Writing

Red

She still dreams in red. Poppy strewn ditches and forests turned scarlet by autumn leaves. Rust covered bridges under a flaming moon.  Red candy apples and red rosa plums stretching beyond the horizon, orchards upon orchards of red. A string of garnets at her neck and nails painted a deep, gleaming cherry. Flashes of lighting like fire and bright vermilion clouds, bursting with liquid crimson. First just a drizzle and then a downpour. She watches transfixed as the red rain floods the ground and drenches her hair and soaks her skin. It all bleeds together; blood everywhere. She still wakes up in the middle of the night with muscles coiled, ready to spring.

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