The Blonde was in the tent, tall and lean, in the soft dark tent with the rest of us. We sat on cushions and blankets in a circle.

I felt strong & eager. My name was chosen for me: Garantan. Our names were created by the Blonde, based on nothing we were allowed to know.

Outside the snow was everywhere, fine & powdery & always falling. It felt like Maine, but no one knew for sure where we were.

Details emerged: we had been flown up to this wooded place: $1000 apiece to be a part of the colony. One by one we were to be eliminated until only the winner was left. We didn’t know what was to be won. We just knew there had been no other option but to accept this and come.

And so this name-choosing in this tent, this was part of the introductory ceremonies. The Blonde presided over them all. We feared her and wanted her, all of us, regardless of age or sex.

The days passed and I felt so radiant, so connected with everyone in the colony, even as I knew we’d soon be trying to outdo and eliminate each other with whatever viciousness was required of us. This harmony was in my skin and fingers. I wanted everyone’s eyes and laughter, even their hidden feelings, their secret hates. I wanted more and more of it. I wasn’t afraid of anything.

And yet I knew what my flaws had been. I knew in the beginning I had been almost pompous where everyone else had been humble. When I’d chosen my sacred words to represent me, I had picked colorful, audacious words, uncaring. And it had been noticed.

Still, I was often shy & scared, and I didn’t mind showing it. I got closer to people through this, and I knew it helped me advance further in the competition. I didn’t want to bury anyone, just paint as loudly as possible while exulting in everyone else’s colors too.

Time passed and I realized how many people from my daily life were there: coworkers, neighbors. So many faces I recognized. And as the contest drew closer to its end, our ideas of our importance swelled.

 (Read More . . .)

If I thought my blades would take take it, I would have smashed this helicopter into the walls by now, but it would do no good, the steel would bend and snap, I’d crash and never soar again.I’d do anything to see the perfect enfolding design of these maze walls sundered and ruined, I hate them more than I hate myself.

If I thought it wouldn’t kill me to land just anywhere, I would. But the ground is treacherous, pure fields of colored energy, and I know as soon as I stepped out onto them I’d be disintegrated.

My body has been in the cockpit for so long that I don’t know where it ends and the chassis of the helicopter begins.

But then there’s the Pink Cross. It’s the only place I know that’s safe to land. When I see it coming, from around a corner, I get so excited, I get so relieved. I say to myself: “This time I’m going to rest there forever, make a home. No more roaring of this copter engine. Quiet and harmony. Maybe find there’s soil underfoot, plant something. Maybe I’ll dismantle the copter and use its pieces to build a device with which to safely traverse the energy fields below. Maybe there’s even someone else like me I’ll run into? Who, like me, was once a maze-roamer, who has finally touched down to start a new life? There it is, I’m going to land. I’ll never fly again, I’ll never ever fly again.”

The truth is, I never stay for more than an hour. I look around, get bored.

I don’t even bother getting out of my seat.

The stillness makes me nervous. The silence does, too.

I’m flying over my hometown.

I’m flying near the grocery store.

The water sparkles but it’s not sun, it’s eyes watching me, and they need to stop.

I have so many bombs.

I have so many bombs, they’re waiting in me like eggs hungry to get born.

I’ve never felt so free.

It’s not my womb, it’s God’s.

What’s below me is life, but what’s in me is life, too.

I had the rare opportunity to interview Cobalt again the other day. He was back from a gig at the Golden Thumbnail and we were hanging out at the park, sitting next to each other on a bench and eating salad, watching some ants eat.

ME: I liked your show, seriously.

COBALT: I know, I could tell. Everyone did. You can tell by the faces.

 (Read More . . .)

Ghost Boy refused to move.

“Go,” called out the Mouth, “You’re out of the forest now. You’re free. There are mountains, rivers. There is open sky, no more the claustrophobic canopy. Clouds, wind, rain. This is for you. You chose this, I’m proud of you.”

Ghost Boy still couldn’t bring himself to move.

“I’d like to go back,” said Ghost Boy finally, with decisiveness, “I don’t like it out here and you will take me back now.”

The Mouth laughed sadly. “You can’t. It’s done. You stepped into me like an inhalation, and I breathed you out into this new world. It’s for you, all of this. You can’t reverse what’s done. I know it’s strange and scary. But you have to trust that you did the right thing for yourself.”

With that, the Mouth vanished.

Ghost Boy looked around. His arrows were gone, and his magic items: his chalice, his potion, his small powder skull. He felt naked. The sun warmed his skin and he heard the distant call of birds.

He took a deep breath and began to walk down the hill. It was different out here. No maze of a forest, forever forcing his path. Here there was openness, possibility. Ghost Boy was frightened of all the options he now had. He could do anything, walk anywhere, maybe head over to those mountains, with their promise of vistas and clean crisp air.

A few yards away he spied a pond. He walked towards it carefully, unsure of what it was.

He gazed into the reflection.

Instinctively he reached for his bow and arrow.

Behind him he heard a voice.

“It’s just your reflection,” said the voice. “Don’t attack it. Where are you from that you’ve never seen such a thing? The desert?”

Ghost Boy turned around, and there was a woman dressed in blue, eyes of blue, hair black, olive skin, teeth like pearls. The woman smiled.

“What is desert?” asked Ghost Boy.

“It’s where things are dead, there’s no life, no growth, just wandering and sand,” said the woman, concealing her surprise.

Ghost Boy paused, thinking.

“I am from the desert,” he said, and scooped up a palmful of water.

Ghost Boy watched the feast.

The Blue Eye hovered over the corpse, dropping white milk-tears. The tears corroded the flesh, souping it to a frothy gel which was easier for the green medusa to lap up.

The Medusa in turn fed the eye, coating it with the liquefied flesh. The Blue Eye soaked it up like bread soaking up vinegar.

Ghost Boy was shaking. He’d expected this of the Medusa, which he’d never trusted. Those slinky snake mouths with their winking venom-wet fangs.

But the Blue Eye — this was different. He never imagined the Blue Eye would kill and eat like this, do something so base, so visceral. Ghost Boy had thought the Blue Eye was one of the good guys. A wanderer like Ghost Boy, stuck in the forest and just trying to survive. Without a thought to eating, killing, devouring. Just another lost spirit. A friend to have, confess to and hope with. Not this. Ghost boy felt sick inside.

“How could you do this?” he suddenly yelled from his hidden copse. “How could you eat another living thing like that?”

Both creatures started, and dropped their food.

“He was dead when we found him,” said the Medusa. “And we’re hungry. Why are you so upset?”

“Blue Eye, I’ve been looking all my life for you,” cried out Ghost Boy, “and now you’re here, right before me, sucking up the flesh of the dead, feeding on flesh like a fungus, like a rot, a buzzard, a parasite. I wanted you to be something different, something better, something to help get me out of this forest, a friend for me, not a beast, a bug.”

The Blue Eye stopped dropping its acid-tears and wept real tears of sorrow. “I’m sorry,” the Blue Eye said, “I was hungry, and there was food here to eat. I never knew you were looking for me. I never knew how much I mattered to you. I can still be your friend, even if I’m not as perfect as you thought I was.”

Ghost Boy pulled out his bow.

“I don’t want your friendship anymore. Stop it now or I’ll kill you both.”

“What is it Ghost Boy,” said the Medusa, “What is it that bothers you so much? Is it that Blue Eye is eating dead flesh we came across by chance? Did you think he was a Spirit, a God, something above normal animal needs? Did you think he was insubstantial, removed from the normal objectives of living organisms? He is none of those things. He’s a simple creature like me, hungry when he’s hungry, thirsty when he’s thirsty, and if you aren’t willing to accept that, then you cannot possibly accept yourself, you who we’ve seen feasting on swine that you’ve shot and killed, roasting rabbit, and skewering sparrows on sticks.”

Ghost Boy drew an arrow in anger.

“Stop eating now, both of you,” he said, “Or I’ll kill you.”

“I’m sorry,” the Blue Eye said, continuing to eat, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted. Forgive me.”

Ghost Boy shot the Blue Eye through the pupil, and sent another arrow clean through the Medusa’s mouth. Both creatures fell in a heap, covering the corpse they had been feeding on.

He stood still for some time.

Eventually he approached the pile, shuddering, cold. He squatted down, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then began filling his mouth with great handfuls of flesh, making sure to stir it all up, eye, medusa and corpse combined.