A ripe, heavy orange was tired of hanging on the branch.

“When will I fall?” he wondered. “I’m heavy with juice, I’ve been waiting so long. And I must be such a burden to this branch.”

“I’m stronger than you think,” said the orange tree branch, “And I don’t mind your weight. What’s more, do you think you’re the only orange here waiting to fall? Look around.”

The orange didn’t want to at first. Curious, he finally did as the branch asked. And he saw for the first time all his brothers and sisters, some small & new and pale, some a rich dark vermillion, swollen just as he was.

They greeted him in all their varied tongues and colors and shapes. The sight made him giddy with love to his very seeds.

“Now I don’t want to fall,” said the orange, “I want to stay here with all of you. I see myself in you and feel less lonely.”

And the orange felt some of his ripened, stored-up juice well up and drop as tears. Just then a gust shook the tree, but the orange did not fall — he was saved by having wept, his heaviness reduced by just enough to keep him attached to the branch.

And so the orange got his wish, and stayed on the tree for another season, and spent happy hours in the company of the other oranges, watching them fall and watching them bud and grow anew, so that when it was his time, he dropped with the fullness of life in him, & with a readiness for the soil below, the soft soil patiently waiting like a pair of cupped hands.

Ghost Boy isn’t walking now, he’s dreaming.

He has two types of dreams:

- Dreams where he finds the giant blue eye, but instead of shooting it and killing it, he watches it, for a long time, from behind trees, and dreams of making friends with it;

- Dreams where he meets other ghost boys and is very happy for a time but then has to leave them behind when they learn his name, or share laughter for the first time, or give him a gift.

Tonight the dream is of the purple woods, with copses clawing out into skinny paths.

It’s a good dream. He stands still for ages and friendly things come close to him, slow at first and then with confidence, circling around him as in some kind of dance:

The green medusa, the beautiful white chest, the coffin.

Ghost Boy feels a soft warmth in his chest, he could stay here forever, indisputable & unremarkable as a column, being danced around. But he has the chalice, he has the arrows, he has the potion, and he could make everything around him break if he needed to.

Ghost Boy is getting impatient: it’s time for him to dance, too. But who will then be the Maypole?

-We’ll find another Ghost Boy to circle, says the Medusa.

Ghost Boy quickens his step, practices a jig, follows the three of them into the trees.

Whoever it is must learn to stand very still.

The little Ghost Boy in a big grey forest.

He never turns around and he never stops moving.

He has so many arrows, but no animals to shoot. So he fires into trees. The forest is everywhere quilled with his little sharp flags.

And in the morning his quiver is refilled with 20 more.

He has a purple potion of pale, milky liquid, and he’ll never, ever drink it.

And he has a little powdery skull he can crush between his fingers. He knows when he pinches it, everything will go black. His fingers never stop itching.

Lastly, his green chalice, empty. He wants to collect something in it: rain, blood. But the weather never changes here and nothing’s around to let a drop of itself. He leaves it in disgust sometimes on a tree stump, by the side of the path, sometimes behind a rock. But he always finds it days later, just as he’d left it, green-winking in the orange-halflight of the forest, and he always picks it up again.

Here’s the double doors, spreading like a fan, like a hole between eyes.

“What’s this?” the man asked.

-A blue glove.

“I didn’t ask for this,” the man said.

-But now you have me. Put me on.

“You don’t fit very well.”

-That’s all in your head. I can feel all of the skin on your fingers on all parts of me. So I know that I fit beautifully.

“I’m taking you off.”

-No, there’s work to be done.

“What work? What am I supposed to do?”

-Use me to climb the golden rope.

“The rope in the corner? You’re crazy. I can’t climb that. I’ve never been able to. I’m not strong enough, and it’s too slippery to hold for even a second.”

-Try it. Grab it.

The man approached the golden rope, flexing his bluegloved hand, and started to climb, not expecting to have any success. Amazingly, he found not only that he was able to grip the rope without slipping, but he could also pull himself up easily, without any weakening in his shoulders and arms.

-Now climb the rope.

“But the ceiling — the hole up there — am I supposed to climb through that?”

-Don’t be afraid, just follow the rope. All the way up.
The man paused, halfway up the rope.

“I’m taking you off now. This is too much. I don’t want to climb. I don’t want to be up this high. I don’t know why you’re here but I’ve had enough.”

-Don’t. You’re up too high. You’ll fall and break your neck.

“I’ll just climb back down then.”

-You can’t. Try it.

It was true. The man had no desire to climb down whatsoever. He found the choice totally repugnant.

“Well I’ll stay here all my life then.”

-Don’t be ridiculous. You have no choice. I’m telling you, climb, this is what you’re supposed to do.

The man was still for a very long time, clutching the rope. He didn’t get tired — something about the blue glove gave him the strength to hold on seemingly forever. The hole in the ceiling remained frightening, so he refused to climb. The blue glove seemed to sense his stasis, and knew further urging would do no good, so it stayed quiet.

Just then the man had an idea. He began to climb in earnest.

-Good. You’re doing what you’re supposed to. Now don’t stop. Stay on the rope.

As he got nearer the hole in the ceiling, man readied himself. Suddenly he launched himself from the rope, grabbing the edges of the hole with both hands. He pulled himself up onto the surface, the golden rope stretching up into the sky beside him.

-What have you done? Why didn’t you keep climbing? Get back on the rope.

The man didn’t answer. He was on the roof now, stunned at the view. Not once had he ever been outside of his house. He didn’t even know it was a house. Just a room with four walls and a ceiling with a hole in it and a rope hanging down which he couldn’t grip or climb. And now he was out, free for the first time.

The city stretched before him from horizon to horizon, a white carved heaving ocean of roof & dome & spire. Everywhere were houses, and every house had a cord connecting it to the sky: all the other golden ropes, stretching out from all the other roof-holes. The sky was amazing, connected to all the buildings with this constant golden-shimmering rain of ropes.

He felt everything in him ready to embrace this. He felt a complex ache of fear and sadness and joy in his heart that he couldn’t understand. He wanted to go back inside the house and yet he wanted to fling himself into the new world he saw.

Just then an old man floated up to him, dressed completely in yellow.

-So you’ve escaped. And for what? For nothing. This city is full of houses without doors or windows, and people trapped in them like you were, too weak and afraid to climb out. You’ll find nothing but emptiness out there. You should have stayed inside or climbed up the rope.

With that the yellow man seized the blue glove, and with it began to climb the rope, hauling it up with him and stuffing it in golden coils in a sack as he climbed. The man stared up after him and soon the yellow man disappeared into the clouds.

 (Read More . . .)

The red seed traveled thousands of miles. Sometimes clinging to a galloping horse’s hide, or living in a seagull’s belly, or just sailing across water on gusts. It crossed mountains, rivers, forests. Its little husk was powerful and never once cracked.

One day it settled in a man’s mouth. The man was sleeping and didn’t notice. His dreams were troubled that night.

In the morning he felt a pain in his heart.

“Who is inside me?” he called out.

“A red seed,” said the red seed. “I’ve come to live in you.”

“Why?” wondered the man in anger. “Who asked you to come? I never asked to have anything live in me. Get out.”

The red seed said: “I can’t. I’m buried too deep. Besides, you have been asking for me: In your dreams you’ve cried out for me for three consecutive nights, 13 days ago. I heard and so I came.”

The man was mystified. “I can’t control what comes out of my mouth in sleep! How can I be held to that? Get out now or I’ll swallow poison and kill you.”

The red seed remained still, and said no more.

The man drank bitter poison for the next 30 days, thinking to flush out the seed.

But at the end of that time, the man, very much sickened, could tell the seed was unharmed, and still made him home.

“Please leave,” asked the man, “I’ll do anything. I don’t want you to be in me.”

The red seed said: “I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m here as you asked, and meanwhile I’ve settled in quite nicely. This is my soil now, and I will grow tall and strong from within you.”

 (Read More . . .)

The Moss at God’s doorstep was rust-red and tall.

“When will his step fall,” it asked softly, in a voice like pigeon feathers rubbing together, “and press me together in glad compression? I’m almost grass now, wild and too tall. It’s hard to lift myself up.”

An ant was nestled in the Moss’s dense growth. “Moss, be careful please what you ask for. God’s foot will press you down, but me with it. You’ll grow back, blessed by his touch, but I’m afraid I’ll be crushed and won’t spring back so easy.”

But many years passed, and God never came. The Moss grew tired of the ant’s ceaseless fretting, and when it finally died one morning, the Moss was relieved. “Now God can take his tread and I won’t have to worry about that ant’s anxious cries.”

One night the Moss was startled by a huge thumping sound. God was coming.

He was not naked-footed, however, but shod in sandals. And so when he stepped on the Moss, tamping him deeply down, the Moss felt a great disappointment to his roots. He had wanted nothing between himself and God: certainly not some dirty shoe-sole.

Pressed low and lonely, the Moss pined for his old friend the ant, and felt a great sorrow. Time passed and he got worse, unable to grow new patches, bent low and aching. Soon he prepared to die, never having recovered from the disappointment of the sandaled step.

Just then he felt the soothing taps of small ant-legs, all over his body, and was astonished. “I must be hallucinating after having my old friend on my mind,” thought the Moss.

“We’re real enough,” said some newborn ants, happily. “We rode in on the bottom of God’s shoe, little eggs all of us.” And sure enough, hundreds of ants had hatched, making the dying moss their home. “Thank you for giving us a place to hatch. Now Goodbye, dear Moss.”

And with that the Moss died in peace. The ants went on to find another moss patch, one miles away from the house of God and near no one’s steps, sandaled or bare.

The swordfish was cutting a hole in the ocean.

“Why are you doing that?” asked the electric eel, who was trying to shock the sea.

“God gave me this snout, so I’m using it on the biggest thing I could find, which was the ocean.”

“But you can’t cut the ocean,” said the eel. “Nothing happens to it. You’re crazy.”

The swordfish, dismayed, stopped. “Then what am I supposed to do?” it asked. “By the way, all your shocking of the water doesn’t seem to be affecting it much either.”

The eel, taken aback by this, stopped and looked around. True enough, the blue was unburnt.

“Let’s try that rock,” said the eel.

The swordfish sliced at a piece of rock, and winced. “Ow,” he cried out. “It’s useless!”

The eel zapped the rock three times, only to find it completely unharmed.

“Let’s try the sand,” said the eel.

The eel scalded the sand, but gave up after not a wince or cry was evinced from it. Next, the swordfish dipped his snout into a drift, finding the going easier than with the rock, but still not very satisfying. “It works, but then the sand just fills it back in.”

Just then the eel and swordfish eyed each other, as if for the first time. They shifted and readied, as if to rush into each other. And with a burst, each fled in opposite directions, the swordfish to his grotto, the eel to his coral pile.
 (Read More . . .)

It was a beautiful morning on the beach. The dark, troubled ocean whirled in the grip of red tide.

A coquina shell, washed violently ashore, kicked fruitlessly against the mud, gasping.

“I hate this sand, I hate this sun and I hate this blue sky,” he said. “Give me back my blood-thick sea full of thrashing.”

A sandflea heard the coquina’s voice, and hauled him into his burrow. There the coquina, on death’s door, was nursed back to health, taught to breathe air, and lived among the shore creatures for a time. The sandflea taught him as much as he could about the beach, the creatures there, and the coquina grew strong.

One evening the coquina, using his shell, clamped and crushed the sandflea and devoured him. In a passion, he tunneled back to the ocean, hungry to be in the dark angry water again.

But the ocean was not as he remembered it: it was pure, clean and untroubled. The red tide had passed.

The coquina returned to shore and dug a hidden burrow. There he used the knowledge he had gained to trap and murder sandfleas.

***
In time, the coquina found himself alone. All the smaller creatures of the shore had fled, and the coquina was too feeble now to travel after them.

One evening he sat outside his burrow, feeling a great loathing for it which he didn’t understand. He turned to crawl back in, but then stopped. He realized he could never go back inside. In a kind of trance, he immediately set out for the ocean.

As he grew closer, he felt deeply that he wanted to leave behind his shell, which had grown dark with blood, and somehow escape himself. He felt like his soul was covered in a thousand biting ants.

All his life he’d assumed there was a vast, deep pit continually sucking him in — now he realized he’d been forever willingly sliding down its slopes. The blood of every life he’d taken had done nothing to melt the frozen wastes encasing his heart and he knew now he’d die with it stopped in ice. He cried out in frustration.

At last he reached the shore, which was fierce and dark with red-tide, just like in his youth.

“Red ocean, why did you cast me out? I could have lived in peace in you forever. Instead you banished me and I became a taker of life.”

“Coquina,” said the ocean, “You would have made reasons to leave me eventually. You would have made reasons to reel in pain at the insult of your life. You were like the fish always searching for the hook, for a reason to reel, twist and curse. You can’t come back into me; I’ll not be your grave.”

And the Coquina understood, dying on the spot.