~ One day I tried the darker palette. I swirled long-stiffened fibres around and around until all was ripe for the cosmos. I will strain no more for the gossamer threads of the heavens! And let it be said, with the first daub against tight off-white linen—indeed, dear reader, I found my oblivion. ~
Falling. I was falling.
I went right through one floor,
then another,
and another,
and finally—
At first, I did not feel a thing. I heard only a dull crash and was only dimly aware of misty surfaces colliding. There was no debris, only dust. My destination was mostly charcoal with hints of slate and stone. A hue of off custard smudged the back wall. Then, feeling yanked hard at my wrists as I sought purchase— I yelped with inhuman sound, jolting, shocked, the gloom sharpening. I had only meant to leverage myself closer to—
The smells were all. Damp wood, mudbrick foundation below… and tobacco, faint, hanging in the air… and before long, the sweetness of powdered rot—there! In the hall! My hind prickled. My nose, like a dog’s, dragged along the floor, collecting, smudging, travelling up, and up, right up to the chipped ceramic on the sidebar. I peered at the limp husk within—
A plum-sized body unfurled from shadow. Quick, scuttling legs sent me scrambling back to the hardwood, bottom-down. I lost my tail. My fur dispersed in motes, limbs lengthened anew. The frequency of my yowl, my bark, my cough sent shrinking ears ringing. I rounded the corner—staccato from metamorphosis—and my new-and-old nightgown caught on the rough-splintering leg of the easel. Hear now the slow tick tick tick, the teeter from leg to leg… to leg… Four
Tugging myself free, I sought the window, hoping to discover where in the hells—The glow was imminent—But beyond the frame— only scribbles. Mottled textures like eggshells, soil and fertiliser. Nothing. No space. Kneecaps and elbows filled with stones. Gravity tugged at me, would not let me look away—
I saw it. Where the light was really coming from.
The wall rushed up to meet me. A frame jolted overhead—more falling; this time, I was the target—But no! A spectral, raw-boned hand clutched my chin, pulled me forward, would not let me forget, would not let me look away from eyes too bright, mouth too tight, skin too folded and smooth—prickled and smooth—smooth and rough—composed and weary—uncertain mournful fearsome and exactly new. What I’d thought was a canvas was in fact a mirror. ~
I wasn’t sure what to make of it all this morning, having emerged from twisted, sodden sheets, unmade. My knees were worn, my elbows bruised. Nose, bug-bite pink. Nor could I account for the brush, my hand—tips stained with every colour you could imagine. ~
