COLOUR
‘Safety glass.’
Travis had a real problem with the term. His problem was only made concretely apparent when Travis careened through the windshield of his 1994 Toyota Corolla. The departure of his face with the passage of the windshield’s top lip did not help endear the phrase to him. The problems only got worse when Travis realised he was still on Earth and very much conscious.
Travis skidded to a stop a good twenty feet before his body, or what was left of it, did. Looking at the crumpled heap, if flesh, sans face and feet (they came off on the upper edge of the brick wall), there was no way the newly deceased was going to go over there for a closer look. It was a misty night, the roads still slick from the day’s rain. The forest in which Travis came to his glass-shattering end was thick with damp, and the wafting scent of pine still lingered in Travis’ awareness. The shadows were deep and dark, holes of a darker grey consuming what little light ventured nearby. Even dead, Travis was more than a little freaked out. He tried to touch a tree. His hand, at least he had those, passed right through it. He felt nothing. Suddenly remembering what had happened to his face, Travis’ hands slapped into his cheeks, fingers probing around like desperate worms trying to get underground before sunrise. The face was still there.
“What the hell,” Travis said to the air.
