Short Story
“What do you see?”
“Flowers.”
“What colour are the flowers?”
“Red . . . They’re burning.”
“Why are they burning?”
“I don’t know.”
“What else do you see?”
“Blue. The sky. But it’s turning grey and dark. Full of smoke. It’s getting dark.”
“Do you see people?”
“No.”
“Do you see animals?”
“No. Just flowers. They’re burning. They’re all burning.”
“Are you there?”
“No. I’m just watching.”
“Do you want to be there?”
“No.”
“Is someone else there?”
“No. It’s just the flowers. They’re burning. It’s beautiful.”
“You said they’re burning.”
“They are.”
“How do you find beauty in that destruction?”
“It’s red and orange. I see yellow too. The blue is fading; the black smoke blocks it out.”
“So you like the colour red?”
“No . . .”
“Can you tell me why it is beautiful?”
“Because it’s dying. All of it . . . it’s dying.”
“Why is that beautiful?”
“Because
