One

"sky"

I sunk into something that wasn't stained with the echoes of my death but I still couldn't move. The conveyor belt didnt stop moving though. So my head remained dynamic.
Last Chance- WE ARE CHAPTERS

Nahum  
 
Seven colours. Lets play a game called seven colours. Lets imagine that our objective as a fleck of the universe was to collect articles of stationery and place them on a map. Then outline the coordinates of each article outlined. Lets lean on the wall and pretend they aren't trying to assasinate whatever freedom lives in our hearts. 

She was saying "lets" as if he wasn't already gone. As if the inn hadn't been set on fire by the screamers. Reduced from stone and hardwood to ash. As if the flames hadn't risen and made sweet love to the sky. That wonderful concave disk of navy splattered with the blood of white. The blood of the djinn. She was saying "lets" as if she wasn't in this alone again. As if she were but a mere moment in time , swallowed by the light. A still, of a vintage film, grey washed and with yellow captions.  

They leaned against the wall before she spotted it, under a desk. A string of pearls gleamed superciliously i the darkness. She picked them up as each bullet that penetrated the wall missed her on a whim. Her heart thudded against her chest as she made a break for the door. She was outside again. In the air. Free but at risk of being taken out. The fern and bougainvillea that surrounded her swallowed all light, the bougainvillea from which the shower of bullets rained was so dense that no moonlight was able to penetrate its canopies.  

She ran past the rose bushes and broke into a servants quarter, were she found two more articles of stationery. A ruler and a coloured pencil. She placed them in the pocket of her romper. And again was showered in a metallic rain of bullets. She picked one up and examined it. A golden kinetic projectile, pointed at its tip and about six millimeters in diameter. She imagined it being fired from the firearms, colt single magnum armies. Golden, small but powerful. Lethal but necessary for life, especially with screamers around.

She ran into one of the workers who was eating from a can. A can of baked beans coated in a bright red, sweet, tomato sauce. He held the can up to the gunman's neck and slit one of his jugular veins as Brionny scrambled  around the servants quatre and found article number four, a golden compass. Funny thing is, the gunman wasn't any gun man. It was four. The gentleman to which she had pimped herself. She stood there stunned by his stature. The deathly, lifeless grey in his eyes startled her. Wisps of his hair were adhered to his forehead by the jewels of sweat that failed to dissipate into the air the way all sensation dissipated from Nahum's body.

She ran out of the servants quatre and back into the garden of rose bushes. On a stone path that cut through the thick canopy of fern and bougainvillea. Then into the inn opposite Parma's. There with the help of her machete, and a whole lot of blood shed she found the other three articles of stationery. An eraser, a protractor and another coloured pencil. She scrambled back to Parmas inn. Where she placed each article of stationery in each outlined spot on the map. Then she found the exact co-ordinates of Nahum's palace. Though leaving him in the bullet riddled in was a mistake. Because most of the bloodshed in that inn, she found, was Nahum and Jennys.

Maybe it was a hawk eye attack. Or possibly the djinn. Maybe even a few screamers.

Speaking of screamers she heard their wails as she ruminated over her Nahum. She heard their wails even from the distance as she bolted east of the inn. She blinked as her inner narrative dominated her train of thought.

 Heaven might as well be a hell. I mean think about it. Having to live up to all that divine perfection would be impossible. The only thing imperfect, not up to the celestial would be you. Odd you. You literary sophisticate. You Nahum you, explorer of the imaginary, you are more divine than the sunrise. She raised my palms up and stare at the sky and watched him die. Watched the shadow of his soul rise into the sky, home of all lost souls, capturer of the wails that reverberate into the world of nothing.