Nizzin awoke beneath a lurid pink sky lit ecstatically as with the flush of concupiscence. Great silver clouds had been raked by hot winds into a vaporous ruin, atomizing off towards the horizon where the swollen sun sank slowly, incrementally, into the sea. Giddy with ruination, the winds came down from the higher climes and shook the vast swath of scarlet bamboo that enterprised across the hillside and sprawled heavily into the landscape of the island beyond.
Nizzin could not have been unconscious for more than ten or maybe fifteen minutes. He ached. A limb might be broken. His stomach turned with a nausea that told him he’d hit his head hard. The density of what he’d dreamt while unconscious fell away from him with a vertiginous gravity, pulled upwards past the pink sky into the sickness of deep space. His nausea wavered, then bloomed. He was sick amongst wild flowers.
From close at hand came the erratic buzzing of damaged mechanisms. He wiped his mouth, his limbs not broken. Slowly he tried to lift himself up. Nizzin could see the laceration of damage his crash had caused in the earth and at the far end of it, the red wreckage of bamboo all about, his flyer still trying to engage it’s anisoptera wings.
The wind pulled at the bamboo, the leaves shivering like a school of fish avoiding the scything glitch of the flyer’s wings. The caw of a stray savage bird scraped out a song in the hot air. At least there was the absence of the churning of the mainland, Nizzin thought. But his head was wrong. His vision went wide and blurry. He wanted to get to the flyer, he could not leave behind what was there, what he had worked so hard to steal. His consciousness oozed. Behind the glistening blur of the flyer’s spasmodic wings Nizzin could make out his pack. Perhaps the mechanism would exhaust itself? Perhaps Nizzin would himself exhaust?
The carnal sky took a sudden leap and rolled beneath Nizzin in a tumble of color, tucking him up under the earth where it was dark.