Finnian Burnett


Rochelle wades through the swirling currents of yellow and red. Smiling, she reaches a patch of blue. It plays around her knees like a happy cat, preening for her attention. Her fingers dip into the eddies where green becomes purple becomes orange and she lifts her hand to my mouth, painting my lips with the viscous colours. Blueberry, I’d expected, or maybe melon or kiwi, but the taste is thick and muddy in my mouth, coating my throat with the earthy flavours of Rochelle’s river. The waves come more urgently now, sweeping past the banks. Suction at my feet moves up my legs, then my hips and I’m swaying on my feet. Then I’m not on my feet but my back and I’m in the water or part of it. And I think Rochelle is slipping away but really, it’s me. Blue becomes violet becomes tangerine as Rochelle’s fingers press against my face once more before pushing me under.

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