Flash Fiction.

The upside down world.

She gazes at the sea and wonders. What would it be like to live in the upside down world? The one that she sees so clearly reflected on the still of the water’s surface. The clumsy mirroring as if on foil. The world pouring over the skyline and settling on the surface of the ocean. It reminds her of the coagulated layer sitting grimly on the top of soup. The yellow house, buttery to her eye is drooping into a watery tornado. The colours are blurring. The chimneys are smoking into the airless space. Bird’s wings are flapping upside down. Where are they going? She ponders.

The light shimmers brightly below. In disorder. The fluffy cumulus above her melt gently through the horizon, marred and diluted, swallowed by the ocean. The trees bob, losing themselves, intertwining, separated by horizontal streaks of light getting smaller and smaller until they are engulfed too. Where do they evaporate to? She asks herself.

She treads past puddles, inspecting which part of this other life they will convey on their surfaces. Past the extending sea. But it keeps changing. The reflections ebb and flow with the world around her.

Yet it is different. Because there, things are permeable. Floating like the messiness of her imagination. Her thoughts are never quite a clear image. Akin to the foggy distortion of this upside down paradise. She wants to dive into it. To be swallowed into a place where her feet mingle with the ceiling of a forest. On muddled strokes of green posing as grass. She wants to be painted into this landscape. Dampened and blended softly. Her colours oozing. Mixing.

She would be distilled with the water. She would breathe with the trees. And she would move with the ink. She would look up at the seemingly perfect and stable world and notice how it too changes. How it too is unstable. And how it too merges and moves and disappears.

She looks down. Her feet are planted on the bumpy tarmac road. Her hair is tickling her neck as it wrestles helplessly with the breeze. Her body a seemingly solid fixture. Permanent. She closes her eyes. She feels herself expanding. She breathes in the salty sea air. She feels it pour over her and seep into her veins. She feels it moisten her skin. Turning her to liquid. Inking her colours. Imprinting her on its surface.

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