Not red

Inside the television screen, one pixel was red. Not auburn, not the color of blood, not fiery, it was not a deep shade that mimicked the color of a rose fresh with morning dew. It was just red. Bitter, unremarkable red. While his brothers marched dependently on, this one refused to change, and therefore refused to become part of something larger. Perhaps a friendly dog companion or an add for cigarettes or shampoo. Of course, the blond girl on the screen with the full breasts and tiny waist was still able to wear a white dress, because one pixel doesn't change much, does it?
And so, the channel was surfed, and while everything changed at a speed of 24 times per second, nothing changed at all because one pixel remained red. And when the television set was turned off, and the baseball glove, or motorized scooter, or 1955 nickel used to buy crappy cheesy soda pop was grabbed by whatever hand may have once held a remote, the screen was black. It was not black like a raven, it was not the night sky without stars or a pit of blindness. It was black, just black. And single, selfish, uncooperative, non-conforming pixel was still red, just red. All alone, all red, and wouldn't you believe it, when the man behind the the counter smiled, shined a glass on his white apron, and pooed his customer's regular, a root beer with two scoops of vanilla ice cream, this time with two straws, everything became different and nothing changed. Because as we all know, one broken red pixel does not stop.