by Harriet Gregory
On the driveway, he said “It’s funny to kiss you.” She looked at him and a tear left her eye, and took with it its blue colour. The blue ran down her face, thick syrup goo that dripped into a blob on the pavement. Then, with nothing left to keep it there, her eyeball popped out. Stark white and hollow like a ping-pong ball it bounced down the driveway and onto the road. He watched on in amazement, waiting for her to respond, to say something, to be horrified. But instead, in the silence of his astonishment there came a rustling from the hollow of her eye. Out pushed a bird; perched on the bridge of her nose it shook dry its wet feathers and flew away.
Harriet Gregory dabbles as a writer/performer and is currently studying Theatre Production. She loves bad jokes, good posture and is aggressively optimistic.