Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 4 ~ The Flamingo Race (GF)

WONDERLAND - 4

A bullet to the water. Skin separated the waves like some religious figure once taught about, before it failed and engulfed him again. It wrapped around like the comforting arms of a tentative lover, but this lover was jealous, and in this embrace there was anger, and soon the life was being squeezed from his lungs, his air being replaced by water and salt. Suffocation, that's what it was. Choking on air that didn't exist. It hurt, it burned like the very flame he'd seen in the projection on his bedroom wall. The feathers had already burned into ash, from pink to black within seconds. He figured the boat then tipped over and here he was, sinking lower and lower, nothing to hoist him up, not even his own will.

Garlic was drowning, and he didn't bother to fight back.

If he sunk to the very bottom of the ocean, if his back met the sand and made little fish sprawl and flee, he wouldn't mind. The blues were pretty, much prettier than the pinks of flamingo feathers. He'd always been above the surface of the water when he looked at the blues, but now that he'd taken on a whole new perspective with how the rays of light broke through bobbing ripples and made a whole different shade, he was content. He might've gone so far as to make it his new favorite color, had he had the mind to do so.

Everything was hazy, and he knew not what to make of things, only that things existed.

The blues were gone, replaced by a black once the salty sting in his eyes became too much for him. The beauty of color would have to leave, just for a little while. But couldn't black be considered a color? Anyone he'd asked before said "no" and others said the same thing, but chose to tack on "it's made up of every color." So wouldn't that make the color black the most vibrant of them all?

Maybe the lights just haven't shone through the seams yet, he thought. It was a whimsical thought, and he was okay with the color black.

Through the black he felt something wrap around his body, something filled with holes, something harsh. He thought of a hammock he once tried so hard to sit on but only kept flipping out of. Giggling at him in the furthest corners of his memory was a little girl, and his heart swelled with affection at the bobbing of golden locks, at the crinkling of tiny noses.

He hadn't thought of the moment in years, so why did it make him so happy? And why did something so happy make him feel so sad?

The hammock he lay in at that moment was much more stable, hugged his body much easier than something tied between two trees that constantly tossed apples at his forehead whenever his elbow bumped the trunks. More memories crawled over, they crawled right upon his chest and pressed their ears to his chest, right where his heart would be.

A light tinkle of a laugh sounded as I shook my head, rubbing the point of impact with aching fingers. It would bruise later, I knew, and I felt bitter about it, but not about the humour it brought along. I could only imagine what my face looked like, all twisted up with both honest pain and fake pain. A tiny hand met my shoulder as I lay back, twisted up in ropes. "Are you okay?" she said between bouts of laughter.

Despite the pain on the back of my head, I smiled. "I sure am, my little Jane Doe."

The girl scrunched her face up, but the happiness on her face was still there. "Why do you always call me that?"

I leaned forward, grunting as I did so. The hammock beneath me rocked precariously, but it was a risk I deemed worth taking. Taking a mouthful of grass was a small thing. "Because no one can know who you are. If they did, they'd go crazy with excitement." I kept the smile on my face, but I felt that something changed about it, like it wasn't there to show joy, but to express my fear. "If they found out, they'd take you away from me."