sprinkled in glitter.
9:04 PM


Done with my commonwealth essay.. it’s a sad story with a happy ending.funny storyline as usual..i did COLOURS! Aha. I’ll post it now. But no one copy my story. Or storyline. OKAY?



Okay ah. Then I’ll post it.. I wrote

TWO THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY EIGHT WORDS
:D

Yea. Crazy right. Well, that’s how much it took to get me back into the descriptive mood. If you call my house and hear this really weird sounding person, its me! Aha. My poor voice..on the verge of losing it.



yup.anyways, here's my essay. feel free to provide constructive criticism..
everything's true k. the girl's name and all. i researched (: initial plan for story was for a totally colour-blind person to gain the ability to see colour, but sadly, there's no cure for that..yea.well here goes. HAPPY READING (:



Colours



The garden shimmered gently in a peaceful haze, bathing delicately at each dew-laden dawn, blossoming through high sunny noon tides, languishing in each crimson-tinted twilight that heralded the soft darkness of September nights…I closed the book, it was nothing short of an unreal fantasy. My attempt to fall asleep had once again been to no avail. Memories haunted me, as I tried to sleep and what had once been my dreams turned into the nightmares of reality.



My life was dull, nothing short of colourless. Left orphaned at the age of thirteen, adolescence made it hard for me to understand the fluxive changes which took place. The demise of my mother had left my father and me in the darkness. The part of life when there never seemed to be any rainbows, or visions of the crimson sun rising over a horizon, brushing pale streaks of pink and gold on the gray mist over calm sea waters. My father had turned to drug abuse to cope with the loss. Seeing traces of white powder on the kitchen table was just one of the few signs that had not been left unnoticed by me.



The day dawned humid and grey. Soon, dark cloud masses bunched in a lowering sky. I awoke to the gray walls of my room, which resembled a worn out white ironing board cover, which were pale throughout the day. My entire room was a lack of colour. A possible reflection of its owner. Although I stayed in a house large enough to accommodate another two persons, my father and I stayed in the house, as two separate individuals, seldom acknowledging one another. It was also for this lack of care in the household, that the back garden had been left untended. Weeds had conquered the ground and brown puddles of mud lay in the uneven areas of the soil. My entire background was in a squalid state.



Even school seemed dull to me. Back in primary school, a year ago, our desks were grey, and mine seemed paler than the rest. Marks made with my rusty penknife found a haunt on my desk top, saving my skin from scars. I walked to school daily, alone. Seen as a typical teen, the kind associated with listening to heavy metal music, I was never given the chance and never found the opportunity to let others step into my life, to break open that inner oyster shell, to reveal the soft pink insides and to discover the iridescent pearl within. Few attempted getting to know me, due to this unseen sign which seemed to hover above me, telling others to leave me alone. Teachers who noticed my lack of colour seemed not to care. I told myself that I wanted the help, that I needed that hand to be stuck out, so that I could take hold of it, and step back into the abyss of reality, and yet, it never came.



Afternoon shadows lengthen as the day draws to a close. It soon became nightfall and the new moon was up. It hung like a fresh minted coin in a still, cloudless sky of midnight blue. The trees in the neighbourhood stood like timeless sentinels, watching my every move through the four glass panels of my room window. Spider webs, long abandoned, clung to the corners and dust lay on the window sill. Photo frames stand displayed, in a dark corner, with the shadow reaching the edge of the table, darkening the photos. From my bed, the photos seem black and white, missing colour. They bring about memories, of the times spent with my mother-the days when there was colour in my life. The room is dark, with light emanating from my study table against the wall, opposite my bed. I watch the full moon move silently behind pillowy night-cloud formation and it hung in the blanket of the night sky. My vision soon fades as I slip into sleep.



The new day dawned in a haze of soft sunlight. Overhead, the sky was a delicate blue with small white clouds scudding along on the breeze. The flood of morning sunlight penetrated the shadows, melting them into a yellowy haze of light. I prepared myself for school and before I knew it, I was out of the house, somewhat escaping its pallid grasp. However, my influence by this lack of colour was reflected in my attire. Dressed from head to toe in shades of black and gray, I seemed to resemble the dark, gloomy clouds on a rainy day; the kind people wished did not exist. Somehow or other, I found it hard to dress in colour, especially when my surroundings were not half as vibrant as I had wished. Nonetheless, I traveled to school, with a tinge of enthusiasm on my part, after all, it was a new term, and it would provide me with a chance to start anew-or so I hoped.



The new school seemed monstrous -with red curtains along the frames of panes, the windows seemed like scary eyes, and the doorway into the school, the mouth of a monster, swallowing students as they so willingly walked into the locker-filled hallways. Putting aside my fear of being ostracized, I too walked through the doorway, like the one dark window among a thousand brightly lit ones. Students in the hallway, my potential classmates, seemed to have been forewarned of my attendance. Less than a hundred metres from the entrance, I had already attracted more stares than that which I had anticipated. I failed to recognize my being different from the others, to acknowledge that lack of colour. There came a day, however, when things began to pick up, bringing the colour back into my otherwise, pallid life.



I observed many students in the hallway, though one caught my eye. There was something different about her. I had not seen her before, chances were she was not from around here. She stood out from those in cliques, and yet she seemed to fit in. She wore a turquoise blouse with a radiant, lime green beaded bracelet. She dressed resplendently and her jeans, though dark blue, seemed a bright colour. She wore a pair of spaghetti sauce red and crimson orange sneakers with ivory-white shoelaces. Upon further observation did I realize her shoelaces had tiny rainbows on them. The clash of colour seemed not to affect her and she bore herself slim and graceful as a willow wand, with beautiful sienna skin faintly tinged with rose. Her smooth straight hair was dark brown and wound around her head in a plait, tied up like a crown, and giving her a regal air that complimented her whole appearance. Sunlight flooded down from the window panels at the sides of the hallway, etching small pools of light on the floor, and the rays seemed to be a spotlight on this girl.



Perhaps it was because of the fact that I was caught staring at her that she approached me, to say hello. We exchanged names and I thought that Amitola was a nice enough girl, who seemed to understand me. We spent time in classes together, learning more about one another with each period. As time passed, she got to know me well and we spent time during recess just chatting. I soon found out from her that she was Native American and that she too came from a broken family. At first, I failed to understand how Amitola could live such a colourful life.



The first day of the new term seemed to have passed by so quickly, leaving me more eager to return the next day. That night, the sky was clear and dark, and a slight breeze stirred the air. A silvery cloud drifted over the houses, its edges glowing with ruddy light cast from the moon which was cradled between two houses. I slept well that night, and before I went to bed, I managed to say goodnight to my father. It seemed as though part of this girl had rubbed off on me.



The sun rose the next morning with a glorious conflagration of pink and yellow. The golden sunlight gave a glow to each of the houses in my neighbourhood. The glow seemed more radiant on my house than all the others since it had normally been in darkness. I met Amitola at the traffic light near school and we walked there together. The school day passed quickly, and before I knew it, I found myself saying bye to her, as we parted, and accepting a small pouch, made out of animal fur, from Amitola. The content being more important, I rushed home to open it. Upon reaching home and entering my room, I pulled the string loose and out it fell.



A piece of thick thread with seven different colours which had been woven together to form this friendship band. A single tear slid down my cheek, for the significance of the colours it held was great. Red, orange, yellow, blue, green, indigo and violet, the colours brought back into my life. I walked to my room window and drew the curtains. The rays of sunlight streamed gloriously through the glass. Darkness and shadow were no longer to be an element in the house. I opened my room window allowing more light in, etching pools on my room floor. Sunlight sparkled on the photograph frames which had been left in the shadows and the spider webs, along the corners of the window pane, had become glittering filigree as each dew drop turned it into a scintillating jewel.



Floods of silver sunlight from a pale cloudless sky entered my room, invited. It was because of Amitola that the colour had been brought back into my life, it was for our blossomed friendship. The sunlit late afternoon stretched into a warm evening turning the walls of my room a rosy hue, with the speckle of golden dust motes drifting lazily on the rays of the setting sun. The last rays of the sun sent slender slivers of ruby and gold from behind a purple-blue cloud bank as I stared at the photographs along the staircase in my house. Light which had flooded in through the window gave each memory an orange glow, a glow of happiness and colour. In every smile, in every photograph, was colour.



The next morning was glorious, for it was a new day. Dawn came pearly gray, shot with shafts of peach and dusky pink as the sun broke the eastern horizon with the break of dawn. I dressed in shades of blue, reflecting the sky. A pair of pink and gold dangling earrings complimented my wavy hair as I stepped out of my house and into the direct path of sunshine. I tied the friendship band round my wrist, a constant reminder of the colour in my life, and the friendship I had with her. I could not wait to see Amitola, to exhibit the change in me, the change she had influenced. It was soon recess, and I was still unable to find her. No one else seemed to notice her disappearance. During recess, I was invited to a table with a group of my classmates and proceeded to join them. I got to learn about each of them and before long, I had more friends then I could count.



I left school that day, puzzled. Late afternoon sunlight stenciled my shadow which was shaped in soft pink relief on the cement foot path. Where could she be? It was not like her to skip school. This continued for the next few days and soon, days became months. As time passed, I found time to decorate the back garden. I planted rows of flowers, the softly coloured patches mixed with the unmarked boundaries of emerald grass. My relationship with my father has also improved, he sends me to school every morning and we spend valuable time at counseling sessions, strengthening our bond.



Many months have passed since I last saw Amitola. Then, one afternoon, I decided to tidy my study table, to make it more presentable in light of my change. As I cleared out the dust coated items on my shelf, a book fell out -a baby names directory. A single page was bookmarked with a faded friendship band, its memory still lingering. The name I saw on the bookmarked page had a refreshed meaning, for it was only then that I realized that the Native American name, Amitola, meant rainbow. I looked out into the window and gazed into a Caribbean blue sky. Clouds scudded along with the breeze and I saw a magnificent arch of colours, shining with a soft quivering light. The end of the rainbow was in my back garden. Watching from my room window, I whispered thanks, for she was the palette which added colour to my life -she was the rainbow.


(2169 words)