Subway platforms always make me claustrophobic. Don\u2019t know if it\u2019s the being underground, the heat, or the people. Maybe all three. <\/p>\n
Clint\u2019s glaring at me. \u201cMartin, stop it! You\u2019re gonna pop a button.\u201d <\/p>\n
I look down, confused. My fingers have a mind of their own, twitching up and down my lapel. Damn starch. Years it\u2019s been in my closet and this suit\u2019s still stiff. Clint\u2019s right, a lost button\u2019s just one more thing to worry about. I push my hands into my pockets. Look up at Clint. He nods, approval. Patronizing. <\/p>\n
\u201cSo Yolanda said you had to interview today, huh?\u201d He knows this of course, just trying to make me talk. Get out of my own head. Probably not a bad idea. <\/p>\n
I answer. \u201cJust to keep up my disability.\u201d <\/p>\n
Again Clint nods, like he understands. He doesn\u2019t. He\u2019s one of the few of us not getting Federal Aid. Stop – Clint\u2019s the only friend you\u2019ve got. Quit being a dick. After all, the rules and regs of G.O.D. welfare aren\u2019t his fault. <\/p>\n
I need to talk. \u201cI don\u2019t know why these case workers insist on making us run this gauntlet of humiliation.\u201d I let my eyes drift across the empty tracks, land on the graffitied-over station sign. I like the new name better \u2013 Blue Barrio. Better fit. \u201cIt\u2019s not like I\u2019m gonna get hired.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI did.\u201d Clint\u2019s voice is small. This is well-worn territory. <\/p>\n
\u201cSort of.\u201d I gesture toward his coveralls and I.D. badge. \u201cBut you\u2019re a teacher, not a… Recycling Technician.\u201d Glorified garbage man. <\/p>\n
\u201cAnd I\u2019ll teach again.\u201d As always Clint\u2019s nothing but confident.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou really believe they\u2019ll open schools for us.\u201d Not a question. Not any more. Clint\u2019s a true believer–his face hardens. He believes, I don\u2019t. <\/p>\n
\u201cOf course they will. Every day more kids are born with the Blues. They\u2019re gonna need some schools, and soon. Special schools, just for us. Like the housing.\u201d He nods across the tracks \u2013 toward the name of our state sanctioned ghetto. He\u2019s right, of course. Got to keep the infected out of the general population. Schools, hospitals–a whole separate world is slowly materializing.
\n
\nThe 9 train rattles to a stop and the doors swoosh open. A clean-cut young man, maybe about my age, in green scrubs pushes past. He smells strongly of hospital and disinfectant. The smell overwhelms me, and suddenly it\u2019s 6 years ago, in Dr. Polson\u2019s office. <\/p>\n
I was back in my clothes, sitting on the crinkly white paper–waiting. My mom was in a chair by the door and my dad couldn\u2019t stop pacing. Dr. Polson had given the diagnosis with about as much feeling as if he\u2019d been
\nreading a weather report. Glaucous Otteric Deficiency syndrome. <\/p>\n
\u201cWhat happens now?\u201d I asked his shoes. <\/p>\n
My mother sobbed. <\/p>\n
Polson cleared his throat. \u201cWell, the disease is still new. We\u2019re learning things every day. For now, what you need to know is we don\u2019t believe it\u2019s fatal. This isn\u2019t AIDS2, no matter what the Internet is saying. You\u2019ll probably suffer some hearing loss, which seems to be pretty universal. But other than that, well, the obvious is the pigment change.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cHow long?\u201d I was shocked numb, no feeling, just questions. <\/p>\n
\u201cDepends.\u201d The doctor focused on me, ignoring my mom\u2019s increased hysterics. \u201cBut given how pale your coloring is, my best guess is you\u2019ll see it pretty fast.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about law school? I just started.\u201d I needed answers.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo reason you can\u2019t finish, but in all honesty Martin, you should be prepared, you\u2019ll have a full blown case before you graduate.\u201d My mom sobbed, bolted from the room. After a long glare, my dad followed. That glare still burns, even all these years later.<\/p>\n
Clint moves forward, stepping onto the train first. I let him. My heart races and my stomach threatens revolt. I\u2019d like to say the first reactions are the worst, but that\u2019d be a lie. They\u2019re all just various degrees of horrible. Clint never gets quite the reactions I do. Not with his ebony skin. He\u2019d probably have been able to go right along in the outside world if the whites of his eyes hadn\u2019t finally given him away. They always do. The last to go. The final straw. But at least he\u2019d had a few more years. Not like me. All Nordic paleness. No more healthy melanin left in my cells. <\/p>\n
I take a deep breath. I have a right to get on this train. One foot in front of the next. The reaction is instant. Audible intakes of breath. Nervous movements. The old lady next to the door tries to make her shifting look natural \u2013 but I know. They can\u2019t take their eyes off of me. They barely notice Clint. He blends. Not me. If I meet their eyes, they look away. But they can\u2019t look away for long. Curiosity – morbid curiosity. Like driving by wreckage on the interstate. That\u2019s me–road kill blues. <\/p>\n
I pretend to look out the window. Let them stare. I watch them in the reflected glass. Try not to see myself. But I can\u2019t help it. I\u2019d stare too, if I were them. My once blond hair is now a dull gray. The disease has eaten up my ivory skin and replaced it with the pale blue seen throughout the Barrio. But it\u2019s my eyes that really freak people out. Once I had the most perfect crystal eyes, little oceans. Only now, the ocean fills my entire socket. Like some possessed sea monster. <\/p>\n
The man next to me shifts and re-shifts. Folds and unfolds his paper. But he won\u2019t move. That would be discriminatory \u2013 and he\u2019s not that sort of man. I bet if I started coughing he\u2019d run. <\/p>\n
I bet they\u2019d all run. <\/p>\n
How many times a month did I read new rumors about G.O.D. turning airborn? Clint smiles, finishes winding his watch. That\u2019s his thing, says it gives folks a chance to take him in, calm down. He nods at the uncomfortable man to my right. Just like Clint to appreciate even the most half-assed efforts. The train pulls into the next station. Uncomfortable Man is already on his feet. Wonder if this is actually his stop? <\/p>\n
He steps out the door and is immediately replaced by a 20-something woman with dirty blond dreadlocks. She scans the car, sees us – lights up. She pushes her way into our little demilitarized zone and drops into a seat, enveloping me in a cloud of patchouli. \u201cYou from the Blue Barrio?\u201d she asks way too loudly. She wants to be noticed. She keeps looking around, demanding attention. <\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s right.\u201d Clint answers. Calm, you\u2019d think he had conversations with uninfected women all the time. <\/p>\n
She nods, smiles encouragingly. \u201cI\u2019m a member of the Glaucous Defense league at my university.\u201d Am I supposed to be proud of her? Clint smiles. \u201cWe\u2019ve staged a bunch of protests to make people realize that you\u2019re people too!\u201d Once again, she looks around. Bile stings the back of my throat. \u201cYour human rights are being violated!\u201d She just keeps talking. \u201cWe\u2019re pushing for legislation. We\u2019re gonna get you protected status.\u201d Protected status. Like a spotted owl? A manatee? <\/p>\n
\u201cSo what\u2019s it like in the Barrio?\u201d She leans forward, curious. No pause for an answer \u2013 not that curious. \u201cI\u2019ve heard conditions are pretty bad. We\u2019re gonna change all that, you know.\u201d She shifts and her backpack knocks Uncomfortable Man\u2019s discarded newspaper to the ground. She grabs at it. \u201cOh!\u201d She disappears behind the gray pages. A pause. \u201cLook at this!\u201d she commands, pointing to a page. My eyes follow. <\/p>\n
Splashed across the front page is an oversized photo of a nondescript ranch-style house surrounded by emergency vehicles. 15 Dead in Blue Cult Mass Suicide. Again, bile. \u201cI know.\u201d The Good Samaritan commiserates, shaking her head. The dreds shake out another cloud of patchouli. My nose tickles. If I sneeze, will she leave? She scans the article. \u201cSo disgusting.\u201d Is she still talking to us? I try to ignore her. <\/p>\n
\u201cThese cults just keep popping up. I mean, come on. The Chosen People? Do you feel like the chosen ones?\u201d She glances between Clint and me. I stay still. Clint shakes his head. I want to kick him. \u201cIt\u2019s all because of the name you know.\u201d She turns back to the paper. \u201cBlue bug chasers \u2013 too sick.\u201d New term: Blue bug chasers. Haven\u2019t heard that one yet. \u201cTotally muddies the issue.\u201d I wish she\u2019d be quiet. \u201cAccidents happen, but come on! The first thing anyone in the Defense League does is swear to practice the safest sex possible and to get tested after every encounter. I mean the last thing any of us want is to be an example of irresponsibility and get infected.\u201d <\/p>\n
She looks up, conversationally. I raise my eyebrows \u2013 can\u2019t resist. Red begins to color her cheeks. I hold my face still \u2013 but I want to laugh. \u201cUh\u2026not to say you were acting irresponsibly\u2026I mean\u2026accidents happen\u2026right?\u201d Her blush grows. The train comes to a stop. She looks around, her eyes wild. \u201cOh, this is\u2026 I gotta go.\u201d She bolts. We rattle on. The next stop is fast approaching, my stomach tightens.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou gonna be okay?\u201d Clint\u2019s worried. I nod. I smile. I lie. <\/p>\n
\u201cUh, thanks. For coming this far. I know the work bus would\u2019ve been easier.\u201d He doesn\u2019t pretend \u2013 I\u2019m glad. Just nods and takes off toward his transfer. I slide across the empty seats, putting the mechanic\u2019s closet against my shoulder. I become tiny \u2013 inconspicuous. Commuters pile into the car, but not around me. I have my own little pocket of space. I catch a man stealing a glance. We lurch to another stop. One\u2026two\u2026three\u2026four\u2026not many more stops left. <\/p>\n
A young mother drags her son onto the car. Her head is bent over her huge purse and she\u2019s fiddling with a cell. She looks up, scans the crowd and pushes her boy toward my open seats. She gestures her son into a seat and then returns to her bag and phone. I push up against the metal of the wall; feel the cold through my blazer. <\/p>\n
The boy looks at me. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with you?\u201d I\u2019m not sure what to say, how to respond. I glance over at his mom. She\u2019s still busy \u2013 distracted. How will she react? Should I answer? \u201cWell?\u201d The boy presses. He\u2019s young, no more than 7 or 8, maybe younger. Mixed race, adopted? I can\u2019t tell. Definitely darker than his mother, by about 10 shades. <\/p>\n
\u201cI caught a virus,\u201d I whisper, try not to be overheard. <\/p>\n
\u201cA virus?\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cLike a cold, only instead of making me sneeze, it made me blue.\u201d Again I glance at his mother. Still busy. <\/p>\n
\u201cCool!\u201d The boy smiles and nods. <\/p>\n
\u201cYou think this is cool?\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cTotally. You look like an alien\u2026or\u2026oh!\u201d His face lights up and he begins to dig in the backpack at this feet. I look past his bent head, but his mom is busy pushing buttons on her phone. The boy pops back up. He holds up a comic book \u2013 well worn. He taps the cover. I look. A bright blue man is frozen in a mid-karate kick. <\/p>\n
\u201cWho\u2019s that?\u201d I whisper. I can feel more and more eyes turning to our conversation. My stomach tightens and my pulse quickens. <\/p>\n
\u201cOnly the best crime fighter ever!\u201d Apparently that was supposed to be obvious. \u201cHe\u2019s part of this group of mutants that work together to fight evil. They have all sorts of cool powers.\u201d He pauses, his eyes narrow. \u201cDo you have any powers?\u201d <\/p>\n
I want to laugh. But his face is so hopeful. I shake my head. His face droops. \u201cAt least, not that I know of.\u201d I feel myself smile. Foreign. I shouldn\u2019t be talking to this kid \u2013 his mom\u2019s gonna freak.<\/p>\n
The boy looks thoughtful, eyes me up and down. \u201cMaybe you\u2019ll get powers. Or maybe,\u201d his eyes sparkle. \u201cMaybe you\u2019re actually an alien.\u201d <\/p>\n
I shake my head. \u201cSorry, no.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe you don\u2019t know it. Like a sleeper agent. And then, when the ships land, you\u2019ll wake up or something.\u201d His smile is contagious. <\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe.\u201d I shrug. <\/p>\n
He keeps talking; his words rush out tripping over each other. \u201cOr what if you\u2019ve been secretly infected by another race of aliens who are trying to protect earth and when the invasion happens, you\u2019ll like turn into some sort of super man and–\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cJoshua, stop bother–\u201d His mother\u2019s mouth hangs opens, her words dead on her lips. She stares at me. <\/p>\n
My heart thumps…<\/p>\n
Babump…<\/p>\n
Babump… <\/p>\n
Her face contorts. Panic wars with decorum. She glances around the car. Those nearest go quiet. The train stops. In a flurry of movement she collects their belongings. \u201cCome on Joshua, this is our stop.\u201d <\/p>\n
He pulls at her arm. \u201cBut Mom–\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cJosh, quiet,\u201d she hisses – teeth clenched. I meet his eyes, nod \u2013 one small head bob. They are gone. I wish I was Joshua\u2019s superhero. Then I\u2019d have the power to\u2026 <\/p>\n
The next stop comes up fast. The ride gets worse. Two punks slip through the doors at the last second. And they\u2019re\u2026blue. Not blue like me, Clint. But really blue. Blue and proud. <\/p>\n
The girl\u2019s \u2013 amazing. I can\u2019t stop looking. I barely notice him. She\u2019s not remarkable in height or beauty, but she\u2019s so\u2026out. Her hair, it should be gray, but its not. She\u2019d dyed it neon blue. So bright it makes my eyes water. Her clothes- blue, black and purple. Purple lips and midnight eyelids. Even her nails are blue. No shame \u2013 she looks around the car meeting eyes and making them look away. <\/p>\n
Only now do I even look at him. What she lacks in height he makes up. Sweat beads on my neck. He\u2019s shaved his hair into a Mohawk, bleached white. Torn jeans, lug-soled boots. Metal clinks on his worn leather jacket. <\/p>\n
They see me. His face doesn\u2019t move, but she lights up. She walks like she wants people to watch \u2013 they do. She drops into the seat next to me, lithe. She leans toward me, too close. My breath catches. She smells like vanilla, and cinnamon. Her companion turns his back on me, scanning the commuters. Like a recon scout. I can\u2019t believe my eyes. The back of his jacket has been spray painted \u201cBeware the GODs\u201d <\/p>\n
Blue Girl reaches up and runs a finger through my hair, over my ear. A trail of goose bumps follow her touch. My stomach turns inside out. \u201cWhere you going?\u201d she whispers \u2013 still too close. <\/p>\n
\u201cYeah.\u201d Her companion turns back, leans over me. \u201cThat\u2019s a nice suit.\u201d He smiles. Still scary. Are they being friendly, or making fun? <\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d She runs her finger under my collar. \u201cIt is a nice suit, but it doesn\u2019t suit you, does it?\u201d A smile plays around her lips. Full, perfectly painted lips. <\/p>\n
She smiles. <\/p>\n
I sweat. <\/p>\n
I\u2019ve never looked at a blue girl like this before. I want to know more. Her name. Her life. Blue Guy clears his throat. A business-sized card has materialized in his hand. On autopilot, I reach up, take it. \u201cIn case you\u2019re curious.\u201d He winks. <\/p>\n
\u201cYou should call us,\u201d she whispers, her fingers once again play with my hair. \u201cYou have questions.\u201d <\/p>\n
Blue Guy leans closer, whispering. The car\u2019s completely still, no way he won\u2019t be heard. \u201cWe have answers. The world\u2019s changing.\u201d <\/p>\n
The train lurches to a stop. My bubble pops. \u201cExcuse me.\u201d I push away. Stand. \u201cThis is my stop.\u201d They both smirk. My heart\u2019s beating too hard. I\u2019m surprised it doesn\u2019t echo down the train. I walk to the doors. <\/p>\n
\u201cCall me!\u201d Blue Girl yells and the doors hiss shut. <\/p>\n
I see the sidelong glances. The double takes, the sudden shifts in movements \u2013 but I can ignore them. I can\u2019t get the blue punks out of my head. The card in my pocket is insistent \u2013 demanding. <\/p>\n
I reach my address. A shiny monument to man\u2019s conquest over nature. I enter the lobby. More looks. Walk toward the elevators. Blue girl walked like she owned the world. I don\u2019t. I need the 7th floor, no sense in walking. The elevator dings open. I enter. Not surprisingly I have a private ride. First floor\u2026second\u2026third. It stops. <\/p>\n
The doors open. An overweight man with a pink face does a double take. Glances up and down the hall. No one comes to save him. Steps deliberately onto the elevator. He doesn\u2019t look at me. Later, will he tell his friends of his close encounter and how he barely survived? <\/p>\n
Sweat is beading up on his forehead. I feel wicked. I\u2019d like to shout, \u201cBoo!\u201d He\u2019d have a heart attack. I feel a laugh erupting. I squeeze my lips tight. The door opens, floor 6. He gets off. I let go. He hears my laugh. I can tell. The doors close between us. <\/p>\n
Floor 7. Showtime. I open the firm\u2019s big glass doors and march purposefully toward the receptionist. She
\nlooks up. Drops her plastic smile. \u201cI have a 9 am with Ms. Peterson.\u201d <\/p>\n
Silence. <\/p>\n
The smile returns \u2013 forced. \u201cOf course, and your name?\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cMartin Dover.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cJust have a seat and I\u2019ll let her know you\u2019re here.\u201d Wonder how long I\u2019ll have to wait? How long should I wait? Yolanda should be more specific in her requirements. I pick a seat directly facing the large glass doors. Perhaps that will hurry this along. <\/p>\n
\u201cMartin Dover?\u201d Crisp, direct. I stand. The severe woman doesn\u2019t flinch. Did the receptionist warn her? <\/p>\n
\u201cMs. Peterson?\u201d I step forward. <\/p>\n
She spins on one sharp heel. \u201cLet\u2019s head over to my office, why don\u2019t we?\u201d She gestures me forward. I follow her down a hall into a room full of cubicles and chatter. I walk past the first row of cubicles and slowly the noise dies. Like ripples echoing from a stone in a pond. I focus my eyes on Ms. Peterson\u2019s slate gray jacket. <\/p>\n
Her glass-walled office sits on the far side of the cubicle bay. I have no doubt her mere presence behind that glass goes a long way to keep behavior in check. \u201cPlease shut the door behind you, Mr. Dover.\u201d I do as ordered. She sits with admirable posture. My chair is stiff, almost painful. Her tiny brown eyes inspect me, top to bottom. She flips open a file on her desk, but never takes her eyes off me. \u201cInteresting resume Mr. Dover. Impressive school credentials, but then absolutely no job experience. Nothing at all. Not just in Law, nothing. Should I assume you\u2019ve been spending your time doing\u2026\u201d She gestures toward all of me. <\/p>\n
No beating around the bush for Ms. Peterson. Honesty. I tell the truth. \u201cPretty much. That\u2019s why I\u2019m applying for the internship program. I wouldn\u2019t be qualified for anything else.\u201d <\/p>\n
She raises an eyebrow but skips no beats. \u201cTrue. Of course our internship program usually applies to more recent law school graduates.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cOnce again, my extenuating circumstances.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cYes, that.\u201d Her eyebrows crease. \u201cYou failed to mention your infection status on your application.\u201d <\/p>\n
Shock. No one\u2019s ever been this direct. My brain buzzes. Blank. Yolanda\u2019s voice from far off coaching sessions fills my mouth with words. \u201cI wasn\u2019t aware that I was required to disclose my health status.\u201d <\/p>\n
Her face is a mask of calm. But I\u2019ve touched a nerve. Her fingers twitch on the desk and her eyes flash. \u201cThat\u2019s in some debate, now isn\u2019t it?\u201d Her voice is ice. <\/p>\n
My chest tightens. I sit up straighter. \u201cYou do advertise as an equal opportunity employer.\u201d Are these my words? From my mouth? We sit across the table, our own little standoff. <\/p>\n
Beep! <\/p>\n
We both jump. Ms. Peterson hits a button on her phone. The receptionist\u2019s perky voice fills the room. \u201cMs. Peterson, Mr. Singh would like to have a word with you in his office.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cExcuse me.\u201d She stands. Back ramrod straight. Alone. In a fishbowl of an office. My back is to the door. She must have left it open; I can hear little snippets of conversation.<\/p>\n
\u201c–give him a job?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot possible…\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201c…environmental safety?\u201d<\/p>\n
Deep breath. Tune it out. Turn it into just so much chicken coop chatter. Singh. Might be the managing partner. Wonder if it\u2019s about me? <\/p>\n
The wall clock ticks. My hands are sweaty. I rub them along the side of my hip. Feel the business card stashed in my pocket. I pull it out. On one side; a number. On the other, \u201cGot a bad case of the blues?\u201d I swear I can still smell that sugary cinnamon. <\/p>\n
My heart begins to speed. <\/p>\n
Why am I here? <\/p>\n
What am I doing? <\/p>\n
I can hear my pulse in my ears. It\u2019s not like they\u2019re gonna give me a job anyway. I stand up. I\u2019m halfway through the cubicles before they notice me. Words die on their lips. They look sick, shocked. But I don\u2019t care. I\u2019m gone. <\/p>\n
Out the door. <\/p>\n
Into the elevator \u2013 empty. I smile. <\/p>\n
I press the card in my pocket. Think. My apartment. Quiet. I have a lot to decide. My phone. <\/p>\n
The lobby has become crowded. Too crowded. I\u2019ve spent enough time on the periphery of the barrio to recognize concern. The low drone of chatter is growing in volume and tenor. They cluster around the plate glass walls, too agitated at first to notice me pushing through. Some of them step aside, but most only glance in my direction, caught up in the chaos. I am not the biggest threat. <\/p>\n
Too curious to hold back, I shove my way to the doors. I cannot believe my eyes. Outside it\u2019s raining. Obese droplets coat the now deserted street. Covering cars, sidewalk, and street in a steady sheen of blue. Not the blue of water, the ocean. <\/p>\n
The blue of me. <\/p>\n
I push through the doors. The rain soaks my hair, runs down my face, drips off my nose. The city has gone still. The murmur of the rain is parted by a familiar voice. \u201cDo you like it?\u201d Blue Girl stands alone on the pavement, palms upturned to the blue droplets. I nod. <\/p>\n
\u201cCome.\u201d She holds out a hand. \u201cThe revolution\u2019s just beginning.\u201d <\/p>\n
I take her hand, lift my face to the rain, lick my lips. I taste sugar and cinnamon.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Subway platforms always make me claustrophobic. Don\u2019t know if it\u2019s the being underground, the heat, or the people. Maybe all three. Clint\u2019s glaring at me. \u201cMartin, stop it! You\u2019re gonna pop a button.\u201d I look down, confused. My fingers have a mind of their own, twitching up and down my lapel. Damn starch. Years it\u2019s …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4239,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,125,1185],"tags":[1186],"class_list":["post-9015","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-futuristic","category-tcl-13-autumn-2014","tag-the-colored-lens-13-autumn-2014","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9015","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4239"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=9015"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9015\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":139598,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9015\/revisions\/139598"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=9015"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=9015"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=9015"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}