creative writing

Grace Rennie

Teacher - English

Here at Brunswick Secondary College we have a lot of talented students who enjoy creative writing. Below is a condensed version of a creative piece written by Year 8 student Sienna Calvani.

Painting with the Colours of the Soul

 A  Condensed Version 

Sienna Calvani

Year 8

As I sit, the sleepy glow of an orange sun bleeds down the weathered teal walls. Trickles of yellow and orange were injected into the wispy clouds, rushing through their veins like bolts of ecstasy. Tangerine rays created knotted shadows that danced across the floor. It was Autumn; a season warm with hazy light but crisp with the birthing of winter. The poison of tranquility was in the air. A canvas, a paintbrush and the colours of a journey sit undisturbed. Worked hands tattooed with a film of white clay stall over the blank canvas. Light fingers aged with the strokes of a brush twitch slightly, anticipation coursing through their veins. 

I ask myself, “What is a person of art supposed to do with themselves when they lose the ability to create?”

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. Slowly, I begin to peel away the layers. I enter the abandoned house. But doors lead to trap doors, hallways lead to dead ends, stairs lead to isolated rooms. Unspoken thoughts wander around at night. I press my ear against the walls of the house. Where do I go when I go quiet? With a slight disbelieving shake of my head, I pick up the brush once again. The object was foreign in my gentle hands, but I paint and paint and paint.

… 

Red. When you hugged me, it was the smell of you. When I saw you with another, it was the colour of my breath. Our last encounter: glass smashed on the counter, you tried to counter. When you shouted back, it was the colour of your voice. My feet were scared puppies, recoiling when your words burnt me; fruit too ripe to eat. Rotten from core. Why do you see me now? I can’t. When my throat stung, it was the taste of fresh chilli. I yelled until my voice went hoarse, until my eyes bled the same colour as my throat. My glass eyes stare as you walk out of the house; fruit too unripe to eat. Poisonous. Why can’t you see me now? I can. 

Blue. Canned tears welled and watered my eyelashes as the dam wall broke. When I drowned my pillow in regrets, it was the salty taste of liquid hurt. When I isolated myself in my home, it was the colour that scratched, crawled, pounded at the windows. A metallic, sterile smell, like that of a freshly sharpened knife, sliced through the thick air. Its cold blade pressed against my sweating skin, nicking the tips of my nostrils with arrogance. It was the meanest colour. I lay on storm clouds, as snakes of the same sombre colour curled around my body. When I finally found peace, it was the smell of the rain, steaming off the ground like an exhaling breath. Still, coiled deep inside me was the desire, the hunger… to go back to red. 

Yellow. I wanted to run to you, for you to pull the hurt from within me away like bandages. Bandage after bandage. Wrap me up in your embrace. My rushing heart beats this colour. 

Red. How I’ve missed you.

...

That is what a person of art is to do when they lose themselves. They change. They try again.