Today I undertook the Endever writing challenge, the prompt for which was:
Write about blue without using the word ‘color’.
Now, I’m a Brit, which gives me an edge (if you accept that ‘color’ and ‘colour’ are two different words); but I decided to forgo my natural advantage and play by the spirit of the rules rather than the letter.
The rest of the rules are as follows:
(Specifics– Write using 500 words or less. There is no limit to the amount of stories you write per prompt. Copy and paste these writing challenge details when you share with friends so others can join.)
I managed to hit 500 words on the nose (yes, I’m disproportionately chuffed with myself), and I don’t think it’s a half bad attempt on a day that was spent mostly wiping runny noses, tending to an ailing wife, and filling up the fridge.
Let me know what you think in the comments, and why not give it a go yourself? Just link to the original post when you’re done, and pop a link to your effort in the comments below.
After a week it began to feel like she was floating somewhere in the upper atmosphere, the sky and the sea merging into the same shade of perfect azure. There was no up or down, no left or right; and, since the compass had fallen overboard, no north or south either. She was placeless, directionless, lost in a universe of blinding, brilliant blue.
The only thing that was not blue was the fierce white ball blazing directly above her, its rays beating down on her exposed head and shoulders with a heat she had never imagined possible. On the crowded sun deck the heat had felt exotic, and she had basked in it for hours, letting it punish her pale English skin while she drifted in and out of sleep, recklessly confident in the half-bottle of sunscreen she slathered over herself, idly thinking of her next cup of iced tea.
Now, however, far from the comfort of the sun loungers and the possibility of any kind of tea, iced or otherwise, the heat was a hammer, cruel and vindictive, finding her out no matter how hard she tried to shield herself from it.
She tore her eyes away from the void and lifted the edge of the tarpaulin, checking the water barrel for the hundredth time in case it had sprung a leak. It had not, of course, but she could not help constantly imagining that it had, the thought causing her heart to race in panic until she saw the evidence with her own eyes.
Her lips were cracked and raw, her tongue a swollen lump of meat between her teeth, but she lowered the tarpaulin without taking a drink. It wasn’t time. Not yet.
Once upon a time there had been champagne. Her throat itched at the memory of it: the way the bubbles rose in endless succession, promising endless years of happiness; the sweetness of it on her lips, an echo of the kisses he bestowed so freely; the seemingly unending supply as he ordered another bottle and another, and the butterflies in her stomach as at dawned on her: This is it. This is my life now. No more stress. No more worry. Just champagne.
And the ring, its diamond the biggest she had ever seen, and the way her heart had raced as he slipped it on to her finger.
“It was my mum’s,” he had said, kissing her for the millionth time as they lay together beneath the icy Atlantic stars, admiring the way the diamond glinted on her outstretched hand. “I borrowed it. For luck. Well, you know what they say.”
Now she turned the ring over in her blistered fingers, the only thing that remained of him, as the lines of the rhyme rose unbidden like champagne bubbles in her mind:
Something old … something new … something borrowed …
She looked up at the endless ocean and the infinite sky in which her inflatable bobbed, a minute yellow speck.