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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