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Weekly Contest #102
It was November; wintertime. A dead, muffled stint for most living things. Not much movement but the brown weeds on the valley’s hills, and the ocean beneath them. It wasn’t so much the weather that embodied this silent three months, but the colors. There were shades of greys, blues, browns, even dull yellows. Every day the hills were woken with reds, or perhaps purples, but then waxy yellows started in early morning, blending into another light grey. The yellow was May Hopkins’ favorite color. Mostly because of its rarity, but also be...
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