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Writing with Colors

As a writer, it's very important to use colors to describe things. I've written a short story about a girl at her grandpapa's ranch. Notice how I use colors to make the images more vivid. This helps readers get a better picture. It also helps you get away with not using dialogue.

I stepped into the hay field, longing to run my hands over the bristly heads. I wanted to run through the endless golden sea of hay. I wanted to leave my mark; my path; my trace. But that would ruin this beautiful sight. I pick a small, dying head and put it in the pouch Grandpapa gave me. It was soft, brown, and made with Indian leather. I moved along toward the pond.

When I reached the pond's edge, I noticed a small thicket of blackberries slowly spreading around the side of the pond. As I reached out to pick a berry, I remembered my grandpapa laughing with my about these berries. He told me that was a silly name "blackberries" when they were really "purpleberries." He thought it was the funniest thing. I popped a shiny, dark purple berry into my mouth and pressed it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue. The tart, yet pleasant tasting berry exploded with rich flavor. I picked a few more and placed them in my pouch.

I stepped closer to the pond and noticed that there were small, silvery stones along the bank. I picked up a smooth one and skipped it across the clear pond. Such a simple thing could bring someone such delight. That's why I loved skipping the little gray stones. I picked up a rock that was shaped similarly to my first initial and I placed it in my pouch.

I placed my feet into the clear, blue water and gave a slight shiver. It was cold water, but sparkled a beautiful turquoise. I took a step forward and let out a gasp as I felt a sharp rock graze my skin. Blood flowed out of my bare feet, turning the surrounding water a deep crimson. I watched, mesmerized, as the ruby liquid swirled around in the water. It made intricate, circular patterns around me. Pulling my eyes away from the appealing sight, I stepped out of the water and reached into my pouch. I couldn't put a memento into it, so I took out a band-aid and applied it to my still bleeding wound.

While I wait for my feet to dry and for my wound to stop hurting, I lay back and stare at the sky. The white clouds float gently by. I've never understood why people call clouds "fluffy" because they are most certainly not fluffy. As I lay in the grass, I notice baby clouds floating freely around me. I call the cottonwood fluff "baby clouds" because they look like my own personal clouds. Like someone pulled down a cloud, tore it to pieces, then took a leaf blower and spread them across the universe. It took some effort, but I caught a baby cloud and placed it in my pouch.

I declared my feet ready for walking and made for the forest. Once I reached the forest rim, I took one last look at the blue sky and ducked into the deep, green depths of the trees. The dark green forest smelled of damp earth, and the sunshine was noticeably absent. I ran through the pines, ducking under low branches and leaping over fallen logs. I fell on a rock and landed hard on the dirt. Running my hands through the brown earth, I took in all the smells and sights slowly. The sky was no where to be found and a claustrophobic would be dying because there was hardly any room to move. I reached up to the myrtle green trees and touched the leaves. I picked a sprig of pine needles and placed them in my pouch. Laying back down on the soft dirt, I dug my hands in it. I loved that feeling of the dirt getting stuck in my fingernails. I coated my arms in the beautiful, messy stuff. Then I picked up a small clod and placed it gently in my pouch.

Once I made it back to Grandpapa's house, he'd started a small fire in his fire pit. I raced toward him, knowing what was coming. Grandpapa brushed off a nearby stump and motioned for me to sit, so I did. I loved watching the orange flames dance around, making a bright pattern in the indigo sky. The sparks snapped; the wispy smoke rose gently; Grandpapa sang softly. The logs fell when they got weak, throwing showers of sparks into the air and making me jump. The amber blaze filled my vision and my eyes burned. Then I felt an urge to somehow put this fire into my pouch, but I realized how impossible it was. I decided to wait.

I watched as the flames subsided and my eyes felt clear. I watched as the embers slowly died and became hard, black coals. A gust of wind blew the remaining ashes off the agglomeration of coals. My curious fingers brushed the charcoal and when I lifted them, they were coated in a thin, black dust. What made me fascinated was that they weren't even very hot. I picked one up and placed it delicately into my pouch.

Then I felt the tell-tale sprinkles of rain, so Grandpapa and I hurried into his farmhouse. Gasping for breath, I looked around and noticed the severe difference between inside and outside. Outside, I'd seen beautiful, majestic sights. Inside, all I saw was cracked linoleum and Grammy's tacky knickknacks. I looked out the window and watched the rain come down in heavy sheets. It beat against the window as I watched it. When the beating died down, the azure droplets slid down the window. They looked like little tear drops, making me wipe my own eyes as my soul was touched by this beauty. Then the rain cleared completely and walked back outside. I took a small, glass bottle and captured the last few raindrops inside. Then I pushed a cork stopper into the top and placed my bottle inside my pouch.

I looked up and realized that there was a beautiful sunset. The indigo sky was streaked with brilliant pink streamers. The golden sun was almost gone from sight, but the sky was still colored. Surrounding the sun was a rusty, orange color. Following the orange was a cherry red. But what stuck out to me most was the rosy pink. I usually wrinkle my nose at pink, but this dark, rose color was almost a beautiful burgundy. Burgundy being one of my favorite colors (next to royal blue), I couldn't turn away from this picture. I did take out my phone and capture the moment, but it was nothing compared to seeing it in person. I knew that there were some things you just couldn't bottle.

"Laugh. It's worth it."
~Molly


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