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The Colour
Of Fire
Pollyanna Dowell
Isobelle Carmody Award
for Creative Writing
Runner Up
Dim grey, the colour of the dust clouds, form around the wreckage as
I stand there and watch, helpless. Something so tall and strong, now
a pile of rubble. Strangers just see it as faded crimson bricks and dull
concrete, a simple house just like every other in the street; but they
haven’t witnessed the memories held in those walls. The men have
knocked down the remains of my burnt house, now thememories are
just a distant echo in my head, like a heartbeat fading and slowing
down until it stops forever.
Scarlet red, the colour of our uniform. My school was what you
would call normal, we had the sporty ones, the drama kids, people
who just blended in and the bullies. Then there was me, the one who
liked drawing. On my way to art class, they surrounded me, called
me names and pushed me around. After they were done, my vision
was blurred and everything became a sea of red; I’mnot sure whether
it was our blazers or blood. Since I was an easy target, the bullying
became a regular thing and only got worse. My parents didn’t
understand why I was failing school, why I was scared to wake up
and face people everyday; but art was the thing that kept me waking
up each morning.
Silver Grey, the colour of magnets. Art was like a magnet, always
pulling me away from my problems and fears and putting me in my
own world. It was a way of expressing my feelings and sharing my
perspective. Despite being passionate and trying hard like my
parents always encouraged me to, they were never supportive of
what I did. They didn’t see the rainbow of colours hidden within a
drop of water. They didn’t listen to music and see colours in their
mind’s eye. No one understood, but in art, people are always going
to contradict you, for every person who likes your work there will be
someone who doesn’t; I was just waiting to find that someone who
understood, who believed.
Cobalt Blue, the colour of our stove top. It was the beginning of
third term and my parents had been called into the school. This was
my final school year and after just receiving my report my teachers
and parents were concerned. I decided to cook dinner. I thought
mum would appreciate it and that it might soften the blow I was
about to receive; it didn’t. My parents were shouting, just like the
bullies. Everything became a blur. I burst out the door and ran down
our wooden front steps. They were creaking as if to say ‘run;’ and so
I did. I ran out into the cool night air. I didn’t know where I was
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