Paragraph Stories

Stimulus 1

Mahesha Kissfield:

Rain showered the hard concrete like glittering diamonds as it descended from the grim clouds above. A gloom had overridden the city, seemingly collecting itself in the lone alleyway where a young boy sat hunched over his bleeding mother. Heated tears ran a race down his face as if to save the dying woman, but they became void as they fell over her trembling body. As he felt the life ebb away from the person he desperately clutched to his chest, his hands slipped to his sides and onto to the roses that lay around him. So red against death and the black asphalt. Red, the colour of love. Red, the colour of anger. Red, the colour of blood. They were his father's last token of affection to his mother. A few meters away, the already lifeless body of a suited man lay crumpled against the wet drain. His hands were still tightened into fists, a thick golden band dressing his wedding finger. He matched the man on the dying woman's locket; raven hair, curling slightly at the front and strong black eyebrows. Above him, the first sounds of thunder clapped and glittering rain fell on his little boy.

Ahimsa Kissfield:

It's funny how all it took to grip on to the strings of my affectionate heart were a simple bouquet of red roses. I read books. I watched movies. I thought that I knew what it was like to be in love. I knew that it was the man's duty to pamper the woman, making her feel just as Royal as a Princess and just as mystifying as a Goddess. But... he was different. He wasn't from a Nicholas Spark's novel, or a secret romantic from a Jane Austen tale. He was crafty and he expelled brilliant ideas. He could get away with anything and do whatever. For him to conform to the traditional ideals of a bouquet of red roses... was a surprise. He always knew how to surprise me. He surprised me the very first time we met: on a University retreat to the bay. He surprised me later the same week by formulating the perfect sand artwork requesting me to be his girlfriend. He surprised me with his abruptness. He surprised me with the spontaneity of our first date on a boat through the harbour. He surprised me with the most gorgeous carving of a blossom tree. He surprised me with his charm. He surprised me with his dominating presence. He surprised me with his wealth; the son of an ambassador. He surprised me by becoming serious. He surprised me by working late hours... He surprised me by cheating. He surprised me with lies. I dropped the roses. He was still a crafty man. He was still doing whatever he wanted. He still did not belong to the beauty of Sparks or Austen. But... he was different. I thought I knew what it was like to be heartbroken, and hurt. Yet all I could feel was sadness at wasting such a beautiful bouquet of flowers. It's funny how all it took to grip on to the strings of my betrayed heart were a simple bouquet of red roses.