Her skin was blue, her blood was red.
One slick finial anchored her in place.
Its point, protruding from her sternum, glittered like a brooch.
Credit: Isaac Garrido/AP
Later, they would say these had been hummingbird hearts and not blossoms at all.
They would say she hadnt shed blood but wept it.
They would say a flock of moths had come, frantic, and tried to lift her away.
They hadnt a prayer, though.
They were purled away with the blossoms as a grit-choked gust came blasting down the street.
The earth heaved underfoot.
The sky spun on its axis.
A queer brilliance lanced through billowing smoke, and the people of Weep had to squint against it.
Blowing grit and hot light and the stink of saltpeter.
There had been an explosion.
Her feet were bare, her mouth stained damson.
Her pockets were all full of plums.
She was young and lovely and surprised and dead.
She was also blue.
Blue as opals, pale blue.
Blue as cornflowers, or dragonfly wings, or a springnot summersky.
The scream drew others.
Gasping in shock, she tilted back her invisible head and gazed, mournfully, up.
The screams went on and on.
