On orange days hell is hammocked in the plastic net satsumas come in. You always cut your fingers on it because the scissors are never near enough, and the pulling kind of helps. You do not actually eat one; they are probably tangerines, and you don’t like pips.
On lilac days hell is a small pink rabbit in a lace-trimmed dress who calls you “Madame” and tries to swirl a napkin on your lap. The rabbit smells of pastel-coloured candy letters that your grandma used to give you. You didn’t like them then and you know that you won’t now.
On deep blue days there is no hell because the sky is just so pure that you don’t have a glass good enough to pour it into. The taste of deep blue morning is the smell of fresh smoked salmon on a beach picnic. The deep blue day’s picnic blanket is babydownskinsoft because that’s what you choose to remember. The deep blue days are best but don’t come often.
Marie Little lives near fields with her husband, three sons and a very silly cat. She writes poetry and short fiction in the shed; one day she might finish her children’s novel. She has a Creative Writing MA from Northumbria University and a love of unnecessary stationery. She/Her. Twitter @jamsaucer
Image via Pixabay