Chalky white walls enclosed the colorless room. An ivory-toned square table sat strictly in the center of the pearlescent tile floor, surrounded by stiff chairs, painted in no other color than white. The pasty atmosphere of the room seemed like an impossible feat to achieve. But the lack of pigment had a valid intent, in the government’s eyes, and so it was maintained with utmost importance to the Governor himself.

A man sat, waiting. In the blank expanse, he looked awkward, for his attire set him so oddly apart from the rest of the décor. He picked nervously at his over-alls, splattered with blotches of color. He glanced at his watch for the hundredth time. As promptly as the big hand struck the three and the little hand fluttered atop the five, the faint clicking of heels reiterated from the near corridor. The sound seemed to advance closer and closer until they stopped directly outside of his door. He watched, and waited. Papers shuffled. The handle turned and the door swung open. A woman stood tightlipped in a gray pencil skirt, and a colorless blouse. Her hair smoothed back into a small, tight bun.
“The Governor will see you. Please follow me- and do not stray.” She turned abruptly and clicked down the hallway, out of view. The man jumped up and followed. Upon entering the hallway, he was suffocated by the extreme pallid nothingness of the setting. It struck a kind of fear in him that was imperceptible. “What kind of people can live in such an emotionless place,” he thought to himself. His business would surely not go over well with this Governor.

The women led him down another, wider hallway and stopped in front a large, pale door. She turned to face him and he was shocked to see the ashen countenance that was her face. The slight wrinkles that ran beneath her eyes and across her forehead gave the illusion of age, and portrayed a mood of melancholy and lack of any desire. It was surely the result of having gone without color for so long.

Knock, knock, knock. The woman’s rapping on the door was answered by a muffled, “Come in.” He reached out a shaky hand for the knob, and looking to the women for perhaps a look of approval, he saw that she was already clicking back down the hallway. He pushed open the heavy door and was met so suddenly with a blast of vibrant color, it nearly took his breath. The walls, a brilliant orangey- red, were accented with bright furniture and wall paintings. It was all so overwhelming coming from a building with absolutely no feeling. His head was spinning and his eyes whirling in his head just trying to capture the excellent array of colors. It was as though the rainbow ended here, not in some unobtainable pot of gold. In the room so rich with color, it was easy to miss the short, stout and smartly suited Governor sitting behind the huge burgundy desk.

“Come sit here, mister.” Boomed the voice. The man was so taken aback; he jumped a little in his shoes. “Your name, mister?” the governor questioned as the man took a seat in the massive chair seated across the desk.

“Ahem.. I am Oliver Tubin, sir. Certified painter in the valley over west.”

“PAINTER! Oh, ho ho ho ho!” chuckled the governor. Then his face hit a sudden serious note and his smile curved into a sneer. He leaned in close and whispered, “I despise painters.” He stood up and marched around the room saying,
“The new law I passed, Mr.Tubin, which I’m assuming you came to confront me about, is simply to conform the valleys to the same standards as my beautiful capitol.” With that, he whipped open the curtain, revealing a stunning view of the city below, an endless expanse of white buildings on white sidewalks, on white cement streets.

“But why all this?” asked Oliver indicating the walls and colorful décor with his hands.

“Because!” yelled the governor, rapping his knuckles on the shiny desk, “I am the man! I am most important, a SUPERIOR figure in this country.” He lowered his voice, “I deserve everything that I receive, being the governor. And the color scheme helps to keep my mind alert.”

“But Governor sir, you always do what’s best for the people. I am out of business. The people are sad; there is no life in white. There is no inspiration, ambition, and no excitement. Your country is growing depressed and weak.”

“You speak of such nonsense! White is pure like a rose. It is beautiful, do you not agree.”

“I do not—“

“Watch yourself Tubin!”

“Then WHY, I repeat, all this?” Oliver motioned towards the walls. The governor fell silent. His fat chest heaved. Thin lips pursed.

“You test me, Tubins.”

“I only mean to persuade you, sir, to bring back the life to this once beautiful country. Do you not remember your childhood? The colorful streets were once abuzz with noise. The children played in the alleys, men shouted from street markets. Look at your streets. Look at them.” The governor refused to move. He sat still, eyes still locked on Oliver with a look of utter resentment.

“You will not tell me how to run my country Tubin. Leave now, please. I have heard enough of your outrageous talk.”

Oliver, not wanting to upset the governor anymore, got up without a word and walked out of the office, brimming with color, into the tasteless white world. The women who had brought him, stood waiting outside. Her face looked softer and sympathetic, but she did not say a word. His shoulders slumped as he made his way through the maze of white halls behind her. Outside, he marveled at the blue of the sky.

He kept his head up to the sky as he walked on, across the city, over the cotton fields, and alas, to the valley he called home. He stopped when he reached the top of the road, and looked over the town. Men in cover-alls stood upon ladders, propped up against every school, store, house, and building. They stretched their rollers up and down, over the beautiful colors. They covered the valley in a sheet of milky hues, like the capitol building. And the west valley was white. And the men took down their ladders, stacked up their paint cans in wagons and rode off to the next valley.

Oliver stayed in his house, and the only indication of days come and gone was the black curtain of night that darkened his windows. He grew numb with from the quiet. Only the despairing hum of desolation filled the vacant streets now. Oliver spent days taking down his paint operation in the garage, packing up the rollers and brushes, rolling up the tarps and boxing the cans. He shut off the lights and locked the door behind him. And he stood eyes locked on the front step, freckled with color, studying it, as anguish coursed through his blood. The light blues; they had been Mrs. Annie’s nursery. The forest green; John Down-the-street’s tractor. He knelt and traced his finger along the red splotch; his sister Libby’s new kitchen, and the pale yellow was her parlor walls. The teal-blue had been an attempt at marbling…that turned out quite nice on Old Ms. Smither’s front stoop. Slow, warm tears rolled down his cheek. Oliver stood and trudged back home. That night, he rolled in bed, sleepless. He thought of what the future might hold for him. Color was his livelihood. He had no job, and his one ambition was taken away.

The next morning, Oliver was jolted awake by the blaring of his telephone and thunderous banging on his door. He groggily rubbed his eyes and squinted to make out the time. It was 9:35, and the sun was already shining a bright beam through his window. Another sight out the window caught his eye. People, people of all sizes, and mobs of them, filled the streets. They were throwing powder in the air. Pink powder, yellow powder, green powder, it was an amazing sight; fingers running their colors along the building walls. Kids waving chalk in the air, chalking each other’s faces, chalking the cement, anything within reach. Oliver was downstairs in a flash. Crowds enveloped his garage. Hands slapped his back as he walked out his front door in something of a daze.
“What is going on?” he cried to the throngs. But he couldn’t make out much in the excited roar. He heard bits and pieces of “King,” “blind,” “so sudden,” “poison!” Then, in the midst of all the commotion, Oliver spotted a familiar face. She looked so mellow unlike the band of celebrating valley-folk, but her eyes were searching the crowd. Her head spun around showing the familiar tight bun, and Oliver quickly followed so as not to lose sight of her. He pushed through the mob and grabbed her arm. She was not the least-bit surprised to see him, almost happy.
“Can you tell me,” he shouted over the exalting crowds, “what this is about?”
“Yes,” she hollered back, “The Kings gone blind! The people want the colors back!”
“The King?” he shouted, “But how?”
She simply winked and disappeared into the streets.
Oliver headed back to the garage, and with a booming voice, “Let the paint
be forever returned to the people!” he exclaimed. He was met with cheers, and the remainder of the day he spent handing out cans on cans of paint. The renovations of the town was truly a sight, neighbors helping out, holding brushes, passing cans up to ladders, and Oliver walked through town watching his world transform into a vivid wonderland with hues and shades and tints even the rainbow couldn’t capture in its width. Old Ms. Smither's steps radiated their lively color all down the block, John down-the-street’s tractor shimmered it eloquent emerald green in the sunlight, and Mrs. Annie's beautiful nursery was back to the soft, warming blues she liked. Everything was back to exactly how it should be and the valley was harmonious, forever more.