Paper Planes is a writing contest organised by Creative Horizons Language Centre. This is my second time joining: the last time was in 2010. It's really a great contest and the teachers are so warm and friendly you feel pretty welcomed.
Anyway, I won runner-up in my category both times. Would just like to thank everyone who voted for me! :)
My brother won runner-up in his category as well and two other homeschoolers entered the finals. One won champion! :D
Enough dilly-dallying, here's the story on the given topic Rainbow:
Thomas had been there when his father died. He had seen the once-strong man close his eyes in weakness, felt the sturdy brown hand loosen its grip. He had smelled the comforting aroma of his father's beard, paint and turpentine, before it was replaced by an overwhelming sickly odour.
He remembered thinking that it wasn't fair - a painter dying on so colourless a day.
For his father was an artist - one of the best. At least, he had been one of the best. He had promised to teach Thomas how to transform a canvas into a masterpiece. But they had only gotten to charcoal before he died.
Thomas walked out of the room. Savagely, he locked it an boarded it up, his eyes glazing over, vowing he would never enter it again.
The funeral had been blank and nondescript - colourless, in fact. Even the flowers covering the coffin were of the palest waxen white, and the sky was grey and overcast, a light mist forming near the ground. So Thomas had watched the coffin being lowered through a mist of both rain and tears.
A few months had passed since then. Yet, when Thomas walked through the marketplace, it seemed blank, no longer bustling and festive. He noticed fresh fish hanging from a rack - his father had taught him to be observant - and their yellow-cast staring eyes made him sick to his stomach. He turned away.
"Bambino!" Mama Bernoulli called to him, using an Italian term of endearment and tossing him a ripe orange from her fruit stall. Fumbling, Thomas caught it, and almost dropped it again as he realised even the brilliant round fruit had dulled.
He ran home in an agony, averting his eyes from the crimson slabs of salami and the vibrant headscarves of the women.
Upon entering the house, Thomas stopped short. A painting by his father hung on the opposite wall: a thin rainbow stretched over the fields of an Italian countryside. Before, it had seemed marvellous, grand enough for the Sistine Chapel even, but now it was simply a mockery. However, it gave Thomas an idea. He wanted to go out and draw again. It was what Papa would have wanted.
Thomas searched the workroom, drawing out sheets of ivory paper for the first time since his father's death. He chanced upon the cupboard of paints - the jars stood proudly in rows of scarlet, vermillion, aqua and deep dark indigo. Papa had arranged them in the order of the colours of the rainbow, but in Thomas's saddened eyes they were all things cruel. He slammed the door shut.
He couldn't find his pencils. They, at least, were safe: black and grey, calm, reliable shades. Then he remembered where he had left them.
To find them, he would have to enter Papa's room.
At first, he wanted to abandon the whole crazy venture. "Forget it," he told himself. "You'll just end up hurting yourself even more." Then, something deep within him stirred and he set his teeth and pounded up the stairs.
In a moment, Thomas was standing in front of Papa's door. He pulled out the boards and unlocked the door, then drew a deep breath. "San Salvador," he prayed to his Holy Saviour, "please help me." He stretched out a hand and pushed the door open - and gasped.
Across the floor was strewn a shining strip of light and within it was a fusion of shades and colours.
A rainbow.
In wonderment, Thomas went to the window and realised it was the glass scattering the light. He turned and followed the beam across the dark wooden room, his eyes resting on where it ended, a thick black book.
It took him a while to conclude it was Papa's old Bible. He remembered now, how he had been entranced by that book as a boy, especially by David defeating Goliath, by the valiant Queen Esther, but most of all by the beautiful story of Jesus' sacrifice for his salvation. Up to Papa's death, in fact, he had read it regularly, but he had forgotten until now.
Thomas realised Papa was only gone from the earth. Up there in heaven with God, he was probably smiling that ruddy smile of his, all sickness gone, his robust brown body restored to health. Now Thomas wondered why he had forgotten. Papa's death had seemed so final.
His heart accepted it, but his mind as yet did not. He needed proof - but how was he to find it? In that period of progression in science and art, reality was everything.
Thomas picked up the Bible, sweeping off the dust that danced in the sunlight. It fell open near the beginning in Genesis.
The first word that caught Thomas's eye was "rainbow".
Breathlessly, he read about God placing the rainbow in the sky as a covenant with Noah. He flipped back and read the whole story: the worldwide flood, the forty days and forty nights on the ark, and finally, the grand finale of the rainbow. God's promise!
This was the only answer he needed. He picked up his pencils, but then with renewed vigour, scooped up a paint box as well and stepped out into the street.
Suddenly, his friend, Vincent, came running up behind him. "Thomas! Bueno Serra!" he cried excitedly, grabbing Thomas's arm.
"What is it, Vincent?" Thomas asked, but Vincent was dragging him through the streets, past the shouting vendors and chattering housewives, stopping only at the large field on the outskirts of town.
Bewildered, Thomas stared at the verdant green field, sensing the fine drizzle on his head. "It's pretty, Vincent, but why did you bring me here? In the rain, too!" He plucked a blade of grass, dispirited.
"Thomas! Not there!" Vincent said with a mock groan. This time he grabbed his friend's head and lifted it to the sky. The two young men gazed for a while before Thomas realised what he was looking at.
A rainbow, in all its splendid brilliance, shone bravely in the sky.
Thomas caught his breath. "Vincent, angelites!" he gasped.
"Why am I an angel?" Vincent muttered. "Crazy boy."
Ignoring him, Thomas opened his satchel. The first thing he took out was the paint box.
He knew Papa was with God now. He knew, without a shadow of doubt and he knew that one day he would see his father again.
His heart beating rapidly, Thomas set up the canvas and began to paint. He had never dabbled in paints before, but now it seemed both Papa and God were guiding him. He could almost hear Papa's richly flavoured laugh and almost see his mellow eyes narrowing critically before widening in satisfaction as he examined his work.
Thomas finished the painting. He knew without even looking that it was a masterpiece. And Thomas picked up his drying canvas, turning back to the rain-washed town with Papa's Bible in his bag and God's joy in his heart.
And God's promise bright behind him, casting colours on his rainbowed way.
Photo source: National Geographic
