Author: TashiRd PM
(Stream of consciousness) Excerpt: On a lonely hill she stood, roses blazing brightly in the afternoon sun so bright she could not see a thing. The concrete on the car park beneath was hot and dry and white. The hill, green with blazing roses shone throughout the valley and throughout the valley town where she lived, the girl, she also blazed in a red frock...Rated: Fiction T - English - Tragedy/Poetry - Words: 398 - Published: 11-13-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3074246
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1: The Blaze
On a lonely hill she stood, roses blazing brightly in the afternoon sun so bright she could not see a thing. The concrete on the car park beneath was hot and dry and white. The hill, green with blazing roses shone throughout the valley and throughout the valley town where she lived, the girl, she also blazed in a red frock. Her eyes green like the hill, and her eyes reflecting the valley below, she sees there; a long blue snake that squiggles through the red roofed houses and shops in her town, blue from reflection of the sky burning brightly. Everything burning. Burning bright with colour, even the shadows burn bright. And all in an instance in a volley of flame, the hill lights up. The cement lights. The shadows die and are replaced by red, always red, by yellow and orange. They come with the sounds of planes ahead. It's still blue above the mountains of smoke that bellow upward to poison the sky. Still the sun so bright, it would prevent her from seeing a thing if she were not on flame. She still cannot see much. The flames have engulfed her. But she sees the blue snake, gone black and the red roofs go grey and the houses are overflowing with licking flames that dance like demons in their celebration. The flames are bubbling her skin. Boiling her blood. Ripping at her locks. Her eyes melt in their sockets as the flame turns her image black. Her screams are silent in the noise. They sound but silent for no one can hear them. And soon, on the hill, the roses are gone. The concrete is black. The hill no longer green and lush, the sky peeks sheepishly through the smoke clouds dwindling and sheds little light from its warm breast to the shameful scene. She has been reduced to ashes, and her red frock joins the ground of the roses and her green eyes melt to the ground of grass and her body lies to be blown away, instead they land and stomp her in. Boots lay tread on bodies burnt. The sky turns shyly again, and winces, in cringe, looking sorrowfully at its baby, mother earth, scarred now by a black stain, by holding the screams. And never will recover. And she lays there. Amongst the roses, in dust.