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Becky stood at the edge of the world and swayed her arms left and right, fingers outstretched and grinning from ear to ear and as the colours of the rainbow streamed down below her, each person burst into a giant lollypop, a traffic cone, a sunflower, a fern, a small nebulae, an elephant or a chocolate.
The exploded remains of the cow sogged purpily about the place and Becky knew, she just knew, that this time the potato snake was on the scene.
“Oh-oh” thought Becky, as she was sucked down the dark, narrow and, above all, fluffy tunnel, “those trees are just not going to fit in here”.
“Whooh, look-it all the pretty coloured dots”.
The wind swang round to the south and she swayed backwards with the delightfully cool breeze; all the fission that had been occuring in her brain slowly reversed itself and she was, once again, able to think clearly.
As Becky stood in the middle of the earth, under the shade of the whippletree, amidst a streaming tunnel of fluorescing colours, listening to the sounds of a million voices collide and pop violently against each other, she wondered who else there was like her, she wondered if she were the only one truly alive in this steamy, underground version of reality, if all these other ‘people’ were just figments of her fig-scented imagination, if she were the only person that constantly received these giddy, swirling eddies of emotion that seemed to be simultaneously enervating and, yet, as stimulating as the stars in the night sky, these emotions of colour and noise and ice-cream which would swish fluidly around her body or if, indeed, there was another, one more, just one other entity who could wave away entire disenchantments with an insignificant brush of their hand, one who merely needed to think of the pastels and the paisleys to end the suffering (or begin it), one more being who would subtly, but oh-so surely join her in this licorice all-sorts land and bring her, finally, to her bursting and beautiful beginning.
She looked at her fingers in a sad and disappointed sort of way and turned around to point her ear at the closest passerby, who promptly melted into a butterscotch rollerskate - “much better” thought Becky.
That was when I realized what I was really seeing out that window: Boot had finally released the Doves of Ambiguity, and they had all flocked to the tree sheltering the smoking area out by the emergency room, which has been my view from the hospital for two weeks now.
The doves of ambiguity fluterred excitedy, squawking and pooping in their amazement at what they could see; Becky pressed her arms through their flurried mass to separate them so she too could see the view of the beautiful and creative princess in her tower of ups and downs.
The road seemed to melt in the distance, but as she approached the mirage it seemed that her rhinoceros was slowing down, his feet apparently sticking in the polka dot tar, while the lights that had marked the side of the road peeled away and floated into the air ahead of her, eventually coalescing into the shape of a young girl; “hello”, laughed Becky.
“Well, she’s not much use like this” said Miss Jane angrily, to which Becky replied “Fly, caterpillar, fly!”
The words fluttered about her head, spouting wisdom, nonsense, insight and strangeness, with the occasional piece of buttered scone.
Becky watched the swirling, shifting colours on her arm as they changed from pink to red to violet to green to blue and back again, and then she reached forward and gently removed both of her forearms, her left leg, her right ear and half of her tail and placed them all in the top her reverberating skull.
The ground dove up and down in huge, deep pits of anxiety, throwing clusters of giraffes and banana plantations aside as if they were feathers, racing along in waves after the diminunitive and sparkling creature that flitted gently away into the distance.
The spirals of colour wound up and down Becky’s arms, spurring under, over and through her skin, and as they sparked and clashed, feathers, bells and miniature castles sprouted from her pores.
The apocalypse may have been a bit of a fizzler, but Dorothy and Becky took much consolation from the delicious blueberry crumble pie.
Becky huddled quietly in the corner of the ceiling, giggling behind her sinuous fingers, and as the various ‘people’ walked by they found themselves suddenly and brilliantly transformed into all manner of creatures, especially mouses, coyotes, ducks, drop bears, scrinebirds and elephants.
Becky flickered softly in the corner, her many, many toes hovering a centimetre or so above the ground, and she scanned the crowd looking for someone a little bit ‘pooky’, another someone a little bit ‘soggy’ and, to complete the set, someone a little bit ‘nice’.
Becky squealed and protested, throwing giant tunas, wobbling jellies, miniscule minuets, and a laughing lollypop at the woman’s head, burbling “not ready… not leaving… not yet…”.
Lucy and Becky handstanded their way down the meandering cloud-path, Becky turning Lucy into a miasma of different beasts, including the amazing Shimmering-She-Beast-of-Honey-Yoghurt.
The sky will turn purple and green, whilst you will turn into a small, beebling potato.
As each precious petal floated into the air, Becky caressed them lovingly and swooped them above her head, and as they went by they squeaked, squealed and danced in delight, twirling around and entwining the shimmering figure in the centre of the maelstrom.
Becky raced down the lane, giggling and laughing, yelling confusing and contextless words, weaving and darting between the explosive rivers of colour, watching all the ducks bloom, the flowers exfoliate and the mammoths dance, and running recklessly forward towards the shimmering, magnetic and dazing light just that little bit further ahead.
As Becky swayed left and right during her happy dance of many colours, the colours sprayed out in ribbons all around her and the white lorikeets singing loudly nearby were coated with the most beautiful, unbelievable array of rainbow-hued feathers.
Becky ran in wild circles, skipping, twirling and leaping giddily as she went, and as she passed by the world turned into joyous frothy bubbles of colour and rippling textures (with the occasional miniature elephant).
Becky slammed the doors wide open and strode outside to stand under the sunlight, fiercely wielding handfuls of rainbows as she searched the streets for the gravy of sadness.
As the multi-hued birds landed on the heads of the various wildebeests and giant mamals, the contents inside of the red, red rose started to shake and to shimmer.
In the 9th corner of the office, the chameleonic Becky giggled purple bees as she watched ‘mouse inspect his brand new, slender, long and, above all, wiggly little toes.
Becky looked mischeviously at the remains of the liquorice wand, currently splattered all over the miniature dilpodicus, who himself was looking rather bemused at the sight of a harlequin wearing plaid trousers, a traffic cone as a blouse, and who appeared to be sporting a rather nifty meerkat for headcover.
Becky noticed the unhappy hippo just in time and reached into her left ear to whirl out her latest liquorice wand and, instead, found a small pea.
As she walked clear through everything in her path - the post-box, the street-lights, the people, the occasional poodle, a small, startled pigeon - the harlequin left a gelatinous and shimmering trail of perturbations and sherbert.
The ducks, with a slightly mad glint in their eyes, marched onward not looking to the left, not looking to the right - and not daring to look at Becky or the Tall Man who both, in their own ways made strange things happen - however, as they went by, I saw one sneak a peek at Henry.
The night sky split asunder and sparkled as it fell to the ground and Becky threw yet another handful of breathless wonder straight up into the air.
In the little bed the young girl slept fitfully, her eyelids seeming to twitch, and she seemed racked with pain, seeming almost to cry silent tears as she slept, and as the camera of the story’s eye swirled around the spartan room, and through her hazel eye, we found her dreams and we found her standing alone, alone in a big red land; and as Becky stood in the middle of the scorched, dying, red, red desert she pivoted slowly around, her eyes flitting over the rocks and rock wallabies, watching this land die, but looking for signs of moisture, some sort of droplet, a little sign of life, just the merest hint of rain, but all she found was dust, flames, rock hard and lifeless ground and ashes, but she couldn’t give up, this land was hers and she wouldn’t let it die, so she spread her arms wide as she continued to turn and as she did so the searing air began to shimmer and curl, seeming to split and fly away in ribbons, each ribbon a shade of blue, a blue like the ocean, a blue of a young girl’s eyes, the blues from a bowerbird’s collection, a blue of the late night sky, and as each ribbon curled away into the sky, it became a tornado of blue, swirling higher and higher above Becky’s head until she was at the centre of a psychedelic storm and with each movement that she made, the storm grew and spread, reaching out across the scorched and scarred land, going up towards the centre and the red, red shores, spreading to the right and roaring through its deep green valleys, reaching further down through the myriad of lands, all the way to the bottom to its crisp white lines, swirling in larger and larger circles around the land, sweeping up the dust and the ashes and the pain, sweeping up the burnt carcasses and broken hearts, but leaving in its wake a river of gentle blue, a caress that called out to the people of the land, made them leave their hovels, exit their homes, come out into the street and dance under the blurred stars, so blurred because of the water falling from the sky, the moisture filling the air and filling their hearts, rain that, as it fell on their heads, caused their papery, dry and dusty limbs to cease crackling, a rain that started their brains to spark and their hearts to beat, a rain so gentle and long lived that they would speak of it for decades to come, yet it was not a rain of damage and torment, it was not in all the wrong places, it did not roar out of the sky ripping out trees and flooding roads, it just came and stayed and stayed until it was not needed anymore, it came when it was called and it was as blue and as beautiful as the Earth itself.
Fruit, musk lollies and berries flew in all directions as the young girl floated her way through the cool, iridescent evening jelly.
The sky was exploding in delightful waves of daisies and sherbets, each wave rolling out the oppressive heat, the dots of cool ladybugs were peppering down and reflecting off the diamond eyes of the young girl and as each wave bounced away they hit the striped circle of sugar overhead and the colours slowly melted away into pots of rose-petals, ochre, yolks, grapes, buttons, ice-cream, and violets.
Becky squealed with delight as the burgeoning bubbles got bigger and flew higher and higher into the wispy sky.
Back in the scrineiverse, Mary-Beth knelt before the alter, placing tokens to represent the sacred icons of coffee, food, alcohol, pirates and words - later, she could never be sure, but she liked to think that the unusual rainbow that appeared in the sky and the way the flowers seemed to be dancing in the garden were a blessing from Becky.
Becky was responsible for the rainbow and the dancing flowers, but she was also responsible for the short shower of sleeping gnus not five minutes later.
Crush one spoon of buttons, blend into the dry bugs, gradually combine with the walrus, bake for one hour and leave Becky to dry on wire racks.
Becky peered merrily at all the rusty reds and yelling yellows and nodded to the microscopic squirrel nearby as she said, “Looks like Scrine to me.”
Though her heart was worn down and broken, as she turned in her seat she caught sight of something uplifting, something that shined.
Becky looked at her suddenly dull and colourless feet in a happily confused manner, shrugged and danced the dance of the morning sun shower.
The ladybug vroomed and vroomed as she awaited her spectral princess.
The first mention of the early cherries of springtime was uttered today and, at its whispered name, Becky began to stir.
Michael looked around, noted a significant rise in the negametric pressure, and opened his mouth sending forth a stream of little purple birds on a mission to find and awaken Becky, so they could join forces for some uplifting playfulness.
As Michael burped surprisingly at the little purple birds, he noticed an effervescent presence poised delightedly on his window sill and she appeared to be holding a writhing, smirking bunch of Fluevogs.
Becky viewed the grey, stark walls with a slew of sadness and as she leaned forward, she gently hugged the whole, dull, looming, mass and, surprising even herself, squeezed it into the shape of multi-hued basket of lollypops, and soon it was surrounded by a swarm of merry megabees who each wore a little beanie with a whirring dervish on top.
Unfolding her hands gently, Rosie hoped the little ladybug had survived, but it wasn’t there and in its place was a young girl, not unlike herself, but so spindly and sparkly that she couldn’t help but laugh.
Becky tickled the blue wren under his chin and giggled as he honked and danced in dusty circles.
As the crayon was smeared across the paper, the rainbow filing out stripe by stripe, roy-g-biving all the way, there was also a picture of something else, someone that raised above the rainbow, who brought all the colours together and lifted them up and into the sky, and it appeared that she was holding three baby echidnas and a small snowdome or two.
Becky screamed at the top of her lungs and, as one would expect, this did not eventuate in a loud noise permeating out of her mouth, but, rather more delightfully, a small island, a rumba line of party-goers wearing brightly coloured hats, a small dung beetle, two enchiladas and a string of South Sea pearls.
As she turned slowly around, sparks and colours followed her movement and she found everyone waiting for her, all of those she had loved, all of those she had touched, and the young, colourful girl leant forwards and smiled and the light that issued forth became a river, one of happiness, love and joy.
At the end of the world, through the dust-clouds and halos of amoebas, there was a shimmering light, one that fractured into a spectrum of every colour imaginable and a few that were not, and these they called life.
Sometimes, your own fictional characters mean more to you than even you realise.
As she sat on the edge of the world, the girl wove patterns of colour and ribbons of smells, entwining fairies, dragonflies, pistachio nuts, jacaranda blossoms, trolls, harps and anything else that made her smile.
The feet were worryingly swollen, yet the young child smiled and giggled merrily at the nurse, who unbeknownst to even herself was in reality a small, cheesey antelope.
As she leapt each ridge, the world around her changed suddenly, with the latest wave containing quite a collection of daffodils, some lovely little butterflies, a disturbing container of wax, one or two dozen bananas, a surprisingly big canary, and a whole field of roses.
Becky turned haltingly as her body transformed, slowly beginning to fluoresce and hum, each extra head bearing its own particular resonance.
Becky twisted and twirled and a rain of happiness and glowing light cascaded from the sky, coalescing in a hive of honey for the very happy Little Bear.
She sat cross-legged blowing bubbles in the air, swaying happily from side to side, and with each gentle sway the colours spread gloriously before her, and the bubbles lifted higher and higher until they turned into the stars of the night sky.
Becky sighed the deepest of happy sighs and closed her eyes as she let the ocean of coloured glass gently roll her back and forth in time to the sound of her heart.
She’s always with me, one way or another, even if sometimes she’s playing marbles in my coat pocket.
The ladybug soared over the field of little yellow flowers, the young girl laughing uncontrollably, leaving a trail of bewildered book worms in her wake.
“Boing, BOING, BOIING” said the juniper berry bush to the maestro, as the parade of bouncing cows kerthudded by.
And it was then, while staring at the rushing clouds in front of her, she realised her childhood friend had never left her, so she turned to her, squinting slightly from the brightly burning colours, reached forward into the mirage, took her hand and, together, they rolled gently into the sky.
Rose petals rained down gently from the sky, making the most hypnotic patter imaginable, while the young girl danced over the shiny iced landscape and sung soothing songs to the stars.
“KAPOW!” went the fireworks, and “WHOOSH!” went the flying platypus, the pigtails of the young girl rider flapping insanely behind her head, as if they were dancing in time to her laughter.
Becky filled the skies with daisies, petals fluttering all over the world, happiness of every type falling on the unsuspecting joyously and at random.
It turns out that when you mix all the colours of the world, they come out white and flutter softly down amongst the masses, which in turn makes my dear friend Becky laugh and giggle until the whole city stops to notice.
Of the daffodils, of the purple coloured turtles, of the details of the tiny ladybugs, of the giddy laughter, of the pigtails in bright, red ribbons, of her vibrant, startling youth, then stand quietly with her and dream and wish for magic and stories.
Inside the frozen mountain, the young girl slept and dreamt, each foggy breath making gently whirling spirals of colour in the air.
And the sparkling, whirring, bullets that were the sugar-spun bees of Becky danced through the star-streaked night, across half a planet and, when they landed, planted a thousand kisses of daisies and delights on the coloured cheeks of the sleeping e.
The trees were made of strawberry jelly, the mouse was tiny as a bug; the cat was giant, sparkling and made of freckles, the harlequin was giggling: the mouse was made of moose, the harlequin had a spoon.
The smooth, shining waterfall was made up of the most dizzying of colours, and if you squinted you could make out anything you damn well pleased, because that’s how she wanted it.
The crowds of reds were raging, and they were surrounded by the swaying oranges and boisterous yellows, who were in turn circled by rounds of graciously stepping greens and waves of undulating blues and, there, all alone, following the luscious layers of indigoes and almost violent moves of the violets, the girl danced.
The pigtailed girl giggled and danced as each sweet bubble wafted deliciously into the air and away from their constrictive containers, causing consternation, confusion and chortles in the crowd of consumers.
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