Color Me Blue
Ragnhild Yndestad
Austin Macauley Publishers
Color Me Blue
About the Author
About the Book
Copyright Information ©
Acknowledgements
Synopsis
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About the Author
Ragnhild Yndestad (b. 1997) is a young Norwegian author and student based in Oxford. Color Me Blue is her fourth book and first novel in English.
About the Book
Color Me Blue is a dystopian novel debating the distinction and growing differences between the western and eastern parts of the world. It is a description, as well as a worst-case scenario of the current refugee crisis, and an examination of modern humanitarian values and beliefs.
The world is divided in two: The West and The East. A young woman from The West visits a library and discovers a real book. This is in a modern-day world rotating around screens and social media, where hardcover books have gone extinct. The book turns out to be illegal, and the consequences are immediate: as a punishment, she is sent to The Camps, known only as a terrifying place by the eastern border, where she is forced to uncover a disturbing truth.
1984 meets To Kill a Mockingbird in this dystopian novel.
Copyright Information ©
Ragnhild Yndestad (2019)
The right of Ragnhild Yndestad to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528930499 (Paperback)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
Of course, a huge thank you to my editors for helping me make this book possible, considering it is my first work in English. Also, a big thank you to friends and family who have given me the encouragement to publish the story and keep writing. And, at last, an enormous thank you to all the volunteers I have worked with in the refugee crisis, for giving me inspiration for this book, and for their tireless hard work on the shores of the Aegean Sea.
Synopsis
Color Me Blue is a dystopian novel debating the distinction and growing differences between the western and eastern parts of the world. It is a description as well as a worst-case scenario of the current refugee crisis, set in the future, and an examination of modern humanitarian values and beliefs. The novel is set to be an exciting reading experience, also facing an inward psychological view into the main character’s thoughts and feelings as the story proceeds.
A young woman in The West discovers an old book when visiting a museum, and decides to read it. This is in a modern day world rotating around screens and Social Media, with superficial values and relations, and where hardcover books have gone extinct. The book turns out to be illegal, and the consequences are immediate. The young woman is sent to The Camps by the eastern border, known only as a terrifying place with inhabitants from the East. She has to face a disturbing truth and is forced to reconsider all her established thoughts and values regarding the lower classes of society.
The story is set to put current, growing prejudices against refugees into a new perspective, through a thrilling and exciting story. It is inspired and influenced by books like 1984, To Kill a Mockingbird and The Handmaid’s Tale.
1
“Why are they smiling? This place is terrible.”
“Because there’s sunshine today.”
That was one of my first questions when I came to The Camps. It was so absurd. When I got back to my room after that day, I had to write it down, that question, and the answer to it. There were power in those words, I think. I have to look at it sometimes to remember, to keep myself from falling back into that bubble of unrealness that is my home.
It all started with a book. Like all stories, good and bad. I had just turned 20, and one day I woke up with this urge to see a book. A real book. The old kind, not the Kindle, but those with real paper pages, where you can touch the print, smell it, feel it, breathe it. I had, until then, never seen one, only in pictures.
I was lucky to grow up in one of the more cultural cities of The West. One of those that still have museums, art, statues in the streets, and old buildings. Most cities of The West have been modernized, the old houses replaced by post-modernistic ones, with glass walls and geometrical furniture, where the dominating colors are white, black, grey, and cold brown. I think I had an old soul somewhere inside, since I appreciated these things. I enjoyed walking down old streets, and go to museums, even though none of my friends did. So, that was what I did that day. That Day. For me, a day of capital letters. Though I did not know that at the time. It was just any other day, except that strange urge to see a real book. So I went to the museum, catching a bus from the suburbs into town. As usual, no one spoke to each other, not even the passengers sitting next to each other. The bus, made almost entirely of sheer glass, was silent, and the people were staring down into their phones, rating each other safely behind a touchscreen. It did not seem strange to me at the time. After all, I did it too. The ratings, the likes, the followers. The endless circus of sharing. But only the good stuff. The bad stuff we hid deep inside ourselves, and as long as we did not post it on Social Media, it did not exist.
The museum was an old, stone building that looked faintly like a castle. I had to walk up three steep steps to get to the front door, which was massive. Here, there were no security cameras eyeing you, the street outside was deserted, unlike every other crowded street in the world. In a few weeks, months, or maybe even years, going to museums might become cool, and everyone would gather up these steps to take their selfies and their group shots, and put them up for posting for everyone to see. But today was not that day, and I was the only visitor.
I walked in hesitantly, feeling stupid, wondering what on earth I was doing here. If I wanted to read a book, I had my Kindle, I thought. But now I was already inside, and an older woman with a name tag approached me.
“Are you lost, dear?” she asked. “I can tell you the way to the shopping streets, if you want.”
I shook my head.
“No, I came to see the library,” I explained.
It took her a few minutes to hide her surprised, if not shocked, expression.
“It’s just down that hallway and to the left.”
I thanked her and hurried down the direction she pointed.
The library was in a long, low room in the back of the building. It was not very big, and the shelves had more dust than books. Someone had not even bothered
to turn on the electricity, so the only light came from the windows, tiny rectangular ones high up on the wall, grey light from another overcast day. It made the room look even more ghost-like, as if I somehow had stepped back in time.
I walked down the rows and rows, looking at the books, letting my fingers slide over their backs and titles, trying to decide which one to take out. Eventually, my hand rested on a smaller one, with the title To Kill a Mockingbird. I had never heard of it before, but I liked how melodious the name sounded, so I took it out and looked at it, held it, sniffed it. It smelled like old paper and was surprisingly real between my hands, hard, touchable. From the back print, I read that the story took place in the southern states of the USA in the 1930s. A lost time and a lost place, long forgotten by most people. But it somehow intrigued me. It felt like a treasure, somehow. I wanted to read it, but I did not think they had it on Kindle, and besides, I wanted to read it like this, like it was intended to be read, not behind cold glass. Until that day, I had never stolen anything in my life. I had never had a reason to. Everything I ever wanted was just a quick download away.
I peeked behind the corner of the bookshelf I was standing by, to see if the old lady was there, but she was not. Then I quickly put the book under my sweater and jacket, feeling the binding against my skin. I folded my arms across my stomach to keep it from sliding out, and hurried back into the street.
2
Over the next few days I became absorbed in the story. It was one of those stories that takes a grip on you from the very first page, when the story seems more real to you than anything else, even your own life. I finished it in just three days, and then I actually re-read it. I had, until then, not re-read anything. Why would I? Most books on Kindle are the thrilling, exciting ones, with a mystery as the main plot, and tons of action. Most modern books were like Netflix shows, only in written form. They did not require much thinking, your eyes simply brushed the pages. When you had read it and now knew the plot, the book lost its grip. To Kill a Mockingbird was different. It was not exciting or thrilling, it was interesting, it was powerful, timeless. Each word fell heavy on my eyes.
So, I was reading this book, one morning, the sunshine fell from a very beautiful direction through the angled windows of the small apartment where I lived. It landed perfectly on the book in my hands, it almost seemed to make it glow. I decided to make a post of it, quickly snapping a photo and choosing the right filter. Hopefully, I thought, people will think it’s cool to read a real book, and they will rate it up. Maybe I would even get some more followers, if I was lucky with the response. Also, it could backfire. It could be simply too weird, too out of balance, too out of routine, and I could lose several followers, which is a serious defeat in these times. It was like a game of Russian roulette. But God, to think it would backfire so completely was out of my wildest imagination.
I posted it, and the response was mediocre. It was not very good nor very bad. Hours passed, and I forgot about it, as new posts filled the news feed. The next morning, I was just putting on my clothes, when there was a knock on my door. I was startled. To be honest, that simple knock made me scared. I had not invited anyone over, and nobody just came over anymore. You called, you chatted, you Facetimed. I was pretty sure many of my friends did not even know where I lived.
I froze, considering to just stand here, still, silent, until whoever it was left. But they did not leave. They kept knocking, insistent. Flesh against metal. The sound was uncommon, out of place.
Eventually I walked to the door, my heart beating hard in my chest, in a way it had never done before.
“Who is it?” I called.
“It’s the police.”
3
It turned out this particular book was flagged. Which means it is not allowed to be read, or even possessed. Why the museum even had an example in the first place, of a flagged item, was unthinkable, and serious. I guessed the museum would be closed now, and probably ransacked. Maybe it would never be allowed to open again. I would have felt bad for the museum, if it were not for the fact that I had stolen the item in question. I had read it. Two times. And once you have read something, you cannot simply forget about it. The words were forever there, carved in my memory, out of reach from The Government. And it made them furious.
I sat in the white interrogation room. The most likely response to the situation would be to cry, but to be honest, I was too shocked. I was not a law-breaker. I had never broken a rule in my life, as far as I could remember, except stealing (and reading) that book. And I never would have, if I knew it was flagged. It did not even occur to me to check. I delivered it to the policeman immediately when he asked for it. I was taken to the police station, and I explained everything, of how I had just wanted to read a real book, the theft, and how I had picked exactly that book simply because I liked the name. They did not believe me, and my apologies were not heard. When I think of The Government, I always visualize a hard, white wall, with no decorations. There is no mercy, no grey areas. Apologies and excuses have no fastening point on that wall, and simply fall to the ground. I know I should act like a hero or something and say that I even now felt happy to have read such a great book, but I was not. Suddenly I hated that book, wishing I had stayed home that day.
I promised repeatedly to forget about what I had read, and never speak of it, even though I knew it was in vain. And I was right.
In the end, they gave me ten days in The Camps.
Before all of this, before That Day, when I went to the museum, I was a quite ordinary girl. I did not stand out, except that I liked to read a lot more than most people do, and I did not care much for series and movies. They make me restless, while my Kindle can keep me still for hours. So, except this, I was ordinary. I did average in the evaluations at school, I got mediocre to good scores, I had a normal amount of friends and followers and likes. My parents were the same. I lived with them until I turned 16, and The Law commanded me to live for myself, in this small apartment. Any longer, I could have become even more attached to my parents, and attachment is dangerous, or so does The Law say. Love is not trending anymore, it is a part of the traditional values, and those are dead in The West, for the most of us at least. The modern values are the material ones. Values that can be measured in likes, looks and items. And efficiency. Everything is efficient in The West. The modern values are produced.
A long ago dead writer once said, at the end of the 1900s, that the big stories are dead. By that, he meant the big stories of love, and sacrifice, and passion. And he was right. Authors today write about different things, material things. People live differently. By Public Opinion, the traditional values are considered stupid, pathetic. Love and passion are the death of efficiency. How would the modern man get anything done, if he just ran around in love? Nothing. That is what The Government says. We get our dopamine today not from the touch of flesh, but glass, screens, and likes. Love is not needed.
I have heard it is different in The East, and that that is why their world is being torn to pieces by war. The countries of The East are fighting, or their government is not efficient enough to provide for the basic needs of their inhabitants. Our politicians say it is caused by the traditional values, that they can not get anything productive done with those. I do not know if it’s right. I have learned to keep my mind still, like a frozen lake. No ripples.
Well, until now. Except this is not ripples, it is a tsunami.
4
My parents cried out when I told them where I was going. I cried too. I do not know about anyone who has been in The Camps. I don’t know what to expect, but I try to comfort myself by saying it is only ten days. I try to think of it as running. I have always liked to run, but it can be painful. Therefore, it sometimes helps to have a timer on it. I will run one hour, I say. And after one hour, there will be no more pain. Ten more minutes, I say, and it is over. Over, over.
I pack a small, black suitcase of clothes. Outdoor clothing and woolen underwear. It is cold by
the border in the winter. And it is even colder in The Camps. No electricity. When the suitcase is packed, I snap a photo and make a post of it. I do not lie, but I do not add any caption, and the response from my followers and friends is to ask where I am going on holiday. I don’t answer. Let them believe I am going away holidaying.
Afterward, I call Jenny and ask if I can come over in the evening. Jenny is the only human being I feel safe to say I have a friendship with, that does not depend on Social Media. When we talk, we do it together, in a room, our bodies near each other.
I tell her about the book, and what happened afterward, and where I am going. She stares at me, her mouth hanging open. It would have been a humorous view if not for the circumstances.
“You are going to The Camps? For real?” she asks.
I nod. “Yes. I’m leaving tomorrow. For ten days.”
“Ten days? In The Camps?” Her eyes are wide with fright.
I nod again. Her reaction makes my own fear grow ten times the size.
“But, they can’t do that. You’re just a girl. You could be raped, you could be killed. The people in those camps are animals, criminals.”
I have tried my best not to think about those possibilities, but now the words have been spoken, and there is no way back from the fearful sceneries triggered in my mind.
“It doesn’t have to be so bad,” I try to say, my voice weak.
She is silent. Jenny is usually a talkative girl, and her silence scares me much more than her words. It means that there are no words for what is about to happen, and before my eyes I see into a wordless, black hole, stretching in front of me for the next ten days.
“Will you be living in The Camps, in the tents, with those people, those animals?”
Color Me Blue Page 1