by Sparks In Shadow
After glasses of wine, we began. Left foot red. Right hand blue. Right foot yellow. The game stayed true to its name. I would’ve giggled, but spontaneity doesn’t happen if you try.
We had laid the mat over cement, not on grass, so yes, the scrapes could’ve been avoided. But the tiny blood drops, shiny red domes dotted against the white, made our efforts seem less frivolous. One’s own scrapes seem bizarre until they’ve bled or you’ve scrutinized them in a mirror. It felt important to generate ones we could see.
We twisted our limbs and sped up the game.