Blueprint by Debbie ThomasIn the beginning was Blue. Not dark blue or light blue, not bottle or bruise. Just seamless, endless, incontestable Blue. Boy, was she bored. So she yawned: a soft sad yawn, slightly grey at the edges. And she tasted the grey, held it on her tongue, pushed it through her lips and heard the sour whistle of silver. Blue wondered at the sound. And wonder smelled sweet and purple. She breathed it in and snorted out brisk orange and witty red. Blue chuckled in green. She sang out kind brown, winked sly yellow, imagined in amber and planned in magnolia. And there was evening, and there was morning - the first day. Then Blue drew the world. Trees and film stars, cheesecake and socks, all in neat blue outline. And she sent her new colours to fill every space, boogie on down, let it hang out and generally beget. Orange met pink and made peaches. Pink streamed with yellow into sunsets. Yellow elbowed brown in bananas and bees. Brown bought gold a pint of bitter. Gold and silver held hands in the moonlight. Silver and green spent Christmas together. Green kissed red into apples. Red and grey made whoopee and clay. And all of them discoed through dragonfly wings. Blue saw that it was good. And waited for her invitation. Perhaps a rainbow card: that would be a nice touch. But no card came. Red was busy painting the town. Gold was guzzling champagne. Green was gurgling into its crème de menthe. And pink and purple were chromatose. There was evening, and there was morning – the second day. Blue got up early. She headed for sunrise. ‘Can I join you for breakfast?’ Charcoal and crimson dived behind a cloud. So Blue knocked on spring’s door. ‘Leave us alone,’ squealed silly apple blossom and badly permed lambs. ‘I’m spoken for,’ snapped a snowdrop. Only dim bluebells and generous forget-me-nots let her in. Blue turned to flying things. But only the dross was left. Bully parrots, banished to the jungle for their coarse tongues. Nervous hummingbirds who couldn’t say no to anyone. Thug-headed kingfishers on whom kind Blue lavished extra dazzle. Jeez, how she tried to please. She glittered through bluebottles glutting on grot. She armed Morpho butterflies to blind their predators. Peacock chests thrilled to her shock of electric. And there was evening, and there was morning – the third day. Buoyed by her brilliant results, Blue tried to break into fashion. But black had taken evening wear, and weddings were sewn up with white and cream. Only exhausted denim and curt uniforms were left. Oh, and woad of course, for itchy cloaks and battle tattoos. Religion looked more hopeful – Virgins, Vishnus and striped Jewish robes – until Blue heard them bickering and lost heart. Music could only spare twelve bars of broken love affairs and boozy misery, moaned by dark-skinned outcasts and Bob Dylan who everyone agreed couldn’t sing. Films were even more insulting, offering the last empty slot: smut. Which left politics. The Tories. Blue saw that it wasn’t good. ‘Guys’ she said, her voice trembling, ‘I’m beginning to think you don’t want me around.’ ‘It’s not that,’ blushed strawberries and sunburn. ‘Not at all,’ rustled autumn and corn flakes. ‘Look,’ said hair. ‘I can give you blue rinses.’ Cheese mumbled something about veins. Blue bit her lip. ‘Mould? Gee, thanks.’ ‘OK,’ sighed fruit. ‘I’ll throw in blueberries.’ Veg rolled its eyes. ‘And a decent percentage of aubergine.’ Which gave Europe an idea. ‘How about eyes?’ Blue looked up eagerly. ‘Er...’ Europe coughed. ‘I mean like… some.’ Blue looked down again. Caves and mines had a conflab. ‘OK,’ they chorused, ‘here’s the deal. A splash in slate. A dash in lead. You can share beryl and tourmaline. And -’ they exchanged looks - ‘you’re welcome to sapphire.’ Blue wasn’t fooled. ‘That’s just ruby with a bit of muck thrown in. You want me underground. I’m an embarrassment.’ The Sahara sniggered. ‘I know. Take the sea. That’s still empty.’ ‘And the sky,’ giggled Greenland. ‘No one else wants it.’ Blue paled to periwinkle then flooded with navy despair. ‘You don’t neeeeeeed me!’ Her wail curled into foghorns and smoke, mourned out of cows and faded in the whine of wasp wings and the whiff of old dung. Blue reared and roared, hissed and collapsed, fled into sea and sky. Her anguish inked the ocean. Her tears slammed from clouds. She kicked up waves that fretted and fought, slapped and chopped in a wicked soup. Blue punched into whales and sliced into sharks. She smacked into corals, knocked the stuffing out of jellyfish and sulked on the seabed in bitter bacteria. And there was evening and there was morning – the fourth day. Blue woke with a vengeance too dreadful to hold. She spilled on to beaches and crashed through sea walls. She raged from the sky, swamping valleys and towns, drowning greenbelts and Brownies and red tape until, once again, all was blue. And she looked at herself, a lonely lid, spreading for ever amen. And saw that she held all the cards. She who begot could rule supreme: imbue and subdue every hue; march unchecked into black comedies and Yellowstone National Park. Blue saw that it was bad. What sort of love forced allegiance? What kind of mother spawned fear? So she sighed and subsided to oceans and sky. And there was evening and there was morning – the fifth day. Blue funnelled her pain into personal growth. She stretched into lapis that lapped in lagoons. She shallowed in cyan, trenched in topaz, shot midnight with cobalt and dawn with indigo. She whispered through icebergs and yelled over mountains, steeled the Atlantic and blazed off Barbados. And now and then, when the hurt bubbled over, sent forth a cyclone or two. And there was evening and there was morning – the sixth day. Blue worked on her issues, tried to be cool. ‘You know where to find me, guys – pop in some time.’ But only a few took the offer: divers, hang gliders, petrels and planes. Blue saw that it was far from ideal but hey, it would have to do. So she licked her wounds and flicked her foam, grieved and heaved in lovesick tides, festered and stressed, did anything but rest. Then she blessed the seventh day and thought what the hell, let’s open the shops and pubs.
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written by a guest, March 03, 2011
Original idea, playing so with our theme, and a beautiful use of language. Some judges were wild about this, others not quite confident the theme was enough in itself. I mean to say, where is the story? But then again, what is a story? You can write just what you like- as long as you do it well enough to draw in the reader. This did so. It's even amusing as well. But what does anyone else think?
... written by a guest, March 16, 2012
dare to break sites of Oakley Sunglasses, cheap today have come back!"Halo, there are open?? And so no novelty.Mountain magic hammer in the hands of a swing, here's a small louluo.com.CN roll in, three under the cheap north face jackets a bunch, kill to the Oakley Sunglasses, Beelzebub himself move a blink is gone."We care, that this guy can move Instant must maintain distance!"Seconds to kill the Oakley Sunglasses, three wolves and hard it is impossible but oakleys and sweet child is not necessarily a baby even more dangerous probably is an axe, who knows what this guy can Conceal Monster breaking, just in case, also is the Diamondback to carry it into the air.
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