A Blue World
by William Quincy Belle
part 1
Nick held his cell phone up and glanced at the screen, lining up his shot. He pressed the shutter button, switched to photo display to verify the image of the two men, then looked back up at the scene before him.
On the right, a white man held a sign showing White Lives Matter. He yelled while shaking his fist. To the left, a black man held a sign showing Black Lives Matter, repeating over and over, “We shall overcome!” Crowds on either side of the street raged, shook fists, and chanted slogans. One woman had been shouting so much that her face was red.
Nick cast a wary eye toward the police, standing at one end of the block. While most were uniformed officers carrying sticks, several were dressed in tactical gear and held tear gas cannons and rubber bullet weapons. So far, the protest and counter-protest had been peaceable, but there was a tension in the air, and the probability of violence was mounting.
Behind the white man, several people waved the Confederate flag. Earlier, Nick had seen someone with a Nazi flag and another with a KKK banner. The extremism of these white supremacy symbols made Nick think it wasn’t a question of if violence would occur, but when.
He forwarded the picture he’d just taken to his editor, and a moment later, his phone rang.
“Great pic, Nick,” Michael said. “I want to run that one. It captures the tension of the moment.”
“Tension? Heck, you ought to be here. The cops are lined up, prepared for the worst. One side or the other is going to throw a punch, and then we’re off to the races. It’ll be a melee.”
“You watch yourself. You’re no good to me if you’re in the hospital.”
“If you want a good photo, I have to stand on the front lines.”
“Watch yourself!”
“I’ll do my best. The plan is to mosey around both encampments this evening, interviewing people for personal interest stories. The official protest starts at twelve noon tomorrow with the BLM parade, the anniversary of King’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech. But if the counter-protest interferes, and the police step in...”
“Good luck, Nick. You’ve got your pic on the front page. Deliver me the words.” Michael hung up.
Nick wandered among the Black Lives Matter encampment and found a diverse cross-section of the population representing many nationalities and ethnicities. Along with that, he found a variety of economic classes, levels of education, and political leanings. While at first glance, this seemed to be a movement of blacks for blacks, he discovered a mix of different people connected by the mutual goal of equality and justice for all.
The black man in his earlier photo leaned against a tree, nursing a can of soda pop.
“I’m Nick Larsen with The National View. Got time for some questions?”
The man eyed him.
“Your chance to get your message out there.”
The man sipped his pop and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I guess. But you’ll forgive me if I’m hesitant, as I’m not sure how trustworthy reporting is these days. And I fully admit to being leery of whites until I get to know them.”
Nick stuck out his hand. “Nick Larsen.”
The man considered the hand, pursed his lips, then shook it. “Jacob Williams.”
“I’m doing a piece about tomorrow’s demonstration.”
“Demonstration or confrontation?”
“I suppose that’s a possibility.”
“Anything is possible, but here, I’m talking about a high probability.”
“The police seem worried.”
“Not because of us. The other side is itching for a fight.”
Nick took out a pad and pen. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Why do you think the other side wants a fight?”
Jacob looked off, then clicked his tongue. “We’ve been through it all: slavery, racism, segregation, and a lack of equality in society. All we’re asking for is our rights. We’re not asking to take away anybody else’s rights; we just want our rights.” He poked a finger in the air. “But some whites consider us as uppity. The idea of a black being their equal worries them, even scares them. That includes people who fly the Confederate flag. They lost, but they cling to the past. An equal black doesn’t fit into their view of the world.”
“Will things ever change?”
“Good question. Some on the Right say that racism is over in America. Those people are almost always white. I’m reminded of an old joke about a cop who stops a car. A white man hopes he doesn’t get a ticket. A black man hopes he doesn’t get killed.” Jacob sipped his pop. “Black, white, red, yellow, brown, we’re all the same. If you stick us, we bleed. But old ideas persist. We have a way to go.”
Nick scribbled, paused, and scribbled some more. “Thanks, Jacob. You’ve given me some good material.”
Jacob shrugged. “If you can get the message out, maybe somebody will see it. Now, will this change their mind? Who knows? I’m hopeful, but I’m not holding my breath.”
Nick shook hands and wandered to the other side of the street, where he found a sea of white: white Christian, white suburbia, white supremacist, and white extremist. If he stood in one place and gazed in all directions, he couldn’t see anybody else. Men, women, some children: it seemed a few came with their entire family. Did this explain the apple not falling far from the tree? Racism wasn’t innate; it was taught. Little Bobby mimicked dear old Dad, another good ol’ boy!
The white man from his photo cuddled a little girl, then handed her off to a woman as Nick approached.
“I’m Nick Larsen with The National View. I hope I’m not intruding, but got a moment to chat?”
“You’re a journalist?”
“That’s right.”
“Well now, just the man I wanted to see. I want the world to hear my story, and you may be the man to tell it.” He put out his hand. “David Sutton. S-u-t-t-o-n. Make sure you get it right.”
Nick jotted it down on his pad. “And what is your story, David? Why are you here?”
“Because I’ve had enough.”
“Enough of what?”
“Our country has changed. But for the better? It’s all about women. It’s all about gays. Or it’s all about blacks, Jews, Muslims, transgender, and God knows what else.” David paused. “But what about me? Where am I in all this? It seems like being a white man has become a bad thing.”
Nick pointed to a sign propped up against a folding chair. “White Lives Matter?”
“You bet. I think people have forgotten that white men founded this country; white men built it; and white men have led it. So why has white turned into a dirty word?”
“Do you think you’re being persecuted?”
“It seems like it. It’s like I have to apologize for being white or being a man. I’m a good guy. I work hard. And I provide for my family. It’s like everybody else wants to pin their problems on me. When did I become the villain?”
“What problems are you referring to?”
“Slavery, for instance. Are we going to beat this to death? That was then; this is now. At some point, we all have to accept and move on. What do you want me to do about it? It’s in the past. Drop it. Quit blaming everybody else for the ills of yesterday.”
“Anything else?”
“Racism is another thing people keep bringing up. What about it? We all don’t like somebody. If you stay on your side of the tracks, we’ll get along fine.”
Nick kept writing in his notepad.
“And this Me-Too movement.” David rolled his eyes. “Has everybody gotten touchy, like really touchy about everything? I’m a guy. I like chicks. Am I now supposed to be sorry for it? This political correctness B.S. has gone too far. Somebody somewhere takes offense and the next thing you know, you’re being canceled. Just because you disagree with somebody doesn’t mean you should be hounded to death.”
“And what about this protest?” Nick gestured to the other side of the park.
“It’s not All Lives Matter, which would include me. They are the ones who focus on themselves and exclude me. I don’t think that’s fair. I’m somebody. Don’t I deserve to be counted?”
“Don’t the other groups you mentioned want to be counted too?”
“Listen, we come back to my original point. Everybody’s paying attention to every other Tom, Dick, and Harry under the sun while ignoring the most important person in the room: me, the white guy! This is wokeism run amok. I try to be generous, but it seems like everybody else wants to take over and commandeer everything for themselves. They want to turn this into some socialist, Marxist dictatorship. It’s a bunch of B.S.”
Nick stared at his notepad.
“I may sound harsh, but this is war! But keep in mind, it wasn’t me who started this. I’m trying to defend my territory. Those freaks want everything!”
Nick scribbled away as David watched, a smug look on his face as if satisfied he was finally being heard.
“Thanks, David,” Nick said. “You’ve been most informative.”
“Sutton. S-U-T-T-O-N.”
“Got it. Have a good evening.”
* * *
Nick left David and wandered off to sit on a park bench. The sun was setting, and the day was winding down. People were settling into their respective encampments, enjoying the evening and dinner, ready for a quiet night. Nick leafed through his notes and contemplated tomorrow’s march. Would people ever come together or were they destined to always be at odds?
Voices sounded agitated. Nick looked up to notice several people pointing to the sky. He turned and saw a light. It was growing brighter, leaving a trail behind it. More people around him were gesturing and yelling. If there was a doubt before, the object appeared as if it was heading towards his area. He jumped up in an instinctive panic. Could he run out of its way?
Before he could even decide, the ball of intense light burst overhead in a brilliant flash, followed by a deafening explosion. Thunder rocked the area, breaking windows and setting off car alarms. Nick winced, holding both sides of his head and ducking down. All around him, people waved their arms, mouths open, but he heard little for the ringing in his ears.
He shook his head, sticking a finger in each ear. He alternately opened his mouth and clenched his teeth while swallowing. After a moment, he became more aware of the surrounding sounds.
He stood back up and surveyed the area. Faces showed shock, fear, and incomprehension. A dog had jammed himself under a picnic table, peeking out with a look of terror.
At first, there were a few cries. Then people pointed into the sky. Nick followed their gaze to see a haze drifting down from above. A blue dust began settling on everything.
Nick sneezed, rubbing his nose, trying to avoid inhaling the ticklish substance. Others were coughing and waving their hands in front of their faces. Everything around him, sidewalks, grass, and the roadway, was taking on a blue tinge. He scuffed his shoe on the cement and left a mark in the layer of powder. He checked at the back of his hand and brushed it off. Then his sleeve caught his attention, and he used both hands to dust off his shirt and pants.
What had that thing been? Meteor? Space debris? Was this blue dust dangerous?
All around the park, people contended with the substance, brushing it off clothes, chairs, and wiping picnic tables. One woman bent over, running her hands over her long hair to shake out the blue.
Nick wandered through the park, talking with people, getting their reaction to the event. Everyone was nervous; some were frightened. Several babbled away, eager to share their story with anybody within earshot.
A policeman explained several units were onsite, investigating the event and ensuring people were all right. He added that somebody in the department had contacted NASA to see if they were interested.
At one point, Nick scrolled through his feeds on his phone. Others were reporting the event, but no expert had weighed in on the cause. Postings reported temporary hearing loss and minor sinus problems, but it seemed no one had been hurt. So far, nobody reported damage from falling objects.
As he wound his way back to his car, he ran across an emergency vehicle stationed at the park entrance and spoke with a paramedic, dealing with those from the encampment. Cuts and bruises from people knocked to the ground. Minor breathing difficulties. Buzzing in the ears. Nothing dramatic to report.
Outside of the park on the street, Nick walked by a van marked University of Markham, Research. Two men were standing there, smoking.
“Nick Larsen with The National View. Out of curiosity, are you here investigating tonight’s phenomenon?”
“We are.”
“What you think?”
“Too early to say. We’ve collected samples of the blue dust, interviewed a few people, and talked with the police. We intend on working through the night to analyze the substance and report back to the authorities about any potential danger.”
The three of them chatted for a bit, but they could only speculate and wanted to get back to the lab to make a conclusive determination about what had happened.
It was now 1:30 a.m. Protesters had turned in. Onlookers had gone home. The police presence dropped to one squad car, with two cops occasionally walking through the park. There was nobody else to interview and nothing else to investigate on site.
Nick called it a night, and headed back to his motel on the edge of town. He showered and got rid of the last of the dust, watching a streak of blue disappear down the drain. As he brushed his teeth at the sink, he mulled over the day while it was still fresh in his mind.
Pulling out a laptop, he typed up the first of his story from his notes and emailed his editor. He watched a 24-hour news channel, but found out nothing new. He shut off the light and turned in.
* * *
Nick pressed the off button on the radio alarm clock. He lay on his back, blinking at the ceiling. After a moment, he crawled out of bed and slipped on a robe, then headed to the bathroom. He turned on a tap, splashed water on his face, and reached for a hand towel. He dried his face, then looked at himself in the mirror. His jaw dropped.
His face was blue. He jerked in shock. Bright blue. Not a subtle tone, but a bright hue one might see on a car or a children’s toy. The blue of a summer sky.
Nick leaned closer to the mirror and used his left hand to touch the skin, pressing and pulling. He stepped back and viewed himself, pulling the robe open and turning left and right, regarding his chest, stomach, and legs. He put his right foot on the edge of the sink and ran a hand down the length of his leg. In fact, his entire body was blue, even the parts that hadn’t been exposed to the dust.
He panicked. Grabbing his phone, he searched for medical help and found a clinic nearby. He scrambled into his clothes and dashed to the medical center. A silence fell over the waiting room as people gawked at him.
“I need to consult with a doctor right away,” Nick said.
The attendant behind the counter stared wide-eyed.
“It’s an emergency.”
The attendant fumbled a coffee cup and grabbed some tissues to mop up the spilled liquid. “Uh... Sir, there’s a waiting line.”
“Look at me!” Nick gestured to his face. “I was at the park yesterday when that meteor exploded overhead. Didn’t you hear about it in the news? It covered everything with a blue dust, including me, and now look at my skin! I’ve got to see somebody right now. Is this dangerous? It certainly isn’t normal.”
Copyright © 2025 by William Quincy Belle
