Colours of a Life
Shaking fingers trace the outline of each individual petal. A warmth of yellow floats from the ceiling and brushes across your face. Butterflies flit from flower to flower—did you paint those or has the house become alive? The sun in your ceiling sky sends dancing rays over your face and you flush red, as red as the poppies you painted on the walls, as red as the feathers on the Pine Groesbecks you drew peeking from the dense vegetation near the center of your evergreen trees.
How is your back so cold when the sky is so warm?
Dark shadows scurry from the corners, an inky oil slick of black paint reverse climbing the walls eating the flowers, the butterflies, the cheery orange birdhouse you lovingly, painstakingly worked on for weeks. Its progress is slow but steady and by the time it reaches the sun, your sun, you’re no longer warm. The chill starts at your feet and begins to climb.
You keep your eyes open as long as you can hoping you’ll see one more swath of colour before you die.
Finnian Burnett is a flash fiction addict, a doctoral student, and a creative writing teacher. They're currently working on a novella-in-flash and a queer Hamlet retelling. In their spare time, Finn watches a lot of Star Trek and takes their cat for walks in a stroller. Finn lives in British Columbia with their wife and Lord Gordo, the cat and can be found at www.finnburnett.com
The Ekphrastic Review
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