A Split of Pure Color

A triangular crystal prism sat idle upon the sun-warmed oak sill, trapping raw glare instead of commanding it. Passive glass is an insult to good lighting. Planting my boots firmly against the grain, I hooked both gloved hands against the beveled facet and shoved with calculated weight. The heavy crystal yielded with a sharp scrape. Instantly, the blunt daylight fractured into a razor-sharp spectrum—a blazing ribbon of scarlet, emerald, and violet leaping across the dark wainscoting. I pivoted the prism another millimeter until the beam pinned a brass latch in pure, iridescent fire. Natural light, finally given proper direction.