Micro Fiction Contest: “These Pictures Were in Water-Colours”
Posted by David Duhr in 
Discussion question: Using fifty words or fewer, write a short story, scene, aphorism, snippet, etc., that includes the line “These pictures were in water-colours.” Write or past your story into the comments.
It’s been a real minute since we last did a Micro Fiction Challenge, and I feel like it comes at a good time — I’ve heard from more than a few of you lately struggling to get words on the page. (You We know who you we are.)
Let’s just say that our hottest one-on-one service is writer’s block counseling. And I’m thinking of entering it myself.
One thing I am managing to do is work my way through, for the third time, Jane Eyre. Why three times? Well, A) Why not, it’s an awesome book, but, B) I haven’t read it since ~2005 and I have to get to discuss it on an upcoming Yak Babies.
So this morning I opened to a random page (132 of my Bantam Classic) and let my eyes come a rest where they would, and here’s the first line I saw:
“These pictures were in water-colours.”
Strikes me as excellent fodder for a Micro Fiction Challenge.
What Is This Contest and How Do I Enter?
In fifty (50) words or fewer, write a story, scene, joke, snippet, aphorism — take it in whatever direction you want; it doesn’t have to be fiction, despite the title — that includes the line “These pictures were in water-colours.”
(And let’s say “water-colours” is one word, since it’s so in the book and in Merriam-Webster.)
Enter as many times as you wish.
Write or paste your story/stories in the comments section below.
Submit your entries by the end of Sunday, July 4. I’ll announce the winner in the comments and in the following weekend’s email message (which, if you don’t already receive, you can sign up for in the right sidebar).
My favorite story (stories?) will earn its writer his/her choice of book from the WBN library.
You’ll Choose a Winner Based on What, Exactly?
The usual metrics: style, concision (obviously), humor. Whimsy (mine).
And I’ll take into account the number of thumbs-up each story receives. So if you really enjoy someone else’s piece, be a sport and give it an upvote.
If you find yourself self-sabotaging, feel free to talk about it in our previous post, “How Do You Self-Sabotage?”
Good luck!
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WriteByNight writing coach and co-founder David Duhr is fiction editor at the Texas Observer and co-host of the Yak Babies podcast, and has written about books for the Dallas Morning News, Electric Literature, Publishing Perspectives, and others.
“Good Lord, look what you’ve done!”
“What the hell, Dad. So what if I left the windows open? They’re just a bunch of stupid pictures and, anyway, you never liked them because mom painted them.”
“These pictures were in water-colours. They’re ruined! Your carelessness decided for me, you little shit!”
Thanks for playing, Kit. And for having the courage it takes to go first! Good piece.
We left everything behind, eager to get to India and safety. In my memory, these pictures were in water-colours: it was monsoon season, the air thick with water, the jungle emerald green. Our sandals churned the mud on the nearly impassable track. Amma, in her yellow sari, clutched my hand.
Lovely, Julia. And a definite crowd favorite so far. Thank you!
Thank you! It’s a fragment of a book that needs to be written, a memoir of a Deaf Bhutanese refugee who is a friend of mine.
If it’s written like the above, I’d definitely read it.
When CSI was done with pictures, Smith lifted the note from the body.
“Masters weep.”
“That a suicide note?” I asked, frowning over the reproductions of famous paintings filling the backyard, all ruined by the rain.
“A painter’s idea of one, maybe,” Smith said. “These pictures were in water-colours.”
Good, Ray. I’d love to see a watercolor depiction of this scene.
Gina entered the cavernous first floor of the chateau and was overwhelmed by the Italian architecture and gleaming white terrazzo tile floors. Artwork was hanging at varying heights along the hallway. A collage of pictures literally took her breath away. These pictures were in water-colours.
The teacher walked around the room to view the completed work of her beginner art students. As she neared the last row, she was immediately struck by the quality of the paintings done by Alize. These pictures were in water-colours.
It’s not what the agent had contracted him to do. These pictures were in water-colours, not charcoals. John knew in his heart that these paintings were the best work he ever did. Maybe he’d finally found his true artform.
Good entries, Susan. Thanks! I’m glad to see that this prompt was fruitful for you.
I put down his poetry in puzzlement. His music career had imploded like a black hole—later, he had served time for drug-dealing. I was hoping for some relatable agony, even scandal.
These pictures were in water-colours . . . why haiku?
Reading again, more carefully, I started to understand.
Very good, Kris. Thanks!
“These pictures are in water-colours, fluid, adaptable. In my mind they are so bright and hopeful…buoys against the tides of life, even though I once found them to be dark and cumbersome loads. Allow people to change. Allow yourself to change. Please tell your mother it’s not her fault.”
Thanks, Jonathan. I like this. The “buoys” line in particular is lovely.
Going through my mother’s things
a strange task, not a sad one,
when I thought that I was done,
I found an unexpected gift of wings.
At the bottom of a box, put away
from college days, paintings of hers!
These pictures were in water-colors
grosbeaks, hummingbirds and jays.
Two notes. First, I am indeed going through my mothers things after her death at 93, and although I have not found watercolors I found some a few years past when sorting old papers with her (though not of birds).
Second, I don’t think I can revise a comment, but imagine the second line thus: (a strange task, not a sad one),
You know, I think you can edit comments. If you hover in the lower-right corner of your comment box, a symbol should appear, and if you click it, it should read “edit comment.” Though it’s possible it appears only to me, as moderator.
Lovely, Kris. Thank you. Do you know why you chose birds for this piece, as opposed to what the watercolors really depicted (or versus anything else you might have picked)?
If I remember correctly, it was because the line ” an unexpected gift of wings” popped into my head to when I was thinking about rhymes for “things” ;-)
Writing rhyming poetry can do things like that.
My more usual poetic medium is haiku, and I also write free verse, but for 50 word 2 stanzas was just right.
And yes, I see the little “gear” on the lower right — and just used it to write this! — but it goes away after I time, I believe.
These pictures were in water-colors: calm blue; hopeful yellow; and the reddish-brown of despair. He didn’t know anything about art, but he’d seen dried blood before.
Hopeful yellow! I love that.
I dive the reefs and take a lot of photos, and sometimes I turn them into paintings. I use acrylics. The fish, the corals, everything is so bright. But these pictures were in water-colors, and they were brilliant.
“Calm blue” indeed. Is this something you really do? I’d love to see one.
Nope. I’m not a strong swimmer. I’ve gone down in a plexiglass submersible and in a diving helmet, but not to anything as interesting was what you see in the nature specials.
I wondered if you (or anyone) would pick up my play on words.
Three Reasons I cannot say “These Pictures Were in Water-colours.”
I never learned to draw inside the lines.
Always the nonconformist! Thanks, Sid; I like this. A red line appears under my surname on the screen. Makes me wonder if I truly exist.
Good news, David. A red line under your name means you’ve been noticed! Even computer systems recognize not only your existence, but your uniqueness! :-)
Another dirty sock. Another half empty glass. Jen wandered her teenage sons’ bedroom aimlessly cleaning as she silently cursed her boys. These selfish, disgusting brutes who seemed obsessed with refuse and ruination.
She stopped.
What was this?
These.. These still-wet pictures on their desks…These pictures were in water-colours.
This is excellent, Lindsay. Thanks!
She lived her life in this hospital room.
Painted her pain, dreams and fantasy places.
Sunshine and sunflowers, red balloons, gold sunsets. Nurses, needles, stories in bed.
Only five when she passed. Took her last breathe.
These pictures were in water-colours, left on her bed. Make me smile, then cry.
Thanks, Dennis. Good atmosphere in this one, both heavy and bright.
“These pictures were in water-colours originally,” the photographer said, adjusting an elbow. “Antique Curiosa. Real high-brow filth that Barons would collect.”
One actor yawned, another cracked her neck. The light was sublime now, softening their naked angles into brushstrokes.
“Arse up a bit more, Jackson,” he said, snapping. “That’s perfect.”
Damn, I love this. Thanks, Caroline.
Because
these pictures
were in water-colours,
blending with track light glare
on framed glass,
they reduced
to white and silver feathers
brushed on her
cataracts,
until she could not recall
the memories stilled
by her own
hand
blending
in the white
matter, gray
matter, dark
matter
of
her
blinded
brain.
Shit, Elissa, this is great. Thank you.
Policeman: “You claim somebody stole your oil paintings?”
Homeowner: “No, these pictures were in water-colors.”
Policeman: “And they abducted your wife?”
Homeowner: “I guess, haven’t seen her since the pictures went missing.”
Policeman: “How long ago was that?”
Homeowner: “About a week.”
Policeman: “What is more important?”
Homeowner: “The pictures.”
Thanks, Fred. I appreciate and enjoy the ambiguity: Did someone kidnap his wife and the paintings? Did his wife run off and take the paintings? Or did they disappear in separate incident?
These pictures were in water colors. More ‘s the pity, my love was oils
Good, Gary. Simple but effective. Thanks!
Alone on the park bench,
our bench,
unbidden images pricked the corners of my eyes;
these pictures were in water-colours.
Again, I recalled
the blushed petals of your cheeks,
your russet hair, tousled with streaks of summer-gold,
eyes like echoes of autumn leaves…
no whispers yet of winter’s impending frost.
Thank you, Alison. This is lovely.
These pictures were in water-colours,
a delicate touch depicting cracks,
the gradual power of relentless flow
to compromise steel,
to overwhelm concrete.
A smoking ruin on the news
away from a turquoise beach.
Light dripping into dark.
Descents of gravity and rain.
Dirty brushes
bleeding into the glass.
Excellent (of course). It’s a lovely and brutal response to what’s going on.
Tricia’s eyes were the exact green of the sample of trinitite he’d stolen from Alamogordo. She was with Warlord now, probably dead. The dog door flapped suddenly, and Warlord’s midget emissary clambered on to the desk and held out the scroll. The earlier communiques had been written in blood. Morgan took it with a shaking hand. Atomic green eyes, intertwined rings and a loving portrait of Warlord. These pictures were in water-colours. In code she’d written ,”be happy for me”.
Something about this reminds me of A Canticle for Leibowitz. Maybe the scroll, and something written in blood? Either way, I dig it.
Ya know..ACFL is embedded imy DNA…I didn’t realize but yeah, Warlords of Alamogordo and Los Alamos (the Last Resort)…I may have been channeling my inner Old Benjamin…
Roy Baty sat up. “I have seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. C- beams glittering near the Tannhauser gate. All these…pictures were in water-colours at this really kicky art sale this morning. You should go!”
Haha.
These pictures were in water-colours. The ones that kidnapped us. I tumbled inside, shocked. Explored the clocktower built of fresh brushstrokes. Awe. Wonder.
Slowly, my limbs stiffened. Panic. How to escape? Scrambling, frantic. Until my body dried mid-stride. New additions to the paintings. Terrified people, captured forever in water-colour.
Leah, I love this. Thanks for sharing it.
The water-colours I used blue, gray, and pink. After lying on the grass in the camp, and looking at the sky, I decided to paint the tent. I used a cup and threw splotches all over the tent. Then my hubby peeked out, he looked like the evening sky.
I like this one, Linda. Thanks for writing it and sharing it.
“These pictures were in water-colors and done by my earliest friend,” was how grandmother had described them long ago.
Now, she too loves the paintings. Not because they are flawless masterpieces. It is the eternal beauty of the memory. The doorway to once again rest in Grandmother’s loving gentle embrace.
Thank you, Marka. “the eternal beauty of the memory” is lovely.
Aunt Remmy would sip her sweet tea at noon, smiling coquettishly as she added, “just a splash of bourbon!”
“The paintings of New Orleans,” I said. These pictures were in water-color and Remmy had painted them during her big band singing days when she learned to add — just a splash.
Very good, Christine. Thanks for sharing!
She was happier here. It was hot, sure, but no men sneaking in to her at night. She was left alone to paint her memories on the backs of the damned. These pictures were in water-colours and were immediately washed away by sweat. The Light often stopped by and winked his eye at his foot-long cigarette, which instantly flamed. He approved of her horrific rapes, beatings and tortures and allowed her the freedom to work. It could be worse. It had been, when she was still alive…
Tears cascaded over me, washing away doubts about a medicine man wearing jeans and a flannel. With my eyes clenched tight as prayer, luminous pictures formed in the darkness. His hand was on my shoulder and he wept, painting color to form. These pictures were in water-colours.
I’m on the train again. It fills a metaphorical need to leave, without the actual leaving.
I stare out the window for hours. These pictures are in water-colours, the grey sky dripping and the red flowers bleeding. I want to jump in. But my tickets are always one way.
I know the contest is over… but stumbled on this site… and felt compelled to add one. :)
In Appalachian Mountains the hills of fall look like pictures painted by God himself. “These pictures were in water-colours.” God gives the hills another wash of color each night. The colors so vivid, the view so beautiful, it is sometimes difficult to keep your eye on the road.
I an not sure why part of the post has a shadow. Sorry.