By Sharon Gosling
The jungle was dripping. Everywhere, colours were running, merging into each other as if on a doused canvas, half-finished and now beyond help. Colonel Spink lay on his side beneath the inadequate measure of his tent, watching the drowning amethyst of a flower his mother would probably recognise, but which to him was entirely nameless. It was being consumed by water, slowly crushed a little flatter with each murderous slash of rain. As he watched the amethyst gradually turned to garnet, the bruised petals folding against one another. Funny, he thought to himself, how water could be both death and salvation. In his head he listed other things for which this was true.
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