- Vol. 05
- Chapter 03
Then he boasted that he could cry blue – yes, weep cornflower or grape or bubblegum.
As easy as one chalks a snooker cue, he could squeeze out drops of delphinium
from both irises without perspiring, provided there was a safe, open space
far from naked flames or faulty wiring. I admit it: the promise of the taste
of devil’s dye or backscattered bluebells piqued my interest. In a disused underpass
he adopted the stance and his eyes welled with fine powder, like chalk or bonfire ash.
And yes, it was blue, whatever it was, like periwinkle, bruises or the sheen
of blackbird wings. At first it was a gauze of lazuli, a subtle aquamarine
shimmering that bloomed into a mushroom cloud of Manhattan Project indanthrene,
and kept growing, until even the moon turned blue, and blue was all that I could see.