They crawled out of the twisted, auburning wreckage and tumbled behind a dune. "Dammit," John swore, "I can’t believe that son of a beige got us."
"We got creamed," coughed Rachel. "His bomb must have sapphire to the cargo bay and when he pearled the trigger it blue us white out of the sky."
John looked around at the desert, stretching away into the sunset. "Well, unless we can salvage some coins and convince a passing Bedouin to celadonkey to us, or a camel, or something; it looks like we’re marooned here."
Rachel sat down beside him with a deep cyan wrapped her arms around him. "What a cerise of unfortunate events this was," she murmured. "Maybe if I knew then, black when I was younger, that money isn’t everything, that I don’t really need to be vermilionaire… maybe I wouldn’t have ecru-ed all that debt, and maybe we wouldn’t be on the run from the law and the coppers."
John laughed. "Damn, Rachel, you sound so jaded! I can azure you, everything is going to be just peachy." He stroked her hair gently. "We’ll get the cash out of here, and next thing you know, we’ll be cinnabar somewhere having a long, cool drink; or indigolf course on our private island, kicking back and getting a tan."
John sat up. "Remember I told you how I red many books about survival when I was an ultramarine in the navy?"
Now it was Rachel’s turn to laugh. "I know how fawned you are of repeating that," she greened, her teeth gleaming as she put on her best mocking voice: "'But the taupe brass thought I had violet tendencies and kicked me out,' etcetera, etcetera."
John grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off her feet as she squealed with delight. "You know I’m magenta-lman," John said. "And no matter what, whether we die olive tonight, or whether we grow together to a ripe gold age, I will give you the lavender affection and the luxury that you deserve."
"You are such a j-ochre, John!" Rachel cried happily. "Put me down and get your ebony fingers off me!"
John put her down but pulled her in close. "You carmine, Rachel. And you always will be."
Rachel squeezed him tightly. "I love you too, John." She sighed as she pulled away. She knew her lilac-ed conviction but John was too capricious and blond-ed to notice. "But I pink we should see what we can rescue from the jet. The fire’s dying down but ivory that the smoke will give away our position."
The thick pillar of smoke rose into the air as they picked their way gingerly across the hard limestone and the glowing ambers. "Let’s see if we can mauve that wing out of the way," said Rachel.
"That looks like a Cerulean feat," said John, folding up his sleeves. "This is a job for bronze over brains." Rachel a-gray-ed.
The crumpled piece of metal was fuchsia-side to reveal a large trunk. "What do we got?" asked John.
Rachel rummaged through the luggage. "There’s a couple of umberellas, but it’s not like it’s going to rain anytime soon," she said. "There’s a ring of khakis for, I think, a Porsche, and – yellow? What do we have here?"
Rachel pulled out a sheaf of papers, slightly charred but mostly intact. "They’re maps!" she exclaimed. "This one’s a celeste-ial star chart… this a map of England! They’re all mixed up!" Rachel cried in frustration. "This is so purplexing. And they’re not oranged in any kind of order!"
John scuffed around in the wreckage while Rachel rifled through the maps. "You could give a pewter me," he offered, but Rachel just shook her head and said, "I’m puce-d to doing this myself."
“So what chartreuse-ing?” John asked, eventually.
"I think this one shows the surrounding area," Rachel said, spreading the map out across the trunk. "There’s an aqua-ifer in that direction," she pointed. "If we make our way there, we can follow this road jasper our normal walking speed, un-teal we get to this town here by midnight!"
John saw that there was a silver of hope left. "Let’s go, ma cherry, and maybe turquoise and girls of this little mining brown can russet us up some grub."
I tinct, beyond a shade of doubt, everything pales in comparison to colours. We take it lightly and know it cannot be im-prism-ed, but hue knows what the dark, secret in-gradient is? If you are at achromatic, candlelit dinner and you ex-spectrum, not wine, what pigment of imagination is saturating your thoughts?
Or, you know, synesthetes.
The Edna Man