Artist's note: I was experimenting with Artist's Sketchpad, an Opera Widget, while making this. I must say, the colors are disappointing...

The moon glowed greener than the fuzzy forest of mold Reshaleh once discovered sprouting from the fleshy peaks of her grandfather’s false teeth. Her nightgown fluttered in the breeze, a breeze smelling slightly of boiled cow fat and crunchy pomegranate seeds, a stomach-warming, soul-nourishing, satisfying smell, that buried itself deeply beneath her senses.

Sometimes I follow you,

with broken wings drooping towards the floor and soundless footsteps reaffirming my invisibilty. I must remind myself that I do exist, though you might not notice me at first. When I step out of darkness, with yellow lamp light slipping down the smooth contours of my body, will you see me, finally? When I peel away these coarse garments will you be surprised to find that my skin is not an ashen gray, but rather a glossy opal that glows brighter than the milky pearls you strung around her neck, long ago?

Dusty Memories

When I found you the sun had already settled comfortably between the trees. The sky blushed deep red as I sat cross-legged beside you on the grass. Crickets hummed a nostalgic melody, of years as they scurried through the exit door. I’ve realized that time is a thief with a story to tell, of sleepy eyed boys with milky skin and fat curls for hair. I want to watch you forever as you indulge on half-opened dreams, drifting gently into sleep.

While no one looks I pretend that I’m a rock star, posing and winking for an imaginary audience. There’s Mr. Mouthwash, who’s tall, regal form smells of fresh mint leaves. With my hair fastened into a loose ponytail, I can relish the swish, swish sound as I bob my head to music. Miss Soap Bar’s shiny crown of bubbles always makes me smile. I squint and pose, jerking my hips to the left, to the right. Someday, when I’ve gone public with my talents (so far the bathroom's been my only stage) they’ll ask me in an interview, why I started. I’ll have to bring my yellow toothbrush, Mr. Mouthwash and Mrs. Soap Bar, remembering to ignore the shocked smiles, thinking They’ll never understand.

With tender skin and translucent hair, the elderly, eyebrowless woman emerged from morning’s stringy fog stopped over a crooked cane, her dry, bloated tongue increasing her struggle to breath in the thick and frigid air.

Your sleek nobs of black hair stir silvery recollections of plump cats, whose kaleidoscope eyes widen with curiosity every time I shuffle past. I fill with a dreamy nostalgia with one glance at you curled on the couch, your form as lithe and as limber as a cat I used to know, whose green eyes flickered knowingly in my presence, whose gray fur smelled of fresh pollen and wet leaves.

Welcome!

RULES

Starting Jan 1, 2009:
1. Post at least ONE creation at least ONCE a WEEK (for now).
2. Creation may be:
          a. Externally inspired
          b. A response to a previous piece.
3. Post it here.

**Creation does not need to be "good", "gallery/publish ready", etc.

--Jasmine