Siobhain M Cullen
The dogwoods´ orange stems catch fire as the sunrise lights their tips, burning bright as red-hot coals. Otherwise, Silver Zone is still monochrome. Wizened hawthorn berries rattle under the car on the cough of a dry breeze, the colour of dried blood. The woman in the car does not see them, although no-one has closed her eyes. The man is jettisoned high above, out of British airspace and into the sun, cirrus rippling underfoot. Below, the car is a speck, shimmering through air greasy with kerosene. A laughing child clutching passport and sunglasses brushes past the car trunk - a matter of inches. No matter - the woman cannot open her mouth, her fingers already the colour of Blue Mountain Slate. In two weeks, this corner of Silver Zone will be empty, fluttering with metres of red-striped ribbon. Men and women in white bodysuits will unlock the car trunk and find her.