Rainbow Stalkers

We’ve all seen it even though we pretend to be okay with pretending it’s not there. I was once so close - simply one tree away on the adjacent hill, the rainbow ended behind it - but I was a child with my parents at the time, and they were having none of my running around. That’s the closest I ever got.

You’ll see that it ends a few city blocks away and wonder, ‘who is there right now?’

The truth is, the rainbow does end somewhere. But at the end isn’t a pot of gold, it’s the one being who’s always been closest to catching the actual edge. The Rainbow Stalker.

All Rainbow Stalkers are poets. Rainbows respond to respect. They are not just some twirling scarf of colors to be chased through the rogue wind. If you sing to them, they listen. Of course, they are also not some proud father demanding airs and graces to grant you any favors. The life of a Rainbow Stalker is a delicate dance.

You’ll find them at the base, if you hunt studiously enough. Chance encounters are rare. To be a successful Rainbow Stalker is a strange way of putting it. They love chasing rainbows, like tornado chasers, they will never catch one, or at least, no one has as far as we know. But secrets are revealed to those persistent and open.

Security guards know The Scar well. She stood by the bike racks one morning and all the spandex-clad commuters on their way to their tech-office jobs to sit on exercise balls all day were afraid to get their bikes. There was to be gates around the bike racks thus claiming them specifically for this apartment complex, but that had not happened yet.

She stood, in a black cloak like the witch in Snow White. The Scar had an almost sideways face. A dim, mars-colored circle ran around the edge like a circular lip. Like someone had cut off her face and put it back on askew. She sang to the sky, and every cyclist was on their phone to the grounds control. 

 “Ma’am, you need to leave the premises, these men need their bikes."

From inside her robe, she pulled out a scythe, the curve of it matching the hunch in her back.

The security guard reached to his side, but he had no gun, no taser. He was ornamental and nothing more. “Put the weapon down or I’ll call the cops.”

“Shoot her,” urged one of the cyclists.

The Scar turned to the side and lifted her scythe to the sky. With an audible thunk, it wedged into an invisible crevasse and she lifted herself three feet off the ground. She let out the screech of an eagle, pulled back the scythe and crashed it into an even higher ledge of sky. Translucent bits of blue dribbled down, causing headaches in all who witnessed it. She climbed into her hole and was gone.

This is a Wednesday morning in a young professional neighborhood and this event has never been spoken of since. Everyone was at work during the brief rain, after which the sun tumbled through the clouds like heavy paint in water, splashing on the ground and fueling the rainbows which were seen from every window. Some so close to the building that it prompted thoughts of leaving, just to see if it really terminated in the parking lot.

No one did though. Memories of The Scar may haunt us all without knowing it. We leave the rainbows alone, much of our early education working to convince us that there is nothing there.