Translation Contests

The old woman used to paint, with great care, the colours that filled this recreational haven with immeasurable brilliance, as if gently scooping them into her paintings: distant pastel-coloured seas, deep evergreen forests, fragrant orchards and rose gardens, coloured clouds in dusk and dawn, and the bright, blue moon. It was only recently that the subjects of her paintbrush had changed.

The old woman painted pastel-colored far-off ocean landscapes, as well as thick evergreen forests, fragrant fruit orchards and rose gardens, moons that shine clearly through clouds of sunset and daybreak, and…this sanatorium, all with limitless brilliant hues, as if gently scooping the colors, one by one, out of the air. It was only recently that she altered the subjects of her brush.

The old woman painted pastel-colored far-off ocean landscapes, as well as thick evergreen forests, fragrant fruit orchards and rose gardens, moons that shine clearly through clouds of sunset and daybreak, and…this sanatorium, all with limitless brilliant hues, as if gently scooping the colors, one by one, out of the air. It was only recently that she altered the subjects of her brush.
To be precise, it was when the parasols of that elegant bunch began to be seen here and there all over the sand dunes.

“I don’t trust those people with their parasols,” said the old woman’s housemate as she cleared up the dishes. “Where on earth have they wandered in from? And what are good men doing with such colorful parasols…?”
“Oh, it’s fine, isn’t it? Mari. They have beautiful taste.”
The old woman spoke while painting the finishing touches on a mint-colored parasol in the landscape on her canvas.
“Also, it’s not just men. There are women, too, and even some children, although very few.”
“The paleness of their faces, it’s not normal.” Mari changed her focus. “At first I thought it might be a reflection of the colors of their parasols, but no, that’s not it. Those men…what do you think they’re eating?”
“Don’t be rude.”
“It’s not rude. Don’t you think it would be spoopy if they turned out to be some sort of cult?”

“Hello, Ms. Naomi!” The owner of the mint-colored parasol peeked in through the window. “What are you painting today?”
Mari quickly shrunk away.
“We were talking about your parasols just now, Mint,” Naomi replied through giggles.
“Is that so?”
“You see, I was struck with the desire to paint you all. Look, there’s Orange, Blue, Lemon, and Violet.”
“Well I’ll be. That’s quite impressive!”
Mr. Mint—they never asked his real name—had a face so white it looked to have been painted with the chalky soil of a vineyard. He broke out into a wide smile and spun the mint-colored parasol he was holding round and round in his hands. It looked more like a Western umbrella than a parasol. The kind that Englishmen keep all wrapped up and thin, never opening them up while they walk around getting soaking wet.
These people, however, kept their parasols open at all times, always standing underneath. They were all like that, these parasol aficionados who appeared out of the blue last week and took up lodging in some rental cottages nearby.
“And what is this rumor going around about us?”
“My housemate says it,” Naomi grinned. “She wonders if you guys might be the living dead.”