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You hurtle above, the aqua fields disappearing amidst the pistachio sky. A currant sun hangs low through the horizon.

Fish soar through the clouds, and the birds sigh, resigned to the dirt-trodden ground.

You gaze at the mismatched houses, stray bricks forming into makeshift shelters. A bolt of thunder claims it as its own, putting the kettle on for a relaxing cup of tea.

The taste of periwinkle foreshadows the oncoming storm, the lemonade clouds already sweeping the skies downwards, upwards and sideways.

A crow caws, its scales quivering as the rain begins to rise. And your hands bleed as the hail tears through your fingers.

There are people below. They scream and sing in equal measure as the electric tempest causes their umbrellas to dance and prance amongst the candy pebbles.

You blink, moistening your lips. You can see your eyes, painted scarlet, watering and streaming streamers. Blinded, you lose your grip and fall.

The tea leaves catch your mangled body, compiling you back together, one screw at a time.



Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt

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