Sketchbook #7: Bushkill

The last thing Amber remembered was standing barefoot on the beach as confetti rained down. Her arms wide, her head back, spinning in place, she laughed as the tide lapped at her painted toes. Blue, red, white, green, orange, and yellow dots caught in her loose hair, stuck to her wide smile. She felt was invigorated and strange, as if pure light was swimming through her entire body, making her bones glow. The frayed and stained vintage wedding dress she still wore was the furthest thing from her mind. She caught falling confetti on her tongue like rainbow snowflakes.

#

Sitting slack in a wooden chair surrounded by tall thin trees in the Poconos wasn’t the strangest place Amber had ever woken up. Rusted utility lines loomed large and high, humming. She followed them with her eyes while the feeling returned to her fingers. Her eyes lolled, sweeping left and then right. Her shoulders shook away the ache in the middle of her back. Limp, jelly in her knees, Amber stood, fighting for balance. Pins and needles raced through her blood. Was it a hangover or just the biting brightness of the naked morning sun that confused her? Either way, focus was elusive. Her wet eyes blinked and blinked. She was still barefoot. That was good. However, now she sprouted wings. She tucked her arm behind her back. Reaching up until it hurt, her fingers felt feathers.

Amber walked east toward the rising sun. She was cold and rubbed her arms for warmth. Her fingers were black, stained with mud. At least, she hoped it was mud. It certainly wasn’t sand or confetti.

Oh dear . . .