The Mural of Chroma’s Heart

Colors paint a magical mural at Veil’s Spark, uniting two realms in Ouachita’s glen.

Writers Cramp Winner Tuesday 6.3.2025
The glen has secrets. It’s nestled deep in the Ouachita’s Caney Creek Wilderness, where quartz cliffs reflect the dawn light like shattered stars in the deep of night. Ferns brushed my boots as I trudged, their damp scent mixin’ with honeysuckle’s sweet sting, remindin’ me of wadin’ Caney Creek as a kid, chasin’ crawdads under mossy rocks. The Veil’s Spark stone, a boulder cloaked in green velvet, pulsed soft as a firefly, markin’ the door to the Sprite realm—where crystal trees sang and air danced like liquid moonlight. Across the valley, Kiamichi’s red-dirt hills blushed in the mornin’ light. On that cliff, colors, livin’ and breathin’ like kinfolk, gathered to paint a mural to bind this world and the Sprites. It had to be purty, vibrant as a summer sunset, showin’ the glen’s heart and that otherworldly glow.

Dawn: Red’s Fire
Red strutted forward, bold as a barn-burner, her flame-tipped brush spittin’ sparks like flint on steel. “Y’all, we’re fixin’ to paint this glen—Veil stone, crystal trees, the works!” she hollered, voice cracklin’ like dry pine. A logger’s spirit, fierce as an Arkansas July, she slashed crimson streaks across the quartz cliff, sketchin’ the stone’s fiery outline. Blue is a dreamy river-gal, slow flowing, and her water-wrought brush drips soft arcs for Caney Creek’s curves. Yellow, a giddy young’un, flung starburst glints from his sparkler-wand. He was aimin’ for the Sprite realm’s shine but makin’ a dang mess instead. Purple, a high-falutin’ Hot Springs dandy girl wove mystic swirls with her velvet quill, while mutterin’ ‘bout sophistication. Green, steady like a Ouachita oak, traced vine-like guides with her moss-woven wand, watchin’ all quiet-like. Black, proved a brooding Kiamichi shadow. He edged the cliff with his obsidian stylus, givin’ depth but scarin’ folks. White, gentle as a mornin’ mist, hesitated, with her light-burst brush quiverin’.
Red’s plan was bold: a mural of the glen, the Veil stone glowin’ at the center with crystal trees framin’ it, and Caney Creek tyin’ it all together. But her fire outran her sense. “Blue, quit dawdlin’!” she snapped as Blue’s soft strokes drowned her reds. Yellow’s splotches splattered Purple’s spirals, and Purple hissed, “You’re ruinin’ my art!” Black’s sharp lines cut too deep, and White just stood there, plumb froze. Green sighed, as her emerald eyes flickered like leaves movin’ in a breeze.

Mid-Mornin’: Squabble and Fade
By mid-mornin’, the sun had climbed high. It was blazin’ down like a skillet left on the fire. Red was ornery as a stung mule, she kept paintin’, but her strokes turned pale. They were washin’ out like a cheap shirt in the rain. “Dang this light!” she hissed, with her brush sputterin’. The cliff was a mess—Red’s faded streaks had smeared into Blue’s rivers, Yellow’s sparkles were specklin’ Purple’s patterns. Black’s edges loomed too heavy, makin’ White shrink back, her light barely a whisper. “We’re fixin’ to ruin it!” Yellow giggled, not helpin’ a lick. Purple tossed her head like the diva she is, mutterin’ ‘bout “uncouth chaos.” The glen’s magic felt far off, the Veil stone’s pulse drowned in their racket. Green stepped up, her voice low but firm, like the Caddo’s steady flow. “Y’all, quit fussin’. We ain’t paintin’ our egos—we’re paintin’ the glen.” Red, plumb wore out, slumped, her brush dim. Green took charge, her wand tracin’ a new pattern—vines linkin’ the stone, creek, and trees. “Follow this,” she said, “but keep your spark.” Red glared but nodded, too tuckered to argue.

Afternoon: Harmony’s Bloom
Come noon, Green’s calm had spread like shade on a hot day. She wove her vines across the cliff, guidin’ each color’s hand. Blue took a step back, takin’ a deep breath, then painted Caney Creek’s flow, her brush dancin’ real smooth, blendin’ with Red’s faded fire to make amber ripples that caught the glen’s light. Red, humbled now, added a soft scarlet to the Veil stone’s glow, her sparks now steady, not wild. Yellow, focusin’ for once, sprinkled starlight across the crystal trees, his bursts twinklin’ like the fireflies I chased when I was a kid. Purple, now settin’ her pride aside, spun violet shadows that gave the Sprite realm’s air a mystic depth. Black, now warmin’ up, carved sharp outlines that made the mural pop, his stylus was no longer cold but deep as a Kiamichi night. White, found her nerve and brushed radiant glints across every hue, her light makin’ the cliff sing like the Sprite realm’s chimes. The mural took shape: the Veil stone pulsed at the heart, its mossy glow framed by crystal trees that were shimmerin’ with Yellow’s stars and Purple’s mystique. Blue’s creek wound through, kissin’ Red’s fiery roots, while Black’s edges and White’s glow tied it all together. Green’s vines wove every piece into one, the glen’s spirit captured—vibrant, purty, alive. The cliff hummed, its colors shiftin’ like the Sprite realm’s air, and a single sprite, eyes like liquid light, slipped through the Veil to nod, its chime echoin’ soft.

Epilogue: The Glen’s Song
By dusk, the mural was done. It was glowin’ under the Ouachita sky. The glen felt whole, its air thick with magic. Now the Veil stone’s pulsed stronger, linkin’ this world to the Sprites. Red, no longer a hothead, grinned at Blue’s calm. Yellow quit his foolin’ around, becoming proud of his focus. Purple softened, tippin’ her hat to Black, who stood taller, less lonesome. White shone bright, no longer shy. Green, quiet as ever, just smiled, her vines still hummin’ on the cliff. “We painted the glen’s heart, y’all,” she said. The colors, once squabblin’ like kin at a reunion, stood as one, their mural a bridge ‘tween worlds, bright as a Kiamichi dawn.
—Noisy Wren, '25 977 Words
Winner of The Writers Cramp 6.3.2025