By Christina K Sangma
All colouring books are the same, shouted Benny, flipping through another stack with a frustrated sigh. Animals, fruits, castles, page after page felt predictable, lifeless. “Where is the uniqueness?” he muttered, dropping one more book back onto the shelf.
You’re twenty-eight, Benny, a voice teased from behind him. Martin stood there with a grin, arms folded. “Why do you even want a colouring book?”
You’re never too old, Benny replied, shrugging. And it’s not even for me. I’m looking after my niece and nephew while my sisters are at work. I just want something different for them. Something with a story, something with beauty.”
Martin rolled his eyes but followed him anyway as they wandered through the bookstore. Benny scanned every aisle, disappointment growing heavier with each step. Then, as he turned a corner too quickly, he bumped into a display of books and they slipped from his arms and scattered across the floor. Nice one, Martin laughed.
Benny crouched down to gather the fallen books, and froze. Beneath the pile was a thin, oddly shaped book with a crooked little ghost on the cover. Spooky Doodles, the title read. Curious, he flipped it open. Some pages asked you to colour glowing potions; others invited you to draw your own creatures or design a haunted house. It wasn’t just colouring,it felt alive, unfinished, waiting for imagination.
“There you are,” Benny whispered, a smile creeping across his face.
That evening, after his sister rushed out for her late shift, Benny found himself alone with two curious little faces staring up at him. The kids shuffled around the living room, bored already.
What are we doing? his nephew asked.
Benny placed the book on the table. We’re making something.
They opened Spooky Doodles together. At first, the children hesitated, unsure if they were allowed to scribble over the pages. But Benny picked up a crayon and coloured a tiny potion bottle bright purple.
See? No rules, he said softly.
Soon the room filled with movement, crayons rolling, giggles spilling, colours spreading across the paper. His niece decided one potion made people float like balloons. His nephew drew sneakers on every ghost so they could run fast. The drawings began to feel less like pages and more like windows into a whimsical world that wasn’t really spooky at all.
A crooked tree appeared on one page, its branches stretching like arms ready for a hug. On another, they created a lopsided house with heart-shaped windows and a neon green roof. Benny noticed how freely the kids’ imagined things when nobody told them what was right or wrong.
As they worked, the ordinary living room seemed to fade. In their minds, glowing pumpkins rolled along imaginary paths, tiny bats carried cupcakes through the sky, and a silver-purple creature they invented, a Moon Button, watched over their world.
Time passed without anyone noticing. The children leaned closer to Benny, asking him what colour the stars should be or how a friendly ghost might laugh. He didn’t give answers; he just coloured beside them, letting their ideas lead.
When the final page asked them to create their own spooky world, they filled it together, messy, bright, imperfect. And when they finally closed the book, the silence felt warm instead of empty.
Is it really spooky? his niece asked. Benny shook his head, smiling at the colourful chaos they had made. “Not spooky,” he said. “Just wonderfully different.”
