by Avis Hickman-Gibb
The heat of the evening was slow to dissipate; the city was coming back to life after the swelter of the day. She sat in the chair, drooping sideways — sprawled over a table to her side. Squinting up she saw a blood moon had dawned — lucky for some.
“Why is it so red?” she thought.
Distracted by this event — she began trying to pick the scarlet orb from her vision and save it for later. Her arms were too heavy for the task, and she sagged onto the smooth surface of glass. Sweat slicked her; she glistened. Gratefully, she cooled the moist tender flesh at the top of her rag doll arms on the frosted pane. Giggling, she tried it with her tongue too; the table tasted cold... and hard. Maybe a little bit green too. She lapped like a kitten at a dish of cream.
“Why isn’t it that colour all the time, then we could all be warm, night and day?” she slurred.
Faint sounds. Voices scratched and fluttered around her, melting away — like water running down a crack. Chunks of time slipped by — missing, gone. She could hear them in the room behind her; so far away. Why were they talking and talking? Why did they disturb her with their heat? She wanted ice — an iceberg as big as that moon would do. The place would cool down if only she could get the room to stop spinning.
She sat up with a lurch, and watched the room right itself, settling down from slewing sideways. Her chair scraped against bare tiles, and squeaked her movements aloud; now they would know she’d moved. Their chatter paused; bright lights; then some echoes called her name. She didn’t answer — her tongue was fuzzy from lapping all that green. Her eyes rolled backwards and she saw the blood moon up close.
“It really is very pretty, up there doing that floating trick.”
She crumpled into the red with a sigh.
The glass table caressed her face again. Lying there was an empty syringe and ampoule, and even now they were finishing their work; making the cold surge around her veins — softening her reality to a fuzzy dullness. Soon it would be show time for the punters. Her new best friend looked her over greedily, stroking her — from hot belly to overheated face.
“That’s right, baby; that’s just right,” he purred, as she eagerly licked his fingers.
They were cold.
Copyright © 2008 by Avis Hickman-Gibb