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Writing Contest #15 - Entries The results are in!!!
Darn it.The colour lemon always reminds me of my Nanna. She worked, in the early part of the last century, in a Lancashire cotton mill and was a four loom weaver. That meant that she could keep four of the large, loud looms operating at once, a real plate-spinning operation, as she had to tie in broken threads and start new shuttles as the old ones became empty. All this was powered by a huge steam engine – all the mills had a tall and smoky chimney. The noise in there as the looms clacked was tremendous – and yes, she could lip-read!
As all women did in those days, she left work when she married and she brought up my aunty and my dad in the 1920s and 1930s when times were hard. My dad always complained that she used to darn holes in the heels of his light grey school socks with lemon wool, to his great embarrassment and the amusement of his school friends. He put it down to her well known frugal ways but we have since wondered if she couldn’t tell the difference. I now think she had blue-yellow colour blindness.
Baby BlueThe palest blue, trimmed with deep ocean at neck and cuffs. A small bear, stitched with loving and precise care by gran, to sit over the little one's heart. In stitches so small that they appear as a continuous handwritten flow, formed with an embroidery thread picked with so much delight months before in a crowded craft shop. Tiny poppers, tiny sleeves and tiny socks – now empty. Always empty.
Blue, blue, the walls are blue, the carpet and the cupboard. A slow silent mobile of little boats and smiling whales lazily turns in the draught. The sleepsuit sits in her lap, flat - a shadow and a memory only. She smooths it, passing her hands over again with tenderness.
A sudden joyous trill from the open window makes her lift her heavy head and look out. The cry of the mistle thrush cuts through the glorious azure blue of a perfect summer morning. Hope again, perhaps, but always remembering. Remembering what was lost.
Too many memoriesI stand on Berry Head. The sun rises. To the west the sea gleams like a shimmering pool of mercury, but to the east it glows, the gold of your hair. Sea pinks light the cliffs, the colour of the roses you carried when we wed.
You hated me standing on the edge, but from here I see porpoises at the foot of the cliffs. The sky deepens to the cornflower blue of your eyes. Each time I smiled and said, ‘I’m standing here on porpoise,’ those blue eyes flashed.
With just a single step I could be with you again.
Storm clouds blow in. A rainbow burns the sky. The colours blaze so intensely that they become sounds. An immense seven-string guitar overwhelms the world with colour and noise. Together we gazed in silent awe at such wonders. Science may mean mankind no longer needs gods for explanation, but there is still Magick. For now I see him. Hendrix fills the sky, playing that guitar as we saw him in 1970.
My every atom vibrates. I pray the last shattering chord will bring a Big Bang ending: just as the world began.
Then the decision will not be mine.
Remember with RainbowsOne of my favourite things to see is a rainbow. As well as heralding the return of the sunshine, the seven beautiful colours bring back many memories.
Red is a colour that speaks loud of Christmas, with red stockings and Santa, family time and fun.
Orange is the colour of sunsets and warm open fires, sharing memories of dark winter nights spent snuggled up together on the sofa.
Yellow is sunlight, shining down on young Brownies laughing and fields full of sunflowers as I walk near my home.
Green tells of sweeping fields and rolling hills, the countryside where my heart lies and hoping vegetables grow in the vegetable plot.
Blue is the colour of a freshly cleaned sky, the sparkling sea in the summer and the sofa that’s coming to my new home
Indigo sinks into the deepness of twilight, announcing the start of the end of the day.
Violet is my favourite, the colour of bedrooms and beautiful dresses that beg to be worn.
Rainbows remind me of a garden of flowers, raising their heads to the sun and the rain.
They also remind me of faeries with paintbrushes, painting those flowers for all to enjoy.
Black and WhiteI squeeze my eyes tightly shut at the sight of my beautiful daughter’s golden hair. It’s at times like this when I think it would be less painful to see the world in black and white. Kansas before the cyclone.
The colours still haunt me now. Clouds boiled in the sky like black ink swirling endlessly in a jar of water. Reds and oranges dazzled in the lashing rain. Then flecks of red on the windscreen. A red so deep it was almost black. Then pulsating blue. On-off, on-off, shimmering inside the car as if I was in an underwater cave. Then all colours faded. To white. Impossibly bright white light called to me. I had no choice though. I followed.
The scene is now black and white. I have my wish. There is a gathering of black; pale faces and pale hands poke out. All around is the crisp white of winter. A white hand outstretches, turns and sprinkles black soil into the ground, where I now lie.
A gnarled tree is all I see after the black has dispersed. That and my beautiful daughter’s golden hair peeping out from under a scarf of blackest black.
A Parrot in a flock of doves:“Do you remember that day on Kinder Scout?”
“We’ve been up Kinder many times.”
“Never on a day so colourful. Sky blue, emerald green, cotton-ball white.”
“Cotton-ball white?”
“Clouds stretched so thin you could hardly see them. Bracken almost black. Citrus lime grass. Flowers scattered like hundreds and thousands.”
“Kinder’s all rock!”
“Not at the bottom.”
“No, not at the bottom. I don’t know which day you mean.”
“She paddled in the river.”
“Who did?”
“Our daughter! Who else?”
“How long ago was this day?”
“…Forty years.”
“She got a cramp.”
“She did. Her feet white with cold. Rocks were so hot her footprints dried before the next was made: battleship grey to cuttle-bone in a flash.”
“You rubbed her feet to crimson with a rainbow striped towel. What of it?”
“This article claims memory is sparked by colour.”
“And you remembered that day? What about Fox House? When we made a snow-man? White, everything, as far as the horizon. Now that’s a memory sparked by colour.”
“White’s not a colour!”
“I don’t mean the white. She wore an orange kagool. Stood out like a parrot in a flock of doves.”
“Yes. Like a parrot in a flock of doves.”
Hue And CryI feel blue- the colour of despondency and yet it’s the hottest part of any flame- fiery red passions dancing and billowing with their pent up energy, wanton and spendthrift, unlike the tightly focussed cool blue core. Blue as also its polar opposite, the same shade as that of a frigid ice maiden, petrified heart walled up behind a permafrost. But I’m jaundiced on the subject, prompted by my liver spots and purple-browns of a lifetime of bruised hopes tingeing black, the absence of all colour. The black hole into which the light of all vivid emotion is sucked. Crushed by the weight of expectation, leaving just… absence. An inky void. Black the colour of death, do we really credit the white light of heaven, or even that of the tunnel, the lifeline that draws us away from the abyssal? White, a different absence of colour. Of all hues blended together until their integrity disappears into the achromatic. Where their separate wavelengths are absorbed and swallowed whole. Bleached, blanched, bloodless. An unreal purity, unsullied by any adulteration and yet it is simultaneously the melting pot of all hues. And you ask me how I feel? Drained. Ashen.
The ReunionI order a glass of rosé while I wait and regret my choice immediately. The swirling soft pink in my glass takes me back 22 years in a moment. I swallow down the lump in my throat. This is supposed to be a happy day.
I was so excited to be having a girl; as soon as the scan was finished we went to the DIY store to pick up pale pink paint. After three boys I was finally getting my little girl. I was so happy.
She was never a girly girl, was happier playing football with her brothers, rolling in the mud.
My little girl, gone forever.
She went abroad two years ago. The phone calls slowed, then stopped, replaced with the odd e-mail instead. That last e-mail stabs at my heart, the one that told me I’d never see her again. Why hadn’t she told us? I breathe unsteadily. This is supposed to be a happy day.
My son breezes in then, and we hug for a long time. I am putting off looking into his eyes, my daughter’s eyes.
My Jennifer, who is now my Jonathon. I have lost a daughter, but gained a son.
That should be all the entries. Please kind Mod create a poll for us :o)
Poll herehttps://www.goodreads.com/poll/show/8...
Please check that I've got the dates and everything correct. :)
So long as we can see the results next Thursday that's fine :o)
Some great entries there. So great to set a theme and see what people do with it :DCan't decide which to vote for yet.
Neither can I. It'll be the usual 'several reads and a go-for-it' I think.
This looks absolutely fantastic. Why didn't I know about it? I love all of these colourful stories and would like to have taken part. Please let me know next time when you have a similar theme?
Feel free to vote, Bernadette. I've just cast mine. The writer who gets the most votes picks the next theme.
We do a contest every month Bernadette but the theme varies a lot. The winner gets to pick what the next theme will be
great selection (as always) but one did stand out for me so voting (this time) wasn't as taxing :)well done all !
Bernadette, you vote on the poll. It's a little further up the thread.
I'm going to have to read these a few more times before I can decide.
Yeah I voted! Was actually quite an easy one for me this time :-)
I still can't choose.There's about three on the top of my list.
But they're all really good.
I find it much harder to choose just one than it is to write one. Mentally I try scoring each out of 10, but I always end up with several with the same score. Forced myself to pick one.
We have a tie for second at the moment. Tie for fourth as well.
Patti (Number 69) wrote: "We have a tie for second at the moment. Tie for fourth as well."is Simon tied up in last place?
I'm usually there to keep him company! Just going back for another read through, then I'll vote.
That's just been my bedtime reading - voted!
Terrific! Many of the stories touched my heart but one touched my soul. Voted!
Yay! Who wrote Purple? Come and get a pat on the back - and PM me your email address for a £5 Amazon voucher.
Also please PM your theme for the next competition. I need it by next Wednesday :o)
The one I chose came second. :)
Where is everyone? Nicola Palmer is the winner!!
Patti (Number 69) wrote: "The one I chose came second. :)"just anout everyone came in second. Apart from me and, I assume, Simon...
And me - I'm joint third :-) Darn it! It's a true story, that.
Wow! Thank you everyone! I can't believe it. Some of the entries were so beautifully written, I felt mine was very simple in comparison. Yay! And a voucher too!!!
Well done Nicola. I came joint second this time, along with many others. The one I voted for came 2nd too.
Mine was partially true "A parrot in a flock of doves".
Purple. The colour of that piece of ribbon I carried everywhere as a kid instead of a comfort blanket. An old, tatty, velvet ribbon that my mum was never allowed to wash. After years of running it through my grubby fingers it had a personality, a tale to tell. And a smell all of its own.
These days, when I see something in that particular Cadbury’s shade, I’m drawn to it. No, I don’t grab a cardigan in Marks and Spencer, scrunch it in to a ball and drool on it while I do my shopping. Neither do I have a sneaky sniff, like a connoisseur savouring a vintage whisky. I just smile to myself like a weirdo and try to relive the contented, fuzzy feeling that stinky, ribbon had the power to induce.
Imagine Proust’s madeleine experience, only more cuddly. Think of that pure happiness when you have a cake that you’re not going to share. Or when a guinea pig squeaks at you in the pet shop and you think it’s talking. Or when the fur between your dog’s paw pads smells warm and delicious, like nachos.
You know exactly what I mean. Or is it just me?