Hester's creative-y stuff

Rainbow Drabbles
One of these is a poem, the others are just prose. Each is exactly one hundred words.

Red

Red
Like love on a
Valentine’s Card and
In a bunch of roses
The colour of the
Heart’s true desire
More than just want and lust.

Red
Like lust
Like sex
A woman’s under clothes and
The man’s red face
rather worse from the drink.

Red
Like blood
Like the knife held menacingly
The high pitched
Scream is heard for miles around
The blood seeps out
Staining everything.

Red
Like fire
Burning bright
Hot and painful to touch
It burns away all evidence
Leaving nothing but an ash filled grave.

A warning: Stop, danger! Leave now.
You’re not welcome here.

Orange

The setting sun burning orange behind them is the perfect backdrop for the moment.

They sit on the picnic blanket spread on the now orange tinged grass, eating fancy food like tiny baby tomatoes, the orange variety.

They are drinking and laughing, lying in each other’s arms, gazing at each other with love.

As the sun sinks lower, the golden orange glow flows over the landscape. The grass is more than tinged orange: it is orange.

Their faces, turned towards each other, are flushed orange, the same as their clasped hands.

The sun drops below the horizon.

Orange to black.

Yellow

My little sister once had a ‘lellow’ party, because she couldn’t say the word yellow.

We wore yellow clothes and sat on a yellow table cloth and ate yellow food like bananas and crisps and tiny yellow tomatoes. All her friends came and we had sunflowers and sunshines and lions painted on our faces.

We played in the sandpit, because the sand looked yellow enough, and we played party games like musical bumps and musical statues and pass the parcel.

There was a lion cake with a smiling lion face and a brown mane.

We were innocent in those days.

Green

Green was her colour.

She always wore green t-shirts with her denim shorts and her floaty skirts. Her arms would be decorated with jangly metal bangles and her eyelids painted a shade of jade. She always wore a green bandana and a smile on her face.

She smelt like freshly mown grass and spring evenings and her hair smelled of mint.

When she was younger she had worn braces with a tiny green jewel on each tooth, and she had been the only girl I knew who enjoyed wearing them.

Some people mourn in black, but I mourn in green.


Blue

It’s not the nicest way to die.

But it isn’t the worst.

The blue of the water washing over your head, into your mouth, down your throat, filling your lungs.

You cough and splutter and choke at first.

Your struggle ends not long after it began, as the freezing cold seeps through your bones.

Blue ice, chilling your veins. Blue liquid, filling your lungs. Blue skin, as you slowly freeze.

All that is seen is a hand. One last desperate attempt at survival. But its fingers still, and it too sinks beneath the blue.

You drown in the icy blue.


Indigo

She couldn’t look at his face, could not bear to see his expression. So she stared at his jeans instead.

Proper, dark, indigo jeans. Real jeans.

Because of course he had to have the best.

And she wasn’t the best, was she? No wonder he didn’t want her anymore. Why would he? He had her. The other one.

The other one, with her perfect life and her perfect house and her beautiful indigo bedspreads, to match the jeans.

Those jeans were probably designer.

Who was she to cry? Blinking away the tears, all she could see were those indigo jeans.


Violet

In the almost colourless garden, there was just one plant that shone out like a beacon.

Amid the sea of dull greens, the bluish, purplish petals glowed with newness and freshness.

The violet, the only flower she permitted in her sparse garden.

The only flower that reminded her of him.

Its beautiful colour, standing out from all the rest, paid tribute to the man she had lost and the hurt she had felt. The pain that had crippled her, almost killed her.

An interesting tribute to the man she had lost.

It was the only flower he really, truly detested.

Poems

Pencilled Hearts

Pencilled hearts,
Piling up and
Crashing down, filling the corners of
A lined notebook
Only for their perfect
Inked in lines to be
Roughly struck out in
A temper unimaginable
Of a broken, lonely heart.

Yet began again,
On another page,
Filling another margin,
Returning hope
And love
To that exercise book.


My Signatures
Made on powerpoint.