Ginny stared into the water bauble.
She saw buildings, foundations rooted to the branch, rooves plunging downwards. There were fire escapes – rungs as thin as hairs – and pearlescent window panes reflecting the brown eclipse of her own iris.
Treetops grazed the dome, distending to long green fingers in the breeze, before snapping back to emerald stumps.
There was a figure – smaller than a grain of rice – walking in front of the buildings. Stopping, it seemed to look at her. She imagined tiny eyes smaller than a pinhead – smaller than angels dancing on that pinhead – scrutinising her.
She checked to make sure the garden path below her was clear, table and chairs empty but for wonky cushions and a half drunk glass of orange squash. She reached out her index finger. Closer, closer, the bauble quivering in her short, sharp puffs of breath.
She touched the water, the surface tension pinging to her as if the skin was covered in adhesive. The broken dome released shouts and screams at the edge of hearing, a thousand tiny voices crying for help.
Ginny shook the water from her finger and watched it crash to the ground.
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. See the pic and write 200 words to go along with it.