Stannon Hodge

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Judge, Lucy Beckley, commented: A well-structured, well-polished and well-paced scene that immediately creates a sense of character and place and is a clever take on the theme of flourishing. Well done and congratulations!

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Ocean Breeze, by Stannon Hodge

It had been quick, but not painless. Andrew had sat opposite her, his eyes fixed on a patch of the wallpaper just past her shoulder, and said: “I’ve met someone else. I’m leaving you.”

Eighteen months later that same wallpaper lay in strips on the floor, irrevocably torn. The walls were prepped for painting, the furniture gone, flooring bare. A storm of Andrew’s making had raged in every room of their home, and Anna was left to weather it alone. The house, with all their memories, was to be sold.

Anna’s breath trembled as she applied her foundation, remembering the casual way he’d said ‘she’s younger and actually fun to be around,’ and how, instead of anger, she’d felt her spirit retreat deeper into herself. She dabbed the sponge around her eyes, wishing that she had the dewy skin of a twenty year old, wishing she was younger, prettier, wishing she was someone else altogether.

Andrew had liked her to wear make-up. He’d never told her to outright, but he had a way of noticing out loud whenever she didn’t.
‘Michael’s wife always looks so well made up. She’s not letting herself go.’
It had happened so slowly that Anna hadn’t even realised her face had become a source of shame.

She breathed, waiting for the dread to pass before she could continue the wretched routine. Two paint pots sat cuckoo-like in the centre of the room. ‘Ocean Breeze.’
‘Who am I doing this for?’ Anna wondered. She hadn’t wanted to move. She hadn’t wanted any of this. She realised she was gripping the sponge tightly, so that domes of liquid pigment blossomed on the surface.
‘What am I doing,” she thought, ‘painting a mask to hide behind? The only person who should feel ashamed is him.’

Anna looked at the paint, and knew. Her wounded, timid spirit needed this. She levered a knife under the rim and the lid yielded with a satisfying pop. Holding her breath, she plunged her hand deeply into the paint, feeling it pool under her nails and between her fingers, enveloping her skin in thick, oozy Ocean Breeze.

There was no turning back. Anna threw herself at the bare walls, first with her hands, and then with make-up and brushes, adding powder over glistening bubbles to form the wild froth of the raging sea; the foundation sponge blending wind-blown clouds which heaved across a stormy magnolia sky, created with the heels of her palms raised high above her head.
Anna’s spirit soared to see thumb prints in blush materialise into a sea of poppies, heads fluttering in the ocean breeze which radiated in waves from the walls of her once marital home.

Standing back, Anna wiped off the last of her make-up, thinking how life would be without it, without him. Her face was now a blank canvas on which nothing but possibilities were drawn. She began to cry, tears of catharsis, and the joy of meeting an old friend after too many years.

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She wins a Love of Lemons notebook.