MajorKerina

Art by Liz Weaver

Showered in Color

=======

Brent went to the Painted Desert to die.

He sold off his house, left his dog with a friend, and made sure his loved ones knew.

The journey, in his ancient, yellow Firebird, took several days across wide-open country to get to the boundary of the Exclusion Zone.

He rolled past fresh ghost towns, ragged barbed-wire fences, and thunderous helicopters. Presenting his waiver at the last traffic stop on the road, along with a roll of cash, the officer waved him on through.

Inside the Zone, everything appeared eerily-normal. Cows wandered lonely fields. Pines gave way to sparse shrubs. And diners still advertised the specials in their windows. Only after ten miles did he find a reason to slow his car: The hills.

They caught the noonday light with a stark, unnatural tone. Like they were spread across an enormous billboard advertising the desert, a splash of paint that set this land apart from all the rest. The Painted Desert was literal.

Some said it was a failed government experiment, others a sign of alien life, and a few just claimed God was broken. Brent didn't know what to believe, but he had to get closer.

Tearing down a dirt road, it didn't take him long to pass from normal ground to artful expanse. The Firebird rolled over the painted landscape the same as any other. A good ways in, he stopped at a gorgeous vista and stepped out.

The land shifted like a blend of watercolor and acrylic being repainted with every step. Sparse plants wiggled with the landscape. A stagnant pond wore a muddy shade of cerulean. This was it.

He reached down to cup the surreal sand in his hands. He thought of the landscape of Toontown in Who Framed Roger Rabbit? He wasn't the first.

Snakes and rabbits didn't talk here but he'd seen videos of them moving around like animated beings, unhurt but forever changed. And strange things happened when it rained. They found smears in the shapes of animals and people.

He swallowed and touched the stagnant water. It may have been pretty, but it still felt gross. The mud beside the pond worked better. Grasping large clumps, he covered himself until he looked like a rough painting of a mud man. And he waited.

Brent set out a simple tent, little more than a tarp strung across a rod. He laid in the dirt, eventually nude, with a fresh coat of mud. He barely covered himself, shivering when the sun set.

The next morning, he woke to find that no matter how much mud he stripped from his body, there was more paint. He had become like everything else. Sighing with relief, he made his way to a rest stop with a long bank of showers. He was the only one there.

Taking one last breath, he stood under the spray. He expected to melt away, color down the drain, thoughts fading as he became one with the land.

He did dwindle, his heart racing in his chest, but his feet remained. The paint ran with streaks and blurs, taking the mud away. Parts of him sloughed off but not everything. His waist sunk but also settled to swell at his hips and behind. The water clouded his vision but so did a golden mass swarming at his eyes. More hair than he had ever known on his head.

It spilled and crested across his shoulders and tickled parts of his chest which extended further and further, so soft and warm.

Gently opening his eyes, he marveled at his changed shape, at the woman he had melted into. Instead of fear, he felt as though the weight always with him, the darkness inside, had washed away with all that dirt. She laughed, gargling and spitting out a tickling geyser which raised her voice to a melody.

Tracing the resculpted sweep of her body, she imagined beyond Brent's thoughts.

He came to the Painted Desert to die, she left with the bright colors of life brushing her soul.