The topic for this task
was Colour and members were asked to write 200 - 500
words. See below for some of the
responses.
Colourless by
F N Karmatz
Soloist Piers Lane’s fingers came to rest on the keyboard.
The audience applauded and stood after the final notes of
Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5. He took several bows and the
bouquet from the attendant. The Queensland Orchestra had
created a thrilling performance and Piers Lane played
spectacularly, with colour and passion. But Tyler had found
the music toneless.
He had sat alone throughout the performance, the seat next
to him empty, except for his crutches, which lay against the
upturned grey-velour seat. His season-long friend, the person
he had shared his subscription with over the year, had
unexpectedly not shown up. They had befriended one another
from the start of the season. Now Michelle’s seat was empty.
And the year’s last performance, too.
They first talked in the performance breaks, about their
work and personal lives—she had no one special, either. He
would miss their after-concert coffees. He would miss their
discussions of music, art and books. It was only this night
that he had gained enough courage to ask if he could see her
again, outside the Concert Hall. He would ask for her phone
number, so that he could call her properly and talk about
where they could go together.
He waited until almost all had left the theatre, before
picking up his crutches and moving crablike down the aisle of
upturned seats, then splayed his crutches to lift himself
slowly up the wide, carpeted stairway to the exit. The South
Bank sounds carried by the breeze flowed around him as he
exited the complex. Just out of sight toward the river, at the
bar-restaurant, a rock group frenetically belted out its
version of the latest pop hits. The sounds jangled in his
ears, resounding in his mind as atonal harmonics. He turned
away, proceeding insensate down the colourless concrete path
toward the bus stop. He peered upward at an overcast sky,
which reflected his mood exactly.
(316 words)
Crayons by
Robyn Ashford-Martin
‘Morning tea stop.’
The walkers downed their backpacks and delved inside for
drinks, fruit and snacks. Conversations ceased as they settled
into the welcoming shade and munched and sipped. One of them
made for the swings and soon her hair was fluttering and
sluicing the air, her body pushed and arched higher.
Eventually she slowed the motion, skidding her foot in the
dirt. He wandered over and sat on the swing beside her.
‘My name’s Max, what’s yours?’
‘Rosie,’ her chin was down, feigning shyness, her eyes
gazed up at him through luscious dark lashes. The edges of her
mouth twitched in a playful grin.
‘I’ve got a huge box of crayons,’ he swayed and twisted
on the swing mirroring her coyness.
‘What colours do you have?’
‘Lots and lots.’
‘Guess what my favourite colour is.’
He looked at her knee high pants and shirt, ‘Blue.’
‘No, turquoise,’ she tugged at the material in her
pants, ‘this is turquoise, blue mixed with green.’
‘Guess my favourite colour,’ he was challenging her.
She squinted her eyes and pondered for a moment,
knowing the clue was not in what he was wearing.
‘Hmmm, maybe red,’
‘Maybe right. If you were a real rose, what colour
would you be?’
‘Not red or pink, I don’t like those colours much. I
think, apricot, a soft apricot rose.’
‘Yes that would be nice.’
The group started zipping up their bags and emptying
wrappers into the bin.
‘What other colours do you have in your crayon box?’
‘Rosie, get off those swings, we’re leaving now,’ a bossy
voice called out to her from the group.
‘Come on Max, your turn to carry the backpack,’ a voice
ordered in a tone that was not to be argued with.
Max leaned into Rosie, ‘They spoil all our fun, are you
staying for the sausage sizzle?’
‘Yes, they said there’s going to be cake.’
‘Good, see you then,’ he gave her a wink and took the
backpack from his fun spoiler.
Elsa clapped her hands.
‘It’s time to cut the cake and sing Happy Birthday.’
Rosie stuffed the rest of the sausage into her mouth
and made her way to the edge of the group. They’d finished
singing by the time she got there and she was coerced into
distributing the cake.
‘Go on Rosie, give the birthday boy his piece,’ Elsa
handed her a huge slab of chocolate cake smothered with mock
cream and icing.
With carefully cupped hands she held out the cake cradled
in the paper serviette.
‘Happy birthday. It’s turquoise icing,’
‘Thanks Rosie, come and see my crayon collection
sometime, I’ve got vermilion and chartreuse,’ he said in a
show off tone.
‘Maybe, one day,’ she flashed him a cheeky smile.
As she turned away, someone slapped him on the back,
‘So, Max, how does it feel to be seventy?’
© Robyn Ashford-Martin 2006
True Blue by
Liam O'Reilly
Bridie and Mabel were beginning to get on each other’s
nerves. They were life-long and really good friends but the
recent few days’ activities together were putting this
friendship to the test.
This was the third Spotlight they had visited today and
still Mabel could not make up her mind.
“For God’s sake. Mabel, how many more shades of blue do you
want to see?” Bridie said, with just a hint of frustration in
her voice.
This was their third day together on the search for the
right kind of blue. They had covered the north side, the south
side, the city centre, Logan city and even the Sunshine Coast
last week. They had looked at Dark Blue, Navy Blue, Aquamarine
Blue, Sky Blue, Cornflower Blue, Teal Blue, Sailor Blue to
name just a few. But still the search continued.
“I want this quilt to be just right. It’s Connie’s wedding
present. Blue is her favourite colour, and I want it to be
perfect” Mabel said.
“Don’t forget the old superstition, Mabel. – perfection is
an insult to God. Maybe you’d better lower your sights a bit.
You could start with a slightly imperfect blue”.
Bridie was a bit ‘tongue-in-cheek’ by this stage, and she
was dying for a cup of coffee.
“Besides, Mabel, if you don’t get started on this quilt
soon, you can give it to Connie for her first or second
anniversary. You only have three or four months left”.
Mabel ignored this. She valued Bridie’s opinion when
choosing material and colours. She was really good at colour
coordination. But right now it might be better to be alone for
a few hours.
Bridie was looking at a bolt of material. “Here’s one
called “Dark Blue Green”. You had a green in mind for the
border and the secondary colours. This one has a foot in both
camps. I like it”.
Mabel came across to Bridie. She carefully felt and
examined the material.
“Yeees”, (a long reflective yes) “ I like it too”.
There was a prolonged silence for a while as both were
struck by the possibility of an end to the search. Was it
really ending? A happy feeling, perhaps tinged with a touch of
sadness. The search had been exciting.
“Let’s go and have a cup of coffee, while we think about
this” Mabel said.
“Great idea”, said Bridie, and this time she really meant
it.
They came out of Spotlight and went across the road to a
small café. As they enjoyed their coffee and raisin toast they
talked about the colours they had looked at and the pending
quilt. They both knew of the workload in making a quilt for a
double or queen size bed, and the special significance of a
wedding quilt.
“Yes. I’ll get that Dark Blue Green and get started on
making the blocks next week. Thanks for your help, and your
patience, Bridie.”
“You’re welcome”
As they crossed back over to Spotlight, Bridie had a sudden
thought – she wondered if in about twelve or fifteen months
time they would be off on another quest. A christening quilt
could be on the agenda for the first grandchild, another blue,
perhaps, or maybe a pink??
(539 words.)
The Colour of Love
by Pat Dillon
The colour of love is red, deep blood red. It could never
be otherwise for Elizabeth. She bent her silvered head and
with gnarled fingers opened the pages of her old diary. There
lay the rose he had picked and given her that night before
going to France. Edward.
The spring of 1916: They wandered among the heady scent of
a dusk filled garden, the rising moon peeping shyly around the
trees. Each tried to ease for the other the inevitability of
parting with a lightness neither one of them felt.
He reached out and with his bare hands, plucked the rose
and a thorn snagged his finger. A bead of blood formed a
perfect ruby droplet, a magnificent jewel glistening in the
moons’ rays.
‘Oh, Edward!’ she exclaimed, reached for her lace
handkerchief, the incident like some pre-emptive omen. The
bead broke, spread and spilled onto the petals of the rose.
‘It’s nothing, my dearest,’ he assured her, glanced at the
window of her father’s study, then bent and stole a kiss. ‘I
love you, Elizabeth,’ he whispered. ‘The moment I return from
Flanders I shall make you my wife.’ He looked down at the
blood-stained handkerchief. ‘I shall keep this next to my
heart until we meet again.’
His solemn voice and manner tore at her. With glistening
eyes she listened to his measured breathing in the dusk,
silent save for the occasional call of night birds, inhaled
the sweet perfume of the rose.
Edward had come from seeing her father armed with his
consent to their marriage. Young and virile he had been,
urgent in his knee-bent proposal. Yet all the while the horror
and suffering of Flanders filled his mind.
Too soon the time came for his departure. He kissed her,
the salt of her tears upon his lips, then, without a backward
glance, ran down the path and out of the gate.
Edward did return from the war, but not her Edward. His
handsome features disfigured and distorted by gas, his mind
and will broken. A coat sleeve flapped idly over the stump of
a once strong arm that had encircled her waist.
She would have married him still, but he would not hear of
it, saying that he would be a burden. She took up nursing then
in hopes of being near him, of changing his mind, of
convincing him. But it was not to be.
She had been to Flanders once, years after the
conflagration, and brought back a poppy from among the swaying
corn. The delicate red petals had long since turned to dust,
staining the page of the diary, obliterating her anguished
thoughts.
She looked down at the rose, dried and fragile with years.
Within her memory it remained redolent with the perfume of
that spring garden. She liked to fancy that Edward’s blood had
nourished and preserved it in some way: the ruby life-giving
bead of his devotion, refusing to die. Elizabeth placed her
lips against the rose then closed up the ancient diary.
Word count: 502 © Pat Dillon 2006
Colour Wheel by
Wendy Squire
Red the first
colour: gush of blood with the newborn.
Red cheeks, howling
throat, red tongue.
Pear-body red raw,
thrust into the world.
White robes
snuggled in, soft and warm
To control and
comfort loose limbs.
Orange the
deceitful beauty of jaundice
Creeping through
skin.
Translucent golden
sheen.
Yellow the bright
sunlight to squint and see by.
Green the waving
corn soon to run through.
Blue the sky for
wondering.
Indigo: deep purple
seas
To float in and
remember our origin.
Violet the mists
the mountains the delicate aura,
Confirmation of the
divine.
Red the first
colour: congealed blood of the dying.
Red the shrivelled
bag of organs
Carved by knife and
sealed up
For the grave’s
receptive earth.
Ochrous beauty of
clay.
White robes wrapped
in, dry and cold
To control and
conceal loose limbs.
Yellow sunset
fading.
Green the lichen on
old headstone.
Blue the
forget-me-nots
Running wild by its
side.
Indigo: deep purple
sea-storms
To blow a cool
change in from the west.
Violet the mists
the mountains the delicate aura,
Re-entering the
stream of life.
Red the first
colour: gush of blood with the newborn.
