She takes fifteen and a half steps back. She analyses the situation.
He watches her through the crevasse in the wall, motioning for her to come closer, and kingfishers burst from his fingers in persimmons and periwinkle. They scale the colourless ceiling, shattering the weeping glass, as it rains down in sheets. Rotten, festering bedsheets, which drown out her screams as they drag her to the humming, perspiring ground.
When her tea-stained eyes open, she lifts the veil from her eyes and feels the grass sprouting between her toes. Bleeding hearts and coral bells float upwards; single, immovable petals wrapping round her candy neck.
Where did he go?
There he is, biting his pillow. Blushing a startling crimson, as he gazed at her through his dripping, peacock hair.
He hands her a balloon in the shape of his feelings. It smells like lavender and fresh snowfall.
It pops, startling her. She takes another fifteen and a half steps back, tripping over a stray autumn teardrop, and finds herself falling once more.
When she awakens, there is three of him. They each hold a hand, then cover her eyes with theirs.
It’s simply best to forget, they say.
I love how trippy Pillowtalk is, so I thought it only makes sense to write something that makes no sense!
It’s always easy to write something weird, cause then you can just excuse it as a modernist piece that isn’t meant to make any sense.
Read more of my series, A Tendency for Bitterness, here!
Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt