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Tessa Smith McGovern

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Red

Pastiche of 'Green' by Virginia Woolf

The red, chapped skin cracks. A rivulet of blood
slides down over whorls of lines and settles in a single, red
bead. All day long gleaming pink lesions split and shine,
tributaries twist and trace maps of criss-cross waterfalls. The
sharp blades of razors, reflecting red, flicker and flame,
flip-flap against red leather straps, stinging loud in the afternoon
sun. But the thickening blood runs faster, drips onto the
leather, the beads of red shimmer in the setting sun; the dogs
careen through them, lacing the dull earth in red paw-prints;
flat wheels beam florid, thin string of gossamer metal threads,
beads like a necklace on unbroken, coffee skin, one shoulder
lifts in disdain, an eyebrow goes with it; the sudden punch
jerks her chin up, flips her back, she lies there, watches the
red sky until the stars come out, unbroken. Evening comes,
and a field grows from seed, new flowers puff up into glossy
red blooms that wave and sigh, the ruffled surface of a
blood-red ocean. No ships come, no-one to save her, waves
curdle beneath the gaping sky. It’s night. The rivulets leak
and spill beads of white. The red’s out.

 

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