The Day the Crayons Came to Life

My eyes flutter open. I quickly survey the bed around me and realize that I am alone. My mom and dad are no longer beside me. The dim glow of the morning sun seeps through the curtains. Panic begins to rise in my chest. Frantically flailing, I kick the covers off and heave them in a tangled knot to the foot of the bed, and I hit the ground running into the living room.

There are my mom and dad. Mom is sitting, doing her makeup while Dad brews his morning coffee. They are right where they always are at this time of day. For some reason, I am certain this will be the morning they abandon me. Of course, I thought that yesterday as well… and the day before that. My panic begins to subside, and my breathing returns to normal. Oh well, here they sit, and that is good enough for me.

I crawl into my mother’s lap while trying to shake off my sleepy stupor. I am still tired. It is not easy waking up this early. Mom always asks how I slept and always expresses her love for me, while Dad asks about my dreams. He always follows up by telling me about his own dreams. They are always very imaginative and very relevant to my interests. Sometimes I am suspicious of whether Dad is telling the truth, but I listen because I appreciate a good story.

After the morning ritual, my eyes begin to wander. My curiosity begins to churn. I spend most of my days asking deep, unanswerable questions and following the spontaneous whims of my four-year-old spirit. It is time to see where that spirit leads this morning.

My eyes land on the new box of crayons I received from the Easter Bunny. I am unsure how the bunny knows of my hobbies, and my parents do not seem to know either. I shimmy off my mother’s lap and go to pry open the box. After some effort, the lid flips open to reveal the magic underneath: a sea of beautifully colored wax sticks wrapped in perfectly decorative paper with letters I cannot completely identify.

The tips of the crayons are pointed and pristine, and they are begging to be used. My mouth begins to salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs. I carefully select my two favorite colors: red and blue. My mother, being the observant caretaker she is, provides me with a blank piece of printer paper. I quickly begin working.

The intertwining scribbles of red and blue are winding and dancing across the page. The artistry coming from my crayons is captivating. I decide to go off script. I begin to add colors. Purple, orange, and yellow accent the abstract masterpiece. What was just minutes ago a blank piece of paper is now worthy of hanging in a museum. However, I know at times an artist can be biased toward their own work. I want to make sure that my artwork is as good as I believe it is, so I show it to Mom and Dad. My feelings are confirmed.

After a glance at each other and a large smile, they praise my artwork. They talk about my artistry as though I am Michelangelo. This piece has to be solid. I even consider putting it up for sale if it means my parents could retire and stay home with me. I could pay for college with it. The possibilities begin to open before my eyes.

And that’s when something strange happens. I hear something rattling. I begin to look around. Is it an earthquake? A tornado? A train? No, it cannot be. The rattling is not that big. It is subtle. I focus my attention back to the table before me and realize the rattling is coming from the box. I look closer, and the crayons are rattling. They are vibrating with some type of energy. Just when I was ready to run after my parents to relay the news, the crayons began to speak to me. I look to see if my parents are in the room, and they are not.

The Blue Crayon speaks out: “Psst… hey, I believe it’s time you begin to use a bigger canvas.”

Normally, I would yell, I would alert my parents, or call the authorities—but I just stare in fascination. I can’t tell why. There is something about the coolness present in the Blue crayon’s tone. He is comforting and reassuring.

“Uhh… What did you say?” I whisper.

“It’s time for a bigger canvas, boy. Your parents have confined you to paper, but you deserve more.”

If I am uncertain before, I am now without doubt that the crayon speaks to me.

The Red Crayon pipes up: “Don’t drag him into this. I am about tired of your nonsense!” He sounds angry. The chorus of crayons begins.

Purple says, “I don’t think it’s smart to have spoken to him like this. How do we know we can trust him?”

Green says, “I wish I had talked to him first.” I can’t believe my ears.

“Hey… Hey, don’t argue… I won’t tell anyone you can talk,” I say in the most reassuring tone I can muster.

The moment I set Blue and Red down, the others began to stir in the box. I feel a tension rising—like they’ve been waiting for this moment. I did not know what to do. I have never held a counseling session with crayons before.

Green wobbles upright and addresses the group. “Alright, I’ve had enough. Why is it that every time we draw a picture, I have to be grass or a tree? Why can’t I be the sun?”

Yellow gasps. “Excuse me? The sun is my thing. Everyone knows that. I’m bright! I’m cheerful! I practically scream ‘sun’!”

“Yeah, well, maybe I want to scream sun!” Green snaps.

Orange chimes in. “Honestly, I wouldn’t mind being the sun either. Or a tiger. Or an autumn leaf. You two always hog the good parts.”

Blue rolls to the edge of the table. “Oh, please. You’re all complaining? I’ve been stuck as water and sky for years. I haven’t been picked for a superhero cape or a monster truck in forever.”

Red tries to regain order. “You’re crayons. Be grateful you even get used!”

The room explodes with voices. Crayons topple out of the box, slide across the table, bounce off the floor, and scurry toward their personal missions. I am frozen in fear and awe.

Green launches himself toward the wall, scribbling a wavy, leafy sun right above the TV. “See that? That’s my sun!” he yells.

Yellow squeals and follows, drawing jagged sunshine rays across the couch cushions. “You’ve ruined everything!” she shrieks.

Purple swirls on the lamp. Orange spirals around a leg of the dining room table. Blue drags a long, watery trail from the kitchen to the living room. It is a masterpiece. It is madness.

I just stand there. Mouth open. Speechless.

It is beautiful. It is terrifying.

The walls, the floor, the furniture—every surface becomes a canvas, every crayon a rogue artist fueled by personal vendettas and creative frustration. They aren’t just drawing. They’re proving something.

And then, as quickly as it begins, it ends.

I hear footsteps.

Mom walks in first. She stops. Her eyes widen.

Dad follows, holding his coffee. He freezes mid-sip.

There is silence.

Then:

“What. Happened. In. Here?”

I spin around. I point at the crayons. “It wasn’t me! They started arguing about the sun, and grass, and they got mad and started—started coloring everywhere!”

My voice cracks.

My mom blinks. My dad looks at the crayon box. Neatly arranged. Perfectly still.

“You’re telling me... the crayons did this?” he asks.

“They were talking—I promise! They were fighting! Ask Green! Ask Yellow!”

I grab the box and shake it in hopes of eliciting a response. I threateningly whisper, “If you guys don’t speak up right now, I am going to get in trouble!”

Silence.

“No more stories,” Mom says, arms crossed. “No more excuses. You’re going to help us clean this up, and then you’re going to TIME OUT.”

I want to argue. I want to cry. I want to squeeze the truth out of each color.

But they don’t say a word.

I glance down at them—those little colorful traitors. Not a single twitch.

And then, just before I was led to the bathroom for a washcloth and a lecture, I heard the softest voice from inside the box. It was Blue. “Sorry, kid. Life is not fair. Some messes... you’ve got to clean up yourself.”