Easter eggs in the world building that’s present in this chapter. And most importantly, it looks at the actual reality that Jethran is facing and how this narrative is fully subverting standard fantasy tropes. To my paid subscribers, keep your eye out for that as it will be popping up in your inbox very soon. Read the Full Story On my website, Chapters 1, 2, and 3 of my memoir Shards of Hope are all available free to read right now. So if you're interested in reading the full true story behind all of this, feel free to jump over there and explore the true story and a lot more. My story is not for everyone. So if you do read it and you don't like it that's okay. I didn't greatly enjoy living it so… Subscribe Today! Find Your Colors is a reader supported publication and listener supported podcast. It is through the support of my subscribers that I’m able to continue writing and sharing my stories with the world. If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read here then please consider joining as a free or paid subscriber. I’m grateful for your support either way, so either click me the subscribe button below to join for free or click the button below to receive 25% off your first year as a thank you from me. As always if you read this all the way to the end or if you listened to it all the way through, then I just want to say you’re absolutely my hero and I want to thank you for allowing me the time out of your day and the space in your brain to share my story and introduce Jethran to the world. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe [https://findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

This is My Official Author Site Launch!!

Welcome to Find Your Colors! This is the publication and podcast where we are discussing the Shards of Color Trilogy and more specifically the first book of the trilogy titled BLUSH BORN. I am Jeff B. White and I am the writer and creator of these stories. Find Your Colors allows me to provide the full chapters of BLUSH BORN in a serialized format, along with breakdowns of the psychological concepts that are present within the narrative. I also explain how I translated my own story of struggle and survival into this dark fairy tale. Recap Previously, I shared “Chapter 17 Whispered Color” in which Jethran and Fable met Winley Knowles and the Coloristas. We saw Jethran finally find a place where he is accepted and sees that living in freedom is actually possible. We will pick back up with the narrative later this week. Today I have some exciting news to share, alongside a few thoughts about making it in the literary world and how we put ourselves out there as professionals. Growing and Showing The landscape of publishing shifted a long time ago and we're no longer in an era where a manuscript alone opens every door. Writing a great story remains the priority, but building a conversation around that story is what invites the people to stay. Through the building of a conversation around BLUSH BORN here on Substack, I have been able to secure a domain and I have built a new central hub for my work. Thank you to all of my subscribers who signed up for both monthly and yearly subscriptions. And especially, those of you who have signed up on the Prism Tier. You not only have allowed me to see what it feels like to start getting paid for my actual writing, but you've allowed the writing to pay for itself. That's massive! Substack has been a beautiful way for me to begin sharing the story behind the story, breaking down exactly what all went into crafting my series. Now my new site is providing me with the opportunity to share the full depth of what exists inside that story as I set myself on the path toward realizing my publishing goals. Having a dedicated author website remains absolutely crucial because your website acts as your true home base on the internet. It's the platform that you own entirely. While Substack is a powerful tool for content distribution, the personal website offers long-term stability, control, and searchability that third-party platforms simply cannot match. It's the perfect place for a permanent biography, a professional press kit, your book portfolio, or a “work with me” page. Those elements just feel clunky inside a standard newsletter feed. On your own website, you decide exactly how your work is presented. You can have full control over your design and overall feel. You get complete control over the brand and user experience. I have crafted a fully immersive experience that allows visitors to feel the weight of the narrative before you even start the first sentence. I've created a place where you can explore the full depth of the world that's been created in my stories. You can learn about the locations and discover the cast of characters. I'm building a section detailing the full magic systems and explaining the different cosmologies that go into the belief structures of my characters. There's even radio broadcasts that play the in-world news updates from the narrative, providing added details from the world itself to facilitate a deeper dive into the Kingdom of Evenhere. Quite possibly, my favorite feature about this new site is that I am able to share full chapters of my memoir with the world for the first time ever. These chapters will not be available anywhere else. Obviously, this is an extremely personal project for me and it was not easy to sit down and write about all the things that I have included in the memoir. It was important to me that I was allowed to have full ownership and full control over the ways in which it is shared and presented to potential readers. Having my own domain and my own site makes that ownership possible. So now instead of only telling my readers about my memoir, I finally get to show it to them. On my terms. Substack is fantastic and I’m not going anywhere any time soon. The fact remains that building a portfolio solely on rented land comes with risks that could be detrimental to your progress. Platforms can change their terms, they can increase their fees, or they can lock you out of your account which could erase thousands of subscribers or years of content. Your website ensures that you own your content, your subscriber data, and brand identity permanently. It serves as a permanent hub for your career, regardless of which social media platforms rise or fall. It also removes the dependence upon the algorithm whichever algorithm that is. We've all already experienced the Instagram algorithm crunch and we all know exactly how difficult it is to get properly seen by the people you're trying to reach on Facebook. Plus, not everyone is built for tiktok and not everyone wants to be posting videos of themselves all the time or relying on competition with the influencer crowd for clicks in order to ensure our careers get off the ground. One really big deal is that Substack has limited SEO optimization whereas content on your own website ranks much better on Google. This makes it easier for new readers to find you organically. Plus, a website allows you to structure evergreen content that brings in traffic for years. Newsletter posts, on the other hand, eventually get buried in inboxes. The website becomes a place where you can sell your books, merchandise, or services directly from your own site without sharing a commission. A dedicated website also lets you set up marketing funnels, like giving away a free story in exchange for an email address, which is much harder to execute on a newsletter platform. It's a Miley vs Hannah situation because you literally can have the best of both worlds. These platforms work perfectly together and the best approach is to treat them as complementary tools. You can use the website as your foundation and let Substack be the engine that drives the traffic and connection. Your website can house the archive and shop as the permanent place for your content and your books while serving as your main intake hub. While Substack is still there holding space as the newsletter and housing the community so you have easy access for updates, essays, and direct conversations. Personalized and Professional Value There's another extremely important reason why having dedicated author website is vital. The three key components to successfully becoming a published author are to have a great idea, a great story, and a platform. It used to be that you only had to have two of those. A great story and a great idea were fine even if you didn't have a platform. But, the days of that being true are seeming to be moving away. It's undeniable that the digital world has taken over everything and content creators are a dime a dozen. While there are still people who are able to get in the door without this, it is naive to still believe that having a professional digital footprint isn't a necessity. As the world continues to conduct more and more of its life and business in the online world it is slowly becoming more and more difficult to ensure that your work gets seen and is treated with the value that it deserves unless you place yourself in the market where the majority is existing. While having a dedicated author landing page does serve as a marketing tool and a place to directly sell your work, it also provides a point of presence in the digital world. Presence matters. From what I have come to learn, it matters a lot more today than it did only six months ago. Things have changed in the publishing world and not everyone is talking about it, but they are noticing it. Across the entire literary realm, agencies and publishing houses are closing and filing bankruptcy. Big publishing houses are having to eat the massive debt left behind by some of the smaller organizations, and that is causing a tightening of risk-taking in picking up new authors. It has always been that agents, editors, and publishers want to see that a new author they are interested in will be able to carry part of the load in getting the word out about their work. Now more than ever, that has gone from a bonus to an absolute necessity. We must show that we have the ability to attract, engage, and convert would-be readers into dedicated and active communities. If we want our work to be picked up and remembered, we have to show that we are invested in the presentation as much as the punctuation. We have to make it apparent that we can craft skilled prose and it is vital that we show that we are skilled pros. A dedicated site tells the industry and the reader that our work has merit and already has its own home. It shows the ones who need to see it that the author is ready to not only participate in the conversation, but that they have already started it. Plus, a really cool aspect of being able to acquire your own domain and website for the use of marketing and raising awareness around your work is that it comes with a business email that looks extremely professional. This obviously isn’t a necessity, as people get published every single day with just a regular Gmail account. That being said, it undeniably gives your queries and outreach that added punch that shows a level of professionalism that not all people have when they enter the conversation. For example, I was able to acquire colors@jeffbwhite.com which if you excuse me for saying this is completely badass and honestly has made me fully emotional. It's on brand. It's on theme. It's unexpected, but not in a way that is unprofessional. Personally, I believe it is a another layer of proof that I know what I'm doing and I'm acting with intention. Finally, and overall, this entire process is an act of validation you can provide to yourself. In my situation, it's testament to how far I've come in my life and how far I'm going to go. There's a scared little white boy right now back in the 1990’s Mississippi who would be so happy and impressed to see where I’ve brought us today. Everything else is… additive. But despite all of this, the fact remains that you can take the combination of all of these things together and still never get published or find your platform. In the same train of thought you could go out in the world without any one of these components and send one query letter and get picked up by an agent right then. If that happens, congratulations. But please don't tell me about it. This is all simply the nature of the career path that we have chosen. Real talk, I am so grateful to be a writer and to share my stories. I would not willingly choose to be doing anything else. 🌈You can explore the immersive portal as you step into the Kingdom of Evenhere, meet its residents, and discover why emotional intelligence and radical vulnerability aren’t weaknesses. They are the most dangerous weapons in the spectrum. 🌈 www.jeffbwhite.com [https://www.jeffbwhite.com] The True Story Behind the Fantasy The first chapter of my memoir is available now on my website and the following chapters are coming soon. So there's no turning back. Feel free to go begin the story now! I promise it is not your typical recovery story. Shards of Hope [https://jeffbwhite.com/shards-of-hope] A Tweaker Witch's Journey [https://jeffbwhite.com/shards-of-hope] Let's Discuss * If you're a writer or an author have you created your site yet? * If you have, how has it helped you in raising your platform? * If you happen to be an agent, editor, or publisher what is it exactly that you're looking for when you go exploring the websites created by your potential clients? Feel free to answer these questions in the comment section below or take them with you as you go or email me about it at colors@jeffbwhite.com Subscribe Today Find Your Colors is a reader supported publication and listener supported podcast. If you appreciate what you've read here today and you would like more or you're interested in following along as I drop my fantasy chapters, then please consider joining as a free or paid subscriber today. Free subscribers matter so much. They let me know that I am sharing a story that people want to read. By subscribing you'll get access to the chapters that are published here on Substack and any bonus content, like this essay, when it becomes available. Paid subscribers also matter. They let me know that they want to know more than just the story. By becoming a paid member, you can access all of the chapters as they are published along with all of the bonus content and access to the chapter breakdowns explaining the story behind the story. Prism Tier subscriptions are available for people who want to provide the level of support that ensures I cross the finish line and achieve the goals that I have regarding my work. I'm so proud and grateful for the subscribers who have chosen to join that level of support. They will receive: * The full Shards Collection audio library * Signed hardback copies of the full collection. * A place in the acknowledgment sections of all the books in my series. * And more… The support that I've received from my subscribers has allowed me to build my website and it's allowed me to acquire the cover art for my written books. All of my subscribers are allowing me to get closer and closer each day to finally publishing and printing my work. Any support that you're able to give is absolutely an honor and I cannot even express how much I appreciate each of you. Click below to receive 25% off for your first year as a thank you from me. Oops, My Colors Are On Everything Not only is Find Your Colors on Substack and jeffbwhite.com [https://www.jeffbwhite.com], but also the Find Your Colors Podcast is available on Spotify, YouTube Podcasts, and now on Apple Podcasts. You can listen to the chapters and bonus content there. So click the button below or follow the links in the description to subscribe and follow so you never miss an episode. Thanks As always if you read this all the way to the end or if you listened to this all the way through, then you are absolutely my hero and I just want to take a moment to say thank you for allowing me the time out of your day and the space in your brain to share my story with you. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe [https://findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Walking Away Free

You might have noticed my recent silence here on the platform. I had to step away from my apartment in the Bronx and travel south to navigate a severe medical crisis involving my family. Many of you subscribe to Find Your Colors to explore the mechanics of processing trauma. You show up here to learn how to build internal vibrancy and find healing from old wounds through spiritual effort. Over the past two weeks, I was forced to put those exact practices to the ultimate test in the face of the man who manufactured my oldest wounds. The essay below is an unfiltered reflection on that journey… One Final Goodbye As I sit in my apartment in the Bronx writing this, I’m astonished that I’m actually home. It’s as if the events of the past two weeks never happened. My mind is dizzy from the whirlwind of emotions and shock. Yet here I am, stepping back into my regular life after spending two weeks in hell. Back in November, we learned that my father had glioblastoma, a very severe brain tumor. He endured the surgery and they removed it all, but the aftermath of that type of surgery, especially at his age, was detrimental. Glioblastoma is an end-of-life diagnosis. As he began to deteriorate, I received another call: his heart was failing. He needed open-heart surgery at 82 years old. The doctors informed me that he weighed 125 pounds. He was incoherent, non-responsive, and in a position where if he had gone under for surgery, he would not have come back. It was then that myself, my mother, and my sister joined together on the phone. My mother and sister were focused on getting him to heal, getting him back to normal so he could just be the way he was. It became my responsibility to inform them that that wasn’t possible. I had to be the one to break the news to my mother that Daddy wasn’t coming back. That he would never be the same. I gave them the information, of what the tumor, the brain surgery, and the stage 4 congestive heart failure all mean together. That’s when we shifted from talks of surgery and palliative care to talks of hospice. The three of us made the decision together, and then we hung up. I created a group chat with my mom and my sister where I gave them some attempt at inspiration, just trying to lift them up and hold them together. My mom said she understood what I was saying. My sister said she just didn’t have any words. I told her not having words is fine and that we’d get through this together. She said she was going to go be with my mom. I didn’t hear back from her for a while. About an hour later, I got a call from my mother. My sister had locked herself out of the house and gotten extremely stressed out. She called my aunt and started walking to the hospital, which isn’t far from where they live. She fell. She had a seizure. The EMTs came and she had another seizure. They airlifted her to the hospital in Asheville. My sister was diagnosed with lung cancer three years ago, the same week I was diagnosed with leukemia. Her cancer had metastasized and moved to her brain. A distant metastasis of a recurring lung cancer. The prognosis for this is very small. I asked my mother if she wanted me to come. She said yes. I bought a plane ticket immediately and flew to North Carolina. For the first few days my sister wasn’t there. It was just me, my mom, my dad, and an older cousin. I had planned to only stay two weeks because I have an upcoming apartment move and my own chemotherapy treatments waiting for me back in New York. I packed my bags and went down to help my sister heal and get everyone ready as we dealt with the looming death of my father. Once I arrived, I realized that despite the fact that everyone was sick, and some of them were dying, no one had any end-of-life paperwork done. No power of attorney. No living will. No DNR. None of it. I had started trying to get this work done way back in November. It took me the full two weeks before I was able to get papers signed, and only for my father. I was never able to get papers for my sister or my mother. My sister’s case is severe. Her prognosis is not good in any capacity. When I tried to talk to her about the actual biology of her brain tumor, the fact that she’d had a quarter of her lungs removed after her lobectomy, and what that means for her body, she accused me of being negative. Literally discussing the definition of the diagnosis and what is happening. Not for the sake of being morbid, but for the sake of preparation. For ensuring that everyone is taken care of and that their wishes are respected. I find it astonishing that I share DNA with people who demand total blindness in the name of comfort. That being practical and responsible and making adult decisions is somehow being negative. As an adult, I have built my whole life around finding the light. I practice witchcraft. I study paganism. I write books about healing trauma through spiritual effort. I’m all about that woo-woo s**t. Manifestation, the power of positive thought, the law of attraction, all of it. These are valuable practices. But being realistic and being prepared is not negative. Yet here I was, being told by the very people who manufactured every toxic emotion of my childhood that I needed to focus on positivity. That everything would just work out if I just believed it. As if my own personal life structure was being weaponized against me. Yes, thoughts influence what happens. We can alter our situations through positivity and light. But we all die. We can’t stop that. We can be educated about it. We can be prepared for it. We can make sure that we’re not a burden on our family after we’re gone. We can make sure that our children are prepared instead of blindsided because we kept telling them everything was okay when it wasn’t. They brought a hospital bed into my parents’ home and set it up in the living room. My father sat on that bed, his actual deathbed, and flat-out declared he was just going to ignore the diagnosis. He wasn’t going to think about it, and then it wouldn’t be real. He said he just wasn’t going to pay attention to the negative stuff. He told me there was nothing seriously wrong with him. That’s when everything snapped into focus. I had spent decades wondering how a father could just turn his back on his own son and throw him out like garbage. Never looking back. Now I finally knew. Acknowledging that he abandoned me would require looking at something ugly, so he just erased it from his mind. You can destroy people for your entire life without any shame or effect on yourself personally, as long as you simply refuse to look at the wreckage. It is the most dangerous kind of toxic positivity. It wipes away personal responsibility and leaves a trail of victims bleeding out in the background. Being back in that house was a total mindfuck. It wasn’t the house I grew up in. It was a house my parents had lived in for fifteen years that I had never seen. My cousin who was there was surprised to learn I’d never even been. I hadn’t seen my father in twenty years. And although this wasn’t my childhood home, it held all of the same stifling energy. I am endlessly grateful that I put twenty years of distance between myself and that family. It took an ocean of therapy to survive them the first time. Walking through the door was like entering a time capsule of a life I spent decades dismantling. On the first day, after about ten minutes, my cousin saw me suffocating and took me to get food just so I could breathe. We sat in the Sonic parking lot and I laughed as I stared off into the distance. I told her, “The fact that they even asked me to come down here makes me want to scream about the laws of audacity.” She simply smiled at me, because she knew it was true. Then I said, “But how could I not have come? They needed me. Of course I would be here.” I asked her if it made me pathetic. As if I’d waited decades for them to throw me a bone. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. I spent thirty-four years in therapy unknotting the mess I survived as a kid. During that time, I used to wonder what it would be like to actually stand in front of my father again and say something. I never believed the universe would put me in that position. I went down there ready to play the part of a normal family. But then I was angry, because I showed up and it was the same people. Then I found myself wondering. Is every family like this? I think of that film August: Osage County, the whole family gathering as the father is dying. They fought. They fought hard. Is that just what families do? When I was a kid, I used to watch Roseanne. Blue-collar family struggling to pay bills, working dead-end jobs just trying to make ends meet. They fought like a real family. They reminded me of mine, except at the end of thirty minutes, you knew they still loved each other. That was the fantasy. Because my family was just like theirs. Loud, obnoxious, large, and poor. But there wasn’t love. Not discernibly. Not from their end. If I’m being honest, that’s always made me angry. I’m still bitter about it. I put aside my bitterness. I put aside my resentment and showed up ready to help. They wanted the idea of my help, but they hated the physical reality of me standing in their house. My presence cost me a lot. I paused my own chemotherapy in New York to travel South. I put my survival on hold to manage the decline of a man who despised me. A man I felt the exact same about. They couldn’t even acknowledge the sacrifice. It’s not that I needed anyone to say thank you, or that I wanted praise for doing the right thing. But after changing my father’s diaper. Honestly, a thank you wouldn’t have hurt as much as an “I don’t need you.” Everything revolved around his hospital bed. He was drowning in terminal delirium, his lungs filling with fluid, his brain falling in and out of coherent thought. But the muscle memory of his abuse still controlled that house. It was only the second day when he looked at me from his deathbed and demanded that I leave. He could barely remember the days of the week, but he could remember that kicking me out was the dynamic he and I shared. Every single day, even though he did not have the strength to stand, he demanded I get out of his house. And of course, like always, my mother and sister just nodded along. They bowed to a broken king who didn’t know his head from a hole in the ground. I stood in that room day after day defending my right to be there. I walked into a living room vibrating with Fox News blaring at volume level 247. My deaf mother sat right in the middle of that aggressive static, hearing absolutely none of it. The room was so loud you could not even hear yourself talk without yelling from your chest to be heard. And then, in all that swirling chaos, Greg Gutfeld already screaming at a bone-shattering volume, my deaf mother looked me in the eyes and told me that I was too loud. I knew exactly what she meant. It wasn’t my volume that was too loud. It was that my existence took up too much space and ruined the delicate little illusion she needed to survive. She tried to tell me she didn’t ask me to come. But that wasn’t true. I had stayed away from these people for twenty years. I’d never gone anywhere near that house, never even seen it, because I wasn’t invited. I never would have shown up had I not been told to come. The moment I lost my compassionate concern was when my mother, for the first time in my life, looked at me and said I was too much. This was the person who had always been my champion against that phrase. She always told me that everyone else wasn’t enough. But now she was saying the one thing that actually landed. It only landed because it came from her. I tried to tell myself she was just upset. She was dealing with so much. She’d been with my father since she was fifteen, and she’s seventy-six. That’s an entire lifetime. Her whole world was falling apart. Of course she was being mean. Of course she was taking it out on me. But then I told myself, and I told them, that my years of being the whipping boy in this family ended a long time ago. No matter what you’re going through, you don’t get to take it out on me. You don’t have the right and you don’t have the permission. It all hit a boiling point when my father looked at me from those pillows and delivered the exact same threat he used twenty years ago. He told me I needed to find a place to go. That he’d put me out on the streets and have me thrown in jail. Such a tired, worn-out statement. This from the man who got fined by the fire department for calling 911 too many times without an emergency, in his wild attempts to have me arrested for talking back or saying the word no. Two decades ago, those words were a death sentence for a terrified boy. I’ve lost count of the number of times my father put me in jail, calling in favors with his judge friends so they could lock me up through family vacation. Threats of jail used to carry weight. They used to bring fear. The man I am today just laughed. That laugh broke the spell. I stood over him and told him I would love to see him try. I told him to go find his phone, figure out how to turn it on, and see if he could remember what he was doing long enough to dial the police. I reminded him he didn’t even know how to use the remote control anymore. I told him I came there so I could help my family and witness as each member of my family dies right in front of me. To that he said, “Poor you. How do you think we feel?” I looked the man square in the eyes and said, “I think you’re upset, and you’re hurt, and you’re disappointed. Because it is upsetting, and it hurts, and it is disappointing. But just because you are those things doesn’t mean you have to be hateful. So stop being ungrateful that people actually care enough to help.” I told him I was leaving. But not because he commanded it. I was leaving because I built a life that had absolutely nothing to do with him. That I would leave when it was time to leave, and until then, I was staying, and I was helping my family get through this. That there was nothing he could do about it, because he had no power. Those words hung in the air right alongside the smell of chicken-fried steak and gravy. I stripped him of his illusion and handed him the cold reality. I had total agency. He was just drowning in his own failing biology. Before I walked out, I had my final words with my father. I told him I have no idea what comes next. But I said if he gets a chance at a next life, he needs to try to be good. I told him he failed at being a good father and he failed at being a good man. And if he’s given the opportunity to choose, he needs to choose a life where he can be a good person, so that his soul can have that experience. Then I packed up my survival and flew back to the Bronx. I left them to their stagnant obedience and the sounds of war and hatred on volume level 247. See, people think we are required to give our forgiveness. We are told that if we don’t forgive, we can’t heal. That’s a lie. Not everyone deserves our forgiveness, and we are not required to give it. We get to decide where we go, who we see, and who we allow in our lives. We get to decide who we offer forgiveness to and why. If they don’t deserve it, they don’t deserve it. Because as I just learned, even on his deathbed, he’s not sorry. Forgiving someone for something they feel absolutely zero remorse for isn’t going to make anyone feel better. Being guilted into forgiving someone simply out of shame is far more dangerous and far more damaging than denying them the forgiveness they’re not seeking. Forgiveness of the shameless, guilt-free abuser is just one more moment when the thing you survived gets to hurt. One more moment when the person who victimized you gets to be absolved. Gaslighting survivors into forgiving those who harmed them is just putting more abuse on top of us. The societal demand for unconditional forgiveness functions as a mechanism of control. It shifts the moral burden from the abuser directly onto the survivor. Forcing a victim to absolve a remorseless perpetrator prioritizes the comfort of the collective over the actual healing of the individual. I have spent years exploring how to process trauma through spiritual and practical effort. I stared directly into the eyes of a dying man who was the source of most of my trauma, and he refused to take responsibility. In that moment, I dismantled the myth that healing requires his absolution. True liberation comes from reclaiming agency. Withholding forgiveness is not bitterness. It’s a boundary. He can go to his grave with his lack of remorse. It’s not he who has to live with himself anymore. Within a few months, he’ll be nothing but dust in a jar. I’m going to have to live with myself for the rest of my life, and that would be a lot harder knowing I handed one more piece of my peace to a man who didn’t deserve it. I didn’t get closure. I gave absolutely no forgiveness. But I finally walked away free. Join the Conversation If this essay spoke to you in some way please feel free to leave a comment below and let's have a conversation. Watch the Experience I documented my experience in North Carolina as I navigated the complexities of hospice with a formerly estranged family. It is a raw and honest account of my experience from my perspective. If you're interested, check out UncleJeffIsHere on tiktok Subscribe Today! Find Your Colors is a reader supported publication and a listener supported podcast. It's with your support that I'm able to continue writing and sharing my story and my strength. Please consider joining as a free or paid subscriber. Any level of support that you want to give is greatly appreciated. Click the button below to receive 25% off of your first year’s subscription. The Find Your Colors Podcast is on Spotify as well as YouTube Podcasts, and now on Apple Podcasts where you can follow and be alerted every time there is a new episode. Thanks to my supporters and my subscribers, I am proud to offer my new author site where you can learn more about my books and sign up for the mailing list to receive updates on my publishing journey and more. As always if you read this all the way to the end or if you listened to it all the way through then you're absolutely my hero. So I just want to thank you for allowing me the time out of your day and the space in your brain to share my story with the world. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe [https://findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Blush Born Chapter 16 Seeing Colors

Welcome to Find Your Colors the publication and podcast where we are discussing the Shards of Color Trilogy and more specifically the first book in that trilogy titled BLUSH BORN. I am Jeff B. White and I am the writer and creator of this story. Find Your Colors allows me to share these stories with the world while also discussing the psychological concepts that are present within the narrative and breaking down exactly how I translated my own life experience into this dark fairy tale. I would like to first take a moment to say thank you to all of the new subscribers who have come in in the past few weeks. While I normally make two posts a week where I share chapters, and often include random bonus content whenever it becomes available, I have been on a brief time out from writing, from Substack, and everything in general. But I've gained four subscribers during this time and that is highly meaningful to me. Currently, my father is on hospice and I have gone back home to North Carolina to be with my family and help them during this time. I’m very grateful for the opportunity to come home and face this experience with my family. I’m also grateful for the support that I’ve gotten from a few people here on Substack, and to my friends who have been there during this time. Finally, I’m extremely grateful for legalized marijuana on the state level because I forget that that exists and I would not have survived this situation without it. Hospice care is a monster of a life event to live through. If you’re interested in following along on my hospice journey with dad, please allow me to invite you to check me out on tiktok at @UncleJeffIsHere where I am documenting my experience from my perspective. It’s something that’s not often talked about and it should be because it’s a major part of life that we all end up having to face. Today is the first time in over a week that I’m able to sit down in privacy and peace to bring this latest episode. So let’s get back to our regularly scheduled programming... Recap Previously on Find Your Colors we read through Chapter 15 which was an antagonist chapter which served as a villain showcase. We were able to see the Uncrowned King as he demoted Martier to janitor and ordered Collis, the Big Aught Medic, to be held in the Underprison where he would be fed pebbles for the rest of his days. While I absolutely adore my antagonist chapters and I do and I love writing them, this story is about Jethran. So let’s not waste any more time, as we begin... Chapter 16 Seeing Colors. Outside the Grotto of Trust the world was alive with the humming symphony of new color. The citrine leaves of the trees rustled with the quiet truth of the wind. A teal chested robin hunted a little lavender worm that wiggled on the lilac branches. A periwinkle fox ran with his azure vixen, playing in the light of the gray sun. Hummingbirds that seemed to shimmer like golden sprites fluttered back and forth between roses of amber and mauve. Inside, a deeper quiet had settled between Jethran and Fable. The raw vulnerability of the night before, of shared grief and confessed fear, had forged something new, something stronger than anything Jethran had ever known. Jethran awoke to the soft crackle of the cerulean embers, feeling, for the first time in his life, truly seen and truly safe. He looked at Fable, still asleep on his bed of moss, his colorful wings a reassuring presence. They were not alone. Not anymore. This newfound clarity brought with it a shared sense of purpose, a silent agreement that the world outside the Grotto, with its vibrant beauty, awaited them. Fable stirred, his eyes fluttering open to meet Jethran’s gaze. “Well,” he boomed, his voice still a little raspy from sleep, “we can’t stay cooped up in here forever, can we!” He gestured vaguely towards the Grotto entrance, a small smile playing on his lips. “Not with all that... potential outside.” “I wish all that... potential could tell us what the color means and why I have these powers,” Jethran answered. “It means you’re special, dummy,” Fable said, rolling his eyes. “But we knew that. The question is, what do we do now? We need to find you a proper place, Jethran. Somewhere safe. Somewhere you can figure out what to do with it.” He tapped a finger against Jethran’s cheek, where the colors now pulsed with a steady rhythm. “A place where the King’s shadows can’t reach. I always heard tales, old silvarii stories, about a hidden sanctuary. A place where the colors never faded, even in the Grayest of Ages. Some Silvarii have always said that it’s just a myth. But the thing is, silvarii stories are all based in truth.” He shook his head, a mixture of awe and determination in his eyes. “Well, after what I saw yesterday, I belieave that this is one of those stories that needs to be sought out,” Fable rose, stretching his long, awkward limbs. “Let’s go find your legacy, Jethran. The real one.” Their journey to the sanctuary was a two-day trek that began under a sky still holding the memory of Jethran’s thunderous rage, a bruised-gray canvas slowly softening to a gentler hue. The air, scrubbed clean by the recent storm, tasted of wet ground and growing things. As they ventured deeper, the landscape unfolded like a forgotten dream. The lilac trunks of the ancient trees now held canopies of impossibly vibrant citrine leaves, each one rustling with a dry whisper that was almost a song. Below, the grass, once a dull gray, shimmered with a citrine so profound it hurt Jethran’s eyes. It was a living carpet that stretched to the horizon. Never before heard melodies drifted from the branches above, causing Jethran to pause. “Are those... birds?” Jethran whispered. In the Gray, the only birds he’d ever known were the drab pigeons, their calls were guttural and mundane. These sounds were unfamiliar and intricate. They were full of surprising joy. Fable nodded, his own ears tilting to catch the new symphonies. “They are indeed,” he murmured, a rare solemnity in his voice. “They say the birds remember the old songs.” The wind carried the scent of blossoms, a heady perfume that mingled with the damp richness of the soil, invigorating Jethran’s senses in a way they never had been. As well, to Jethran’s surprise, Fable proved to be an entertaining travel companion. He delighted Jethran with exaggerated tales of his own clumsy escapades. “So there I was,” Fable began, gesturing grandly with one hand while the other clutched his satchel strap, “trying to show a few of the little Silvarii sprittens how to properly catch the silvery sunlight on a dewdrop. It’s a very delicate art, you understand. I had the perfect leaf, the angle was magnificent, the dewdrop was practically singing with light. I’m telling you, Jethran... oh, sugar, it was poetry.” He took a dramatic step, reenacting the moment. “And then I met Aggravus. That’s what I’ve named him. A particularly spiteful tree root who had made it his life’s mission to ambush me. Well, Aggravus introduced my foot to the concept of terminal velocity. One second, I’m a portrait of Silvarii grace; the next, I am a pinwheeling disaster of limbs and wings. I tumbled head-over-wings right into a patch of the most ridiculously shiny flowers you’ve ever seen, with petals like polished pewter. I went in with a certain silvery dignity and came out looking like a walking, talking, utterly humiliated bouquet. There were pewter blossoms clinging to every part of my wings, stuck in my hair, two on one eyebrow... I think I even had one in my ear.” Jethran couldn’t help but chuckle, even managing an accidental snort. Although he tried to hide it, it was a rare and welcome sound that felt light in the moment. That’s it! Fable thought, his heart giving a joyous lurch. That sound. That’s his true color. Not the Blush, not the magic. That right there. A fiercely protective ache, for which Fable had no true name, spread through his chest. The world could have its gray, its kings, its wars. Fable knew, in that instant, that his only quest was to protect that fragile, precious sound. It was the only song that mattered. He puffed up his chest with pride, relishing the moment that he finally got to hear his new friend laugh for the first time. “With all these new emotions flying about,” Fable confessed. “I think I understand joy.” “What do you mean?” Jethran stopped, smiling at Fable. “The first time you see someone smile,” Fable answered. “That’s... that’s when you understand joy.” They both stood, smiling. Then Fable looked away. “That’s stupid,” he laughed. “Nevermind, nevermind” Jethran stepped forward, his brow furrowing. “No!” He commanded. “You truly felt that… what you just said. And if you feel it, it can’t be stupid, Fable.” “Besides, I’ve seen you smile,” Jethran continued. He reached up with his injured arm and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “I understand joy, Fabe.” He then took the lead down the trail and Fable stood there watching him walk away. After a few hours, as the light faded, casting long gray shadows over the forest floor, Fable called out, “We should make camp here. The sanctuary can wait until morning.” He found a sheltered hollow near a stream, its water flowing with a gentle sound. Soon, a small fire flickered to life between a circle of stones, casting cerulean flames. Fable produced a small fishing net, and with surprising agility, pulled out a few fish from the stream. Their scales sparkled with a pale almost translucence. As they cooked the fish over the embers, the subtle scent filled the air. When Jethran took a bite, the pale blue flesh was surprisingly firm, with a clean taste. It was different from the fish that he had prepared after he left the Menders. He felt a pleasant warmth spread through him, a subtle vibrancy that was both unfamiliar and deeply satisfying. “Not bad, eh?” Fable said, as he chewed thoughtfully. “A bit... bluer than I’m used to, but it is truly delicious.” “Now, Jethran. You’ve spoken of meeting old gods. The Seven Songs. Have you... how many have you met... have you met any of the others?” Fable asked, his voice softer than usual. Jethran nodded, and he began recounting his encounters, the stories flowing easily in the shared intimacy of the campfire. “Crezwil,” Jethran said. “They taught me that a wound isn’t something to be ashamed of... but a story of survival that we should love and grow from.” As he said that he held out his hand, and from his palm an indigo light glowed, showing a flower blossoming in the air between them. “And Muralis,” he continued, exhaling a faint, controlled wisp of cobalt mist. “She told me that the numbness can be a tool. A way to find a moment of quiet when the pain is overwhelming. That it’s a way to endure, not a surrender. It’s a tool, not a home.” “And Rabb,” he explained. “He showed me there’s a difference between a storm that cleanses and a storm that just destroys.” A spark of aureolin light pulsed from his hand into a self-contained cloud above them. “He helped me understand all that anger I told you about. At myself for my mother’s death, and even at her. He taught me that the hardest part isn’t just feeling the anger, it’s navigating it. Knowing which part is okay to feel, and which part needs to be transcended. It’s how I learned to swallow that storm.” “Yeah, but... did you... really swallow it?” Fable whispered. “Yeah, I did,” Jethran laughed. “I breathed it in and swallowed it down from the sky into my belly.” “Jethran, that’s... that...” Fable stammered. “I know!” Jethran replied with a tone that showed his own disbelief. “But then there was Elba,” Jethran went on, as the red center of his Blush began to glow with crimson light. “She told me about my ancestry, about the power of my lineage and that my power was my own.” As a crimson light showing the truth of Jethran’s lineage began to rise from his hand, Fable interrupted. “What is your lineage though?” He asked, “Who do you come from?” “I don’t know,” Jethran closed his hand and looked at Fable, the same questions burning within him. “I know my mother. That’s all.” “But she didn’t tell you?” Fable pressed. “Elba. She told you that your power comes from your lineage but she didn’t tell you where your lineage comes from?” “She said she forgot,” Jethran huffed. “She also said I forgot, but that I’m ‘the most beautiful song’ and that ‘no songs came before me’ whatever that even means.” “That... sounds like she told you that you were the First Song,” Fable chuckled. “That would be the wackiest thing to ever be true. Here I am just eating fish with the First Song. The source of all Silvarii magic.” “I don’t know,” Jethran sighed. “I don’t know what any of this means.” “A wound as a story... I’d never considered that,” Fable mused, tracing a pattern in the dirt with a stick. “The King says a wound is a defect, a sign of weakness that must be hidden away.” His brow furrowed in thought. “And numbness... the King calls that weakness. A failure of order. He preaches that we must set aside personal pain for the sake of the Gray. That focusing on it is selfish, and numbness is just giving in to it.” “But that’s just another way of being absent, Fable,” Jethran shook his head, his voice patient. “Muralis taught me that numbness can be a tool, a way to find a moment of peace when the pain is overwhelming. It’s not about avoiding the truth, it’s about surviving it. You can’t be paralyzed by the pain. It’s a way to endure, so you can come back... so you can actually be present in your own life.” “But the King preaches balance through order,” Fable frowned, kicking at the dirt. “He says sorrow is just... a distraction. That balance comes from... sameness. From not feeling those extremes at all.” “The Uncrowned says a lot of things,” Jethran felt a quiet sigh building in his chest. “He says a wound is a flaw, not a story. He says anger is destructive, not righteous. He says sameness is peace, when it’s really just silence.” Jethran realized he was hitting against a wall of ingrained belief. Fable’s face, usually so open, had taken on a subtle, defensive rigidity. It was like trying to argue with the stone itself. There was no breaking through the layers of propaganda. He simply wasn’t ready to hear it. Jethran sighed, an indistinct sound that went unheard in the soft crackle of the embers. “Look, Fable,” he said, deciding to shift tactics, “it’s getting late. We should get some rest if we want to reach the sanctuary tomorrow.” Fable nodded, a hint of relief in his expression at the change of subject. Jethran settled into his bed of moss, the lingering frustration and the unsettling conversation swirling in his mind. He eventually settled into a deep sleep, where he found himself dreaming. He stood among a large group of people all gathered around seeming to be waiting on something. He slowly realized they were all standing in line. He noticed the people standing nearby had begun humming. Finally the line meandered around the corner, and he noticed that they were all in line for mirrors. As far as the eye can see, a realm of mirrors. It was at this moment that the hum raised, and all of the people from all around began to sing in a unified chorus. Sung upon a once before... Carved from twilight in the sky, Mirrors wake the unlived day, Hidden visions start to fly, Watching chances slip away. Digging past the shattered dream, Shadows of another fate, Unborn futures start to gleam. Stepping to the fractured frame, Witnessing the paths ignored, Weeping for a different name, Mourning what was unexplored. Grieving versions left behind, Standing at the mirrored gate, Healing the divided mind. Some will linger in the gaze, Lost within the branching choice, Fading in the mirrored maze, Silencing the present voice. Wisdom lets the phantom fade, Turning from the unlived cost, Stepping from the heavy shade. Mourning mirror of Hun Gun, Shows you how to love the one. As he stepped up to the mirror, just before he was able to catch a glimpse of whatever the mirror offered, the vision was shattered by a nearby jaybird singing its morning song. Jethran awoke with a jolt, the vivid images of the mirror still shimmering at the edge of his vision. Fable was already up, meticulously rolling his moss bed, humming a tuneless song as if nothing uncomfortable had transpired the night before. His face was a mask of serene normalcy, a deliberate avoidance of the sharp words exchanged. Jethran felt a twinge of annoyance at Fable’s easy dismissal, but he let it go. There was no point in reopening a wound Fable clearly didn’t want to acknowledge. He simply rose, packed his meager belongings, and followed Fable out of the hollow. After a few hours of quiet hiking, they stepped into a clearing where they caught a glimpse of Seven High Reach. Its peaks now held the undeniable vibrance of the world. “Jethran, it's the same as your Blush,” Fable breathed. Jethran looked down at the ground. “I don't want to change the world,” Jethran whispered. “I just wanted to be seen.” “How could the world ever not see you?” Fable clarified. “Look at you. You are a sight to behold. Now more than ever. How could the world ever look away?” Jethran had heard this before, but now it landed differently. He stared at Fable as something within him healed. Before he could process fully, the landscape abruptly changed. They came upon a vast chasm that suddenly cleaved the ground before them. Its dark, rocky walls plunged into an abyss shrouded in swirling mist. Fable, who had been leading the way with determined steps, stopped dead at the edge, his colorful wings drooping. A low whine escaped him, not just of fear, but of a deep, visceral pain. He backed away, his large frame trembling. “Oh, sugar,” he whimpered, his voice barely a whisper, eyes wide with a crushing despair. “A chasm. A deep chasm. I... I can’t. My wings, Jethran. The Wing FADES. It’s... I can’t fly like I used to. Not over something like that. It’s too wide. It’s too far.” He hugged himself, his vibrant wings pulling in tightly, his usual boisterous confidence utterly shattered. Jethran saw the deep terror etched on Fable’s face, the raw vulnerability of being confronted with his greatest fear in front of another. It was more than just an inability; it was a profound, daily reminder of loss. Jethran felt a surge of quiet empathy, and a certainty born from his own journey of self-acceptance. His tone was gentle, but laced with an unshakeable resolve. “Don’t worry about the Wing FADES, Fable,” Jethran said, his voice calm, but with a power that surprised even himself. “I am not a Silvarii.” Fable blinked, momentarily forgetting his fear, his head cocked to the side. “Then what are you?” he asked, a flicker of curiosity pushing through the haze of despair. Then, for the first time in Fable’s presence, Jethran unfurled his wings. Not the wings he’d manifested in the King’s throne room, but magnificent, feathery wings of pure light. Each feather was a shifting tapestry of indigo, cobalt, crimson, and a vibrant aureolin. They beat slowly, powerfully, against the air, stirring a gentle breeze. He reached out a hand to Fable, a faint, confident smile gracing his lips. “I’m beautiful,” Jethran replied, his voice quiet with no arrogance, no boast. His eyes, fixed on Fable, held a playful glint, daring him to counter. Fable stared, jaw literally dropped, eyes wide with pure, unadulterated awe and shock. He looked from the resplendent wings to Jethran’s calm face, then back again. Jethran was right; he was beautiful. “I... I see,” Fable stammered, a dry chuckle escaping him. “Humility. Is it... is it one of the colors of your plethora?” His expression was a perfect blend of genuine amazement and his usual sarcastic wit. Jethran’s smile widened. “I am actually very humble,” he told Fable, in a mock-serious tone. “Which is surprising considering how amazing I am.” Fable burst out laughing, a joyous, uncontrolled sound that echoed across the chasm, a clear, unrestrained sound of pure delight. Jethran gently took Fable’s arm, pulling him close to his chest. Fable stopped laughing as they stood face to face. Fable could feel Jethran’s warmth. He took note of the fact that he never felt someone as warm as Jethran. “Hold on tight,” Jethran whispered. With a single, powerful beat of his new wings, a surge of power that felt both natural and immensely impressive, Jethran lifted them both into the air. They soared across the chasm, the wind whipping past them, a glorious testament to his newfound power and purpose. Fable clutched Jethran’s tunic, his laughter replaced by a whoop of exhilarating joy. “Oh sugar, Jethran! You truly are amazing!” he shouted over the wind, his face alight with a sillie wonder that banished all traces of fear. “You’re like... a flying sunset! A really fast, incredibly confident, flying sunset!” Jethran only grinned, enjoying the sensation of effortless flight, the sheer freedom of it. They landed safely on the other side, Fable still trembling slightly, but now from exhilaration. Then Fable noticed Jethran’s tunic had risen substantially, showing that he too was... exhilarated. “Well,” Fable said quietly as he gestured with his eyes towards the rise in Jethran's tunic. “What’s more surprising than your humility is the length of your tunic considering how large you are.” Jethran’s blush nearly became its own light source as it brightened so deeply at the realization. “Oh!” Jethran immediately covered himself with his satchel. “I didn’t mean to... that’s so embarrassing.” Fable smiled. He didn’t say anything, but he thought to himself that with the height that Jethran’s tunic had achieved, embarrassment was the last thing that boy should be feeling. They hiked for another few hours as the world bloomed into an impossible, audacious spectrum. The lilac trees grew taller, their citrine leaves brighter, and the air grew warmer, scented with sweet perfumes. Bright blue monarchs darted past crimson lavender and green daffodils, the very ground seeming alive. Patches of soft, citrine moss spread like carpets over the lilac ground, and robins with vivid teal chests darted between trees, guarding nests of peach eggs. Overhead, the gray sky, though still ever-present, was thinning, allowing glimpses of something vast and deep beyond. Every step brought them closer to something wilder, something more vibrant, a world that was shedding its muted past. Jethran realized Fable had been right, at least about the possibility of finding answers here. They came up over a small hill, and at the top, the entrance to the sanctuary spread before them. Fable gasped, his eyes wide. “There it is,” he whispered, a reverent awe in his voice. “It’s real.” Subscribe Today Find Your Colors is a reader supported publication and listener supported podcast. Free subscriptions are extremely valuable to me personally because they show me that people are interested in the story that I’m trying to share. It is the support that’s given by showing up and sometimes that is all I need. Paid subscriptions allow me to continue doing this and sharing my writing, making this publication, and making this podcast. They mean that you want to know a little bit more. That’s why for $8.50 a month or $50 a year you can subscribe to receive weekly breakdowns for each chapter that’s shared, plus added incentives. The Prism Tier offers even more, including signed copies of my books. Members at this level are helping me to get my cover art completed and paid for by real artists, to hire editors, and maybe even a little marketing. So please consider being a free or paid subscriber today. Any support that you give truly means the world to me. So much. The Breakdown This chapter stands as one of my personal favorites because Fable steps into a truly vital role. Fable isn’t his best friend and he’s not his sidekick. He’s just someone Jethran met along the way who decided to walk with him. He’s less of a ride or die at this point and more of a ride while you’re interesting. Fable initiates the conversation about the gods Jethran encountered, and while he believes in these beings, the lessons they offer go against everything he has ever learned. Those new trains of thought are incredibly difficult for someone raised in this world to accept. That friction causes their argument to end without any real resolution. This dynamic draws direct inspiration from the real life relationship that shaped these characters. Jullian and I disagree on many things, particularly deeply held convictions. Fable is clearly a victim of propaganda in this story, and I would argue that both Jullian and I are victims of propaganda in reality. We are probably both wrong. If he were standing in front of me today, I would confidently tell you Jullian is wrong. Obviously. Mourning Mirror Throughout BLUSH BORN we experience small chapters featuring travel breaks. Travel sections in fantasy can become monotonous and offer little to the overarching plot. I honestly hate them. So I focused heavily on using these moments to progress the personal connection between the characters while advancing the storyline. Jethran requires dreams and visions to move the narrative forward, and those moments demand scenes where he can actually rest for the night. Jethran experiences a dream where he stands in line with unknown people singing a song about mirrors. Later in the story we will uncover the true meaning of that vision. Flying Sunset Following their little dust up the night before, the story required a moment to prove to Fable that Jethran’s powers are useful and entirely safe. Flight is a vital part of existence for a creature like Fable, and losing that ability left a profound mark on him. Exposing his vulnerability became a necessary beat in the narrative. He wears a cheerful mask and carries intense bravado, so we needed to see how deeply his trauma affects him beneath that polished surface. Landing on the other side of the chasm and experiencing the tunic tent provided necessary levity for this chapter while highlighting their shifting dynamic. Fable decides he wants to protect Jethran’s laughter, and Jethran then has to use his satchel to hide his physical exhilaration. The attraction between them is becoming impossible to ignore. One fun fact I must share is that I wrote this entire chapter before I knew these two characters were in love. I will point out the exact moment I finally realized it later on, but I discovered their connection very late in the writing process. When I went back to reread the manuscript to look for areas to add foreshadowing, I found that all of these moments already existed organically in the text. I have said it before and I will always claim it. This story wrote itself. I laced bits of imagination into it and placed portions of reality within the narrative, yet there still remained parts of this story entirely outside of my control. The romance between Fable and Jethran was never part of my plan. Looking back through the text after reading it as many times as I have, they were always meant to fall in love. Changing that trajectory would have made the story read as disingenuous. I may be biased, but it is my true belief that denying these two characters their romance would have robbed the world of something beautiful. Let’s Discuss Jethran shares the wisdom of the Seven Songs, yet Fable struggles to accept it due to the Uncrowned King’s teachings. * Have you ever had to unlearn deeply ingrained beliefs like Fable is being challenged to do here? We get a glimpse into Jethran’s subconscious with the dream of the Mourning Mirror. * Have you ever faced moments when you mourned the lives you never lived? The chasm scene brings Fable’s deep trauma to the surface, it also gives the two a moment for banter and levity which foreshadow the deeper bond that is growing between the two. * Have you ever written something that advanced its own plot in ways that you never intended? What’s Next? On the next episode we will read Chapter 17 Whispered Color where our two travelers stumble into a village that is unlike anything either one of them has ever experienced, and meet a new character who will influence them and their family for decades to come. Thanks As always, if you read this all the way to the end or if you listened to it all the way through, then you are absolutely my hero. I want to thank you for giving me the time out of your day and the space in your brain to share my story and to introduce Jethran to the world. Hang in There I'm so grateful to be able to have brought this episode to you today. While I might not be able to keep up my same schedule as before of two posts per week I will soon return full-time to my Substack and my writing. So just hang in there with me and thanks for being here. This is a public episode. 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