Gallery No. 3

An End and a New Beginning

2012-01-04T01:38:00.000Z

Hello everyone, it's a new month and a new year here at Gallery No.3, our one-year anniversary to be precise!

Also, be sure to check out our new feature and a new group of talented artists and their works to vote for!

And now an important announcement: I have given it much thought and I have decided, due to school work and other real-life pursuits, that I am no longer able to give this blog the love and attention it so rightly deserves. While I am eternally grateful and in awe of all our great contributors, especially those artists who have contributed month after month, I feel that the blog has failed to reach newer and larger audiences like I first envisioned it to and that perhaps my lack of attention may be to blame.

In short, I don't want to see this blog deteriorate or disappear, but I do believe that someone else could do a better job at running and promoting this blog than I have done.

So, with a heavy heart, I would like to formally offer up ownership of Gallery No.3 to a qualified, enthusiastic blogger. Someone who can give this blog greater attention than I have and will help to grant the exposure originally promised in the creation of this space. Anyone up for the job?

If so, email me and tell me why you would like to take the reins of the gallery.

Thank you again everyone for a great year,
Diego

Alpha Kappa Alpha Fall 2011: VANITY

2011-12-29T12:00:00.004Z

by Xavier Burgin

Alpha Kappa Alpha Fall 2011: V.A.N.I.T.Y from Xavier Burgin on Vimeo.

From the filmmaker: This film depicts the Fall 2011 Probate of the Theta Sigma Chapter of Alpha Kappa Alpha. A probate is a coming out for girls who have finished their introduction period into their sorority. This chapter is

a part of the University of Alabama where I am a senior as a film major.

http://vimeo.com/xay

Found in a Courtyard

2011-12-17T00:00:00.003Z

by Cayman

The narrow streets made even more
as the flow continued unabated.
Oppressive, that river of faces,
whose countenances showed traces
of my own exasperation, and I waited
for a respite in a nook or door.

And it came, in a courtyard,
on a bench before the cross.
Stained glass spoke of sacrifice
and the peace it would entice
if I would consider the cost,
with God leading onward.

More so, in the cool stone of the bench,
the soft rustle of the breeze
through the sabal palm's crest –
that I could hear despite a tempest –
and the clock tower set upon the frieze
of the night sky's starless expanse,

Yes, more so these helped to impart
the calm for which I hoped for.
And beyond the gate passed the throng
in whose faces I saw also longed
to find a respite in a nook or door
and know peace before they depart.

From the poet: This poem was inspired by my attempt to escape the crush of the crowd during a recent trip to St Augustine. I ducked into the side courtyard of the Catholic Church at the end of St. George Street for a quick escape, and sat staring at a sculpture of Jesus carrying his cross. I'd found it interesting that I sought a moment of physical peace in the very place many seek spiritual peace. Spiritual peace – if you will allow for the idea of it – is elusive to many, and oftentimes complicated by the very institutions we hope will help us find it. Hence, this poem, it's coincidental comparison, and maybe my overly simplistic conclusion.

The blog is, http://caymantime99.blogspot.com/.

The Train and the Nature Walk

2011-12-13T12:00:00.015Z

by AndIJustSmile

Book Four, Chapter One

2011-12-10T00:00:00.001Z

by Drachma

Note: This is a sneak peak of a new work in "The Book of Drachma" series, the first three books of which have been picked up for publication and the first of which, "Laminar Flow", is set to soon be released.

Staring over the bow at the darkening sky, there was no mistaking what he saw ahead. Not one of those common blows so often endured around these channels, but rather, the one in front promised to be ever so much more. Diego Monteverde knew that this was one that he could not just sail around, and there was no land to be seen to the East or the West.

The first mate knew not to make polite talk when his Captain had that dark browed, iron jawed look, but he could see the storm ahead as well, and knew that his responsibility was to the ship.

“Me apologies, Captain, but that is one fierce gale ahead, and I was thinkin’ that it might be easier if we but turned the ship around, and went South toward those islands that we’d seen back down the channel.” He pointed toward the Southeast. “At the very least, we might avoid that storm’s real fury.”

“As you say, Vittorio, that is not your ordinary springtime shower ahead. But to turn around, and to lose another two day’s worth of sailing with this favorable wind. I know not.” Diego thought about it, and said, “All right then, mate, tell the pilot to slow the pace, with some tacking, and let us go down and study the maps that we have. Maybe there is land ahead, to the West that we might be able to use as a shield.”

So, below the deck, the two studied the map of this part of the channel, Vittorio indicating their current position, and Diego frowning, as he calculated the options. There appeared to be only one island somewhere to the Northwest, and the option of turning around became suddenly less attractive than ever.

“So, what you’re saying is that the wind is blowing straight up the channel now, and we’d have to tack along this line towards these islands down here. And even if we were to make it close enough to set anchor, that our chances of making it by nightfall are less than you’d even give me an even ha’penny’s chance of …”

“Aye, me Captain – you’ve about read it right.”

“Well, then, Vittorio, you know my feelings. I’ll go talk to the pilot. You go tell the lads to prepare for the storm of their lives. They should make certain that all our provisions are secured below. We could at the least make good time while we still may.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Behind the great wheel he found the pilot, looking as he always did. Nothing ever seemed to bother Ramon – not while he was steering his ship. His steady demeanor was one that Diego had come to count on through the years.

Stars (For Sammi)

2011-12-05T00:00:00.002Z

by Kevin Routh

“We live beneath the stars.”

Father always said.

As he kissed me goodnight

and tucked me into bed.

“They watch down over us

as we sleep and as we dream.”

“Flowing through the night sky

like water in a stream.”

“But why?” asked I.

“Can’t I reach up

into the night and feel?”

“I want to hold them in my hands

so I know that they are real.”

“I want to grab the stars and clutch

so tightly on to them.”

“Like they were a precious rock,

or a sparkly gem…”

“Silly girl,” Father said

as he smiled down at me.

“You cannot collect the stars

like pretty shells from the sea.”

“Now hush my precious little girl,

not another peep.”

“Lay your head down and close your eyes

it is time for you to sleep.”

After Father had left

and turned off all the lights -

came a glow from under my pillow

so brilliant and so white.

A star I had grabbed earlier,

lay twinkling on my bed.

I smiled - then slept

with it tucked underneath my head.

My Bio:

Another poem written for my daughter. I have been writing for many years and share my poetry and other writings through my blog (http://kevinrouthpoetry.blogspot.com/).

The Beggars' Church

2011-11-26T00:00:00.001Z

by Robby K

Sitting in the hot and humid aisle of a broken down church that smelled like pickled sulfur was not what I had pictured. The usher’s name was Druss, and he had said I would be attending a short talk about life and the word of God. It was a sermon that dragged on for an hour.

I got to the church at 8:30 am like Druss had said. He was not around to greet me at the door, but I entered and made my way to one of the closest benches. I chose the one that looked least occupied, by the door that said: SACRISTY.

The pastor stood on the stage screaming and gesticulating like a mad man for most of the hour. He was clearly out of breath and tried to support himself on the pulpit whenever he got within arm’s length of it. His old flowy robe was not enough to mask the skinny body that tried to hide under. His name is Torivaldi, I remembered from my discussion with Druss.

There was a neat, carefully kept picture of a young woman on a table by the door. It looked a bit like a shrine. I assumed it was in memory of a church member that passed away. In the congregation were people who looked like me. Probably other bums who could not really afford to take a regular bath. Out front were better dressed people. They must have smelled better too. Everyone was dressed in a white shirt and black suit, no matter how torn. Even the rare women in the audience were dressed formally. It was a bit comical. Especially when I looked at the whole in the large mirror that was behind the altar; they looked like an army of disheveled penguins.

Pastor Torivaldi spilled some babble about Salvation and learning to cherish those in your life. I had no one in my life. I had had no one since the day I was born. I thought the message was supposed to be uplifting. I wanted to leave the venue. Especially when he announced that it was time for the offering. I don’t know what I had expected, but it was definitely not this. Why would you invite bums to a service and collect an offering. I had come hoping for a nice meal.

I was getting irritated and about ready to leave when something wonderful happened. The basket was passed around and people started smiling. They dipped their hands into the it but instead of getting lighter, their hands filled with bank notes. Some had more than others.

A cult? I asked myself. But as the basket moved from hand to hand, getting closer to me I could see that people took money out of it. My hairs stood and my smile was almost uncontainable. I had chosen the last bench but surely there would be something for me in there. I stretched my arm to take the basket from my neighbor. A 20 dollar bill was left in there. I had not held an actual 20 dollar bill since the previous thanksgiving when a little boy had stopped on his way out of GameStop to hand it to me. But this? It was unexpected. I held to it tight.

All the words that the pastor said after that were lost on me. Except: Be blessed. I will see you next Sunday at 8:30 am.

The next Sunday, I was seated in front by 7:30 am and would have been on the stage if it was allowed. I went to sleep in my cardboard box the night before, but I dreamt of piles of money in a private vault and me swimming in a pool of money in company of some stunning ladies. My heart was pounding. I could have drunk a tank full of coffee and not felt any extra effects.

Ushers were trying to tidy as much as they could. But the church was in such a state I wondered why they even tried. I approached an usher and asked for Druss. ‘He ambles the streets looking for new members. He is mostly under the Bell Bottom Bridge,’ the man had said. I would not have thought of heading back there to look for him. But I would go there.

When the sermon started, I expected a deviation from the script. Maybe I had dreamt the last Sunday. Maybe there would be no ‘offering’ this time around; I was wrong. Even the sermon was the same. Almost the same words. The same mad look on pastor Torivaldi’s face. The same gestures. Mid-sermon, the basket was passed. I was first in line this time. And I saw the basket up close. It was full of money. More than I had seen in one place in my whole life. The usher got looked at me and my heart paced quicker. He was handing it to me and I looked at him for 5 seconds. Then I grabbed it out of his arms and dashed for the door, fumbling the basket and trying not to let the money fall.

No one chased me. I had expected an army of oversized, angry penguins would attack me and tear me to shreds. But they only watched me run out.

I finished the money within the week. A portion went to pubs and alcohol, some more to motels. The bulk went to the whores out on Babcock street. I was cleaned out by Thursday. The next two days were miserable. I had a hangover and no money to buy food on Thursday. The headache lasted the whole day. I did not eat on Friday. Nevertheless, I walked back to the Bell Bottom Bridge. I had questions for Druss. I found him speaking to some potential members and dragged him away from the group.

‘Hey Mike, I heard what you did at church last Sunday,’ he said.

‘Well I don’t care. I just have questions for you Druss.’

‘I thought you might, though I expected you earlier.’

‘Who is this man, how can he afford to give money out like that? How come no one chased me when I Ieft? How come I am not in prison. What is happening here?’ I said Gripping his collar. My hands trembled from the lack of food.

‘Torivaldi is a gangster, a killer, and a drug dealer, ‘ was his response.

The words took a second to sink in. Blood left my legs, flowing upwards and leaving me wobbly. I fell on my ass.

‘But don’t worry, he has left those ways behind. It has been 4 years really since he has done any of that.’

He told me Torivaldi had owned half the meth production of the city a couple years back. But then his daughter died of a meth overdose. He fell sick and was hospitalized for a while. His mind also gave in. He went mad and was interned for a year and a half. They say he spent his days telling the interned all the people he had killed and God was out for him, seeking retribution for those of His children he had killed. At night he wept in his room. A year and a half he was at St Anne’s. When he got out of St Anne’s -still half mad- he gathered all the money he had amassed and opened the Cilia Torivaldi Foundation in memory of his daughter. He bought the old abandoned church and preached there.

‘I was the first member of the church,’ he said. ‘I heard noise filtering through the broken walls of the church as I rummaged through the garbage outside one day. I walked in and saw a scrawny man screaming to an empty room. I recognized him instantly. Anyone who had been on the streets long enough knew who he was. I wanted to turn around but my curiosity was stronger than my urge to leave. I sat down on the closest bench I could find. The one furthest back. Mid-sermon, Torivaldi stepped down from the stage and walked towards me with a basket in hand and a crazy stare. I got scared and my stomach formed a knot. But he got closer and said: Take what you need, and stay blessed, as he got on one knee and presented the basket to me. It was full of money. I thought myself the butt of a joke, a prank by rich old men, or a tasteless new reality show. But the man was crying. He kept muttering: ‘please save me.’

No cameras showed up. So I took a 50 dollar bill from the basket, crumpled it in my hand, stood up and walked out confused. As I descended the steps he shouted “come back next Sunday.” The next Sunday, I was back with two friends. That time, I sat in front.

‘and why did no one chase me last time? I asked

‘they assumed you needed the money more than they did. Each Sunday, we take according to our needs for the week. Older members usually have jobs and so need less so they take less. Those are the ones in front. I love that place. That is how things should be done don’t you think? The church provides for us. And not just on thanksgiving.’

I had been seated on the floor and my butt hurt. I stood up, said thanks to Druss and walked away to find a box and sleep through the hunger. I stepped into the church a different man the following morning. I stepped in hopeful things would go fine. I found and sit and tried to mingle before service started. I was eager to learn more about the people present, especially our new found benefactor.

The church itself looked different. The broken panes were not so bad. The light emanating from the rising sun was calming. And the smell was not so unbearable.

From the writer: About me: I am a biology student, originally from Chad, Central Africa. I took an interest in writing not so long ago. I like constructing narratives within my poems. I share some of my poems on my blog: http://robbyspoeticcorner.blogspot.com/

Oh, Canada (something not to be missed)

2011-11-18T16:23:00.000Z

by Drachma

You can see more stunning work by the photographer at:
http://photosbydrachma.blogspot.com/

Indiana Train Tracks

2011-10-30T09:17:00.001Z

This latest installment at Gallery No. 3 comes from our very own Diego. Now, I'm sure all of you know enough about him, but here is what he has to say about himself and his pictures (that's right, he's taken pictures!):
"I am not an experienced nor knowledgeable photographer and would never refer to myself as such. But sometimes, I see things that I would like to have a permanent picture of and so I grab whatever camera I can find and do the best that I can to capture the scene. I believe we pass by many objects or scenes on a day to day basis that are beautiful in a way though they may seem mundane from a distance. These tracks, cutting through a small town in Indiana, represent that, I think."

It's Expected

2011-10-13T00:00:00.000+01:00

by Anonymous

A stop motion film comprised of hundreds of individually taken photographs.

Photographer/Director/Editor: Anonymous

Musical Track: Romanza by Brian King

From the filmmaker: From the dark recesses of cyberspace comes a mysterious message created by a mysterious poster who hates how photographs render their subject matter two dimensional: leaving the darkness and mysteriousness of human emotionality often unseen. And this mysterious poster has decided it is time to take a stand against evil photography...so he took lots of pictures in dark lighting and created a stop motion story of two ordinary men watching a movie (a rather mundane plot) but just beneath the lax visage of one viewer there lies a hidden well of seething emotions...mysterious emotions of technicolor. Side note, all editing techniques were done in camera and utilizing colored lamps. All images you see are how they were captured.

Red

2011-10-08T00:00:00.001+01:00

by Kevin Routh

Red loved to chase rabbits

on hot summer days

he never caught any

but that didn't seem to matter

he’d just run after them barking joyously

purplish tongue hanging out of his mouth as he loped

through the golden wheat fields

he would follow his boy down to the creek

where they would swim and splash and laugh and bark

afterward the exhausted pair would lie

side by side on the muddy bank of the creek

listening to the cicadas

the dog panting contentedly

the boy chewing on a stalk of long grass

one arm shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun

the other draped over his best friend
Red

My Bio:

I have been writing for many years and share my poetry and other writings through my blog (http://kevinrouthpoetry.blogspot.com/).

Midnight

2011-09-28T00:00:00.000+01:00

by Marie Viaud

Midnight. I can't sleep. This headache doesn't stop. I keep on vomiting every time I decide to lie down. I should have called work to check everything is fine, everybody manages.

Nobody reached out to me. It is fine so.

Midnight Mass. Hundreds of people pressing themselves into their cars trying to reach as fast as possible the Cathedral. It is surely packed at this time. I can't realize I am missing it. For the first time.

First year Paul is making his way alone with a kid in each hand in the middle of the Christmas fever. Outside, houses are covered in white and I can see the Snow Man they built the other day in the garden. It starts to melt. Maybe they will make a friend for him tomorrow.

Midnight. Memories are coming my way. Surely to remind me nothing resists to time. Even if you try to stop the clocks, set the alarm for one more hour, there is nothing you can do. Past is past. And today is the only moment you can enjoy. I can't do this. I am trying to feel the joy of another family gathering, funny songs and a tree full of presents. But I can't. It's there. For me it's already gone.

Midnight News. Sad as usual. Nobody thinks we need uplifting stories tonight, at least to give kids the impression it’s not such a bad and corrupted world we are leaving in.

Another day. A blessing they used to tell me, kissing me goodnight in the dark. And another dose of pain. If I could leave now I would surely do it but I got two angels waiting for "sweet dreams" and homemade cookies. Two little cuties joining their hands in prayer at the other side of the city, trying to remember the words of the "Hail Mary" we used to learn together.

Midnight struggle. The only one with me is a broken heart. Hard feelings towards a God I put my trust in. I can't stand my state, my inactive body, my head covered with a scarf to avoid others staring at me.

Midnight dream. I won't give up. There is still hope. I am still alive. The door bell rings. Nothing else matters. They smile at me, opening their arms, jumping on the bed, making fun of me. If I can still make them laugh, I am not lost. I can still be............

Till the next midnight blues story.

the grouch

2011-09-25T12:00:00.001+01:00

by Kevin Routh

the grouch gazed out his window one day

rainbows and sunshine and rabbits at play

green was the ground and blue was the sky

and dancing on the wind was a butter-utter-fly

the squirrely-squirrels laughed and played in the trees

the flowers were abuzz with buzz-buzzy bees

the birds sang their songs

the ants marched along

and the grouch just complained all day long

“rainbows make me dizzy”

“sunshine makes me burn”

“butter-utter-flies never listen”

“squirrely-squirrels never learn”

“green grass makes me itchy”

“blue skies give me chills”

“buzz-buzzy bees like to sting me”

“and bird songs make me ill”

“excuse me,” a voice said, tiny and small

“that’s really not how you should be acting – at all”

the grouch looked down at his window sill

and there sat a lady-ady bug, “hi, my name is jill”

“you shouldn’t be grouchy because of these things”

“they’re all just part of the joy that life brings”

“come out and play with me – come out and have fun”

“come run, dance and sing before summer is done”

the grouch was silent for a minute or ten

he stood there and stared at the lady-ady bug - then

the grouch closed his windows

the curtains he pulled shut

there was no sign of movement

from his grouchy-ouchy hut

jill lowered her head and let out a sigh

a tiny little tear fell from her tiny little eye

“poor mr grouch – i wish he could see”

“what a great summer day like this really means to me”

“the rainbows are so pretty”

“the sunshine is so bright”

“butter-utter-flies make me giggle”

“and squirrely-squirrels are a sight”

“the green grass is so nice and cool”

“the blue skies make me happy”

“the buzz-buzzy bees give me honey”

“and the bird songs are so snappy”

then a muffled voice behind her made jill look up with a start

and what she saw then brought joy to her tiny little heart

“excuse me,” the grouch said – a shy smile upon his face

“no one has ever invited me out into this place”

“i sit alone all day long in my grouchy-ouchy house”

“i sit in there in silence – as quiet as a mouse”

“i listen to all the laughter and all the critters play”

“i sit there all by myself every single day”

“but you dear jill have brought my loneliness to an end”

“for you have become - my very first friend”

From the poet:

I have been writing for many years and share my poetry and other writings through my blog (http://kevinrouthpoetry.blogspot.com/).

Stepping Away from the Fold

2011-09-19T00:00:00.001+01:00

by Kim

In the far corners of my mind

Is a little place no one can find

Memories have come and gone

I'm cashed out and overdrawn

Somewhere left behind...

I sit back in my chair and sigh

At my life that has gone by

But I look back down that road

At all the debts that I have owed

In my own eyes they belie...

But for now, I'm still existing

Although this boat I'm on is listing

I move to the my highest level

In its swaying I revel

My mind; it keeps resisting...

From the poet: My name is Kim, better known in the blogging world as K. Marie. I’ve been a writer and an amateur photographer for a little over 20 years. Writing and photography, to me, is more of a release and a form of self-expression rather than a “job”. I enjoy what I write and photography very much and take pride in my work. I love to write about what pains me and on the other end of the spectrum, my photography defines the “good times” or the happiness I find in my life. Please visit my blogs: http://moderately-difficult.blogspot.com/ : http://howiroll1.blogspot.com/ . I hope you enjoy!

The Divorce Hotline

2011-09-15T00:00:00.001+01:00

by Xavier Burgin

From the filmmaker: This is a short comedy film I have in competition at the moment. It's known as The Divorce Hotline. I made it about two weeks ago and it's in competition with six other films for most views: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jn7paDFv2DM

Cameo Appearance

2011-09-12T00:00:00.005+01:00

by Kim

Bog

Fishing on the Rocks


Shadow People

Through the Fog

From the photographer: My name is Kim, better known in the blogging world as K. Marie. I’ve been a writer and an amateur photographer for a little over 20 years. Writing and photography, to me, is more of a release and a form of self-expression rather than a “job”. I enjoy what I write and photography very much and take pride in my work. I love to write about what pains me and on the other end of the spectrum, my photography defines the “good times” or the happiness I find in my life. Please visit my blogs: http://moderately-difficult.blogspot.com/ : http://howiroll1.blogspot.com/. I hope you enjoy!

Sister Mary Katherine's Hairy Mole

2011-09-07T00:00:00.000+01:00

by Kevin Routh

"Diligence!!!"

Her shrill voice scratches at my soul like fingernails on a chalkboard.

I look down at the test sheet on my desk.

The numbers dance around on the page, mocking me.

"Sister, I..."

THWACK!

My knuckles scream out in agony as the ruler finds its mark.

She wields her yardstick like a mighty samurai warrior, striking down all who fail to remain diligent in her pre-algebra class.

I have no idea what diligence means.

"No speaking during testing!"

She waddles closer to my desk and looms over me like an obese, violent penguin.

I am a fish about to be swallowed...

"We must be diligent now, mustn't we?"

She looks down at me and cocks her head to the side.

"Mustn't we?"

Is this a trap?

Do I dare speak and risk more pain?

I slowly raise my eyes to look up at her.

I try to meet her gaze but...

The mole.

The giant, hairy mole on her chin grabs my attention.

I am trapped, incapable of looking away.

It is perched on her fat chin like a small, black rodent.

"MUSTN'T WE?!?"

I am hypnotized by the mole - unable to respond.

It's almost as if the mole is staring back at me.

"I AM WAITING FOR AN ANSWER!"

I stare unblinkingly at the mole and stammer, "y-yes..."

"YES WHAT?"

I hear her knuckles crack as she tightens her grip on the ruler.

The mole smiles at me.

"Yes s-sister m-m-mar..."

"SPIT IT OUT!"

"s-sister m-m-m..."

"SPIT. IT. OUT!"

The hairy mole on Sister Mary Katherine's chin looks down at me and winks.

"M-m-m-mole!"

As the word jumps from my mouth, time stops momentarily.

So does my heart.

Every student in the classroom swivel their heads in unison and stare at me in horror.

I realize, too late, what I've blurted out and then -

THWACK!

From the poet: I have been writing for many years and share my poetry and other writings through my blog (http://kevinrouthpoetry.blogspot.com/).

The Inventionations

2011-08-25T00:00:00.001+01:00

by Kaylee Garcia

About the artist: My art style is derived from many influences; such as Disney, Sunday Cartoons, and even anime. I am very passionate about what I do and I hope to one day get my foot in the door in animation field. Working with a company like Disney has always been a big dream of mine. Especially since it has always been a huge inspiration to me over so many years.

If you want to know a little more about me, or ask about some of my work. My blog updates every day!
http://inventionations.blogspot.com/

Imbalance

2011-08-22T00:00:00.001+01:00

by Taylor

Allow me to paint a scene with words.

A river, of great breadth and seemingly infinite length, meanders through a wooded land. Consciously carving its path between the trees, the river maneuvers the landscape as skillfully as if it had the mental capacity to anticipate obstacles and dictate solutions. The forest in which the river is housed is not one of those ancient woods characterized by dense, towering oak trees and dark leaves that envelope the land in mystery and which somehow, apparently owing to the stubbornness of age, never seem to waver even in the harshest windstorm.

No, this is one of those new forests, the kind that are bright from the very tops of the trees to the lowest-lying nooks and crannies of the forest floor. Slender, vibrant adolescents, the saplings willingly part their canopies, allowing the sun's rays to peak in and greet the life below with a warm good morning. Whilst chattering cheerfully within itself, the forest grows and develops with such rapidity that life's cyclic transformations are visible right before your very eyes. Flowers budding, blooming, and decaying. Young blue-jays hatching, feeding and taking flight. And grass, steadily growing higher, reaching for a place alongside the clouds. Everything appears freshly wild, yet contained and utterly content with the order of things. Living is the sole purpose here.

Amidst this excitement, the river appears oddly out of place. Lethargic and dismal, it is entirely uninspired by the abounding life which surrounds it. Its waters are murky. As if all it knows and has seen is muddled together into a mixture of thoughts and memories, which clog its pace and produce a muddy concoction that is unappealing, yet effective in throwing shadows over secrets, because when one knows so much it is natural to adopt a shield.

As you may have guessed, the river is ancient. Far older than anything alive at present in the forest. It has witnessed much in its many lifetimes. Among its several reincarnations it has been an ocean wondrously vast and imposing, an oasis striving for life in an arid desert, and a small pond contemplative of its own humility. It has carried people to and fro, sustained life and taken life, supported civilization and torn it down, making its cyclic rounds as life does.

However, the river is not alone in its archaic origins. It has shared this land for much of its existence with a family. One that began with a man and a woman at the dawn of human consciousness. You may call them Adam and Eve, or just a couple monkeys. It doesn't really matter. They adapted and grew alongside the river, which acted as a mother feeding them, scolding them on occasion and teaching them to see the world for what it is beneath the grass and beyond the horizon. Much like reaching out to touch where the ocean meets the sky, man found that truth is never quite realized. However, discovery is inconsequential because the act of wishing to discover carries the true weight of importance. The river knew all of this. It understood change and was change. A master of illusion, it lit a spark within the man and the woman and the first ever "Why?" was uttered.

Under the river's tutelage, the family grew to be quite prosperous. Tradition held that the eldest child would maintain roots in this land, while the others were free to move away. At present, a family descended from this ancient lineage lives comfortably within the forest, and as it happens their eldest child is sitting by the water's edge at this very moment.

He is a small boy with eyes of clear bright blue, cheeks round and flushed from the heat of the day, and brown curly locks that bounce when he chases after birds or throws his head back in laughter. He lives in utter bliss, playing all day and sleeping comfortably at night alongside his untarnished conscience. As of yet, he is unaware that manhood is fast approaching.

Every second of every day the boy is followed by a sound. One that vibrates from the darkest depths of the river, echoes throughout the forest and consumes the living with each breath. It hums to him, an ancient tune sung by all forms of life. A single note that connects the past with the present, the dead with the living. It marks life's constant circumstance of change, a transitory nature entirely reliant on the codependency of life and death. The harmony of opposites that can never touch, yet must work in unison. The natural balance of things. The Perfect Om.

Using the ever-present Om, the river pulls the boy to its dark depths. The humming sound growing louder as he presses his ear to the water. It is familiar to him. Like the softly sweet lullaby of a mother, it envelopes him in warmth and releases a wave of calm over his muscles. The boy dips his face into the water, reveling in the deep connection he feels with the world around him. He hears the Om, yet is apart of its source all the same, as if the roots and branches of the forest were but extensions of his arms and legs and the wing strokes of the eagle soaring above were timed to the beating of his heart. He is ready to be a man.

However, the boy is abruptly interrupted by the glint of something laying amongst the rocks of the river floor. Impulsively, he breaks from his link to Om and quickly, almost desperately, dives into the river in order to take hold of the shiny object. He doesn't know what it is, but he knows it is his.

Upon reaching the surface, treasure in hand, the river catches a glimpse of his reflection. He has matured quickly. Plump cheeks giving way to a chiseled jaw, soft features replaced by a tense brow and once-bright blue eyes muddied by a new-found hunger. What's more, he is now surrounded by silence. Forever deaf to the Om. Did he become a man like the others, or something else entirely?

That day the river did its job and set change in motion. But nothing could reverse what was done. Man had failed.

No longer do we breathe for the sake of living. Instead we inhale as quickly as we can, while refusing to exhale, all in the hopes of possessing more than another. And the river is helpless, because it cannot comprehend this type of absurd imbalance. All it can do is flow amongst the living as it always has and watch, with great sorrow, the reflections of a suffering world.

From the writer: I'm Taylor, a high school student and aspiring writer. Imbalance was inspired by a documentary I saw recently called, "I AM". It addresses how human greed upsets the natural balance of the world, affecting everyone because we are all deeply connected to one another just by the simple fact that we are alive. As a result of this imbalance, we suffer.

http://pennedbytaylor.blogspot.com/

Death By Dustbuster

2011-08-19T00:00:00.008+01:00

by SJCT

From the photographer: This is my first attempt at a stop motion short. I shot the whole thing on my Canon Rebel XS. It documents the life and death of a play dough man.

http://sjctphotography.blogspot.com/

Untitled Photos

2011-08-16T00:00:00.000+01:00

by Kübra Taşkıran

From the photographer: I am a college student who loves art- I enjoy every bit of art; digital, photography, drawing and painting.. Link to my blog: http://kubrataskiran.blogspot.com/

If the plan was create panic, what better Medium than a Starbucks coffee? - Survivor.

2011-08-09T00:00:00.002+01:00

by Robby K

'Monie fo' hot koffee' was scribbled on
The carton square hung around his neck.
Unkempt, smelling like he'd been dipped
In a batch of expired coffee beans,
He was withdrawn in a corner, legs shaking
So it looked like he waved to passers-by
With his whole malnourished body. I tried
To not look as I hurried through
The revolving doors to the polished, dry
Brown interior where masses amassed,
Scrummaged, crammed a tiny lobby
With tiny tables.
I served mighty Ego-boosters a la carte.

The attack was well orchestrated. Starting
With more or less a pound of flesh falling
Off the side of his arm, fresh crimson,
Harvested by the poison, while he argued
On a rumpled piece of cream napkin over
The contents of his decaf capuccino.

He did not shout. How could he. He was mute.
No one else did neither- not yet.
His mouth opened to let out not a scream,
But frothy foam that enveloped both lips-
Parted to reveal coffee rusted teeth,
A dull glow in the afternoon sunlight.
"why me? Why Now?" His eyes pleaded.
He almost slapped the coffee cup out
Of my hands - not yet- with his right, grabbed
The counter with his left, freefell
As his neurons burnt to a crisp.
He gave his cup raw spastic grips
So the liquid was spilled Like ink
onto the cafe's ground. The first scream
was let out by a girl. She ran out
Promptly followed by her parents.

Hysteria broke out as others fell,dead.
A handicapped man who had rolled
In a caramel wheel chair sprang out,
Confused, headed for the exit
As though the director yelled cut
And this was the end of an act.

He hit the floor with a crack
Like a bag of coffee- roasted-
Thrown onto a truck bed
Ready to be taken far away.
His face contorted, paralysed
In the shape of a wrinkled bean.

As the lucky looked at their coffee in dismay
The man with the sign rushed in to lap at the beads
Of liquid jet now ornating the floor.

About the poet: I am a biology student, originally from Chad, Central Africa. I took an interest in writing not so long ago. I like constructing narratives within my poems. I share some of my poems on my blog: http://robbyspoeticcorner.blogspot.com/

Lightnin'

2011-08-05T00:00:00.001+01:00

by Kevin Routh

My name is Screamin’ Joe Johnson and I sing the blues.

I’ve sang my songs and poured my heart out in every smoky old blues club from Chicago to Memphis for the past 60 years. I’ve worked with all the greats in my day: Little Walter, Muddy Waters, Jimmy Reed… But there was one person; one person more than all them others, who didn’t just play the blues - he was the blues…

They called him Lightnin’.

They said if you was ever lucky enough to hear him play…

First of all, lemme just stop here and say, Lightnin’ didn’t just ‘play’ that beat-up, old electric guitar of his; he fondled it, he caressed it, he made love to it; and just when you thought he was through, he coaxed his old gal (that’s what he called that guitar – his ‘old gal’) into screamin’ out some of the nastiest, down and dirty blues riffs ever heard this side of Hell...

But I digress.

They said if you was ever lucky enough to hear him play, you was one of the lucky ones; because when Lightnin’ and his old gal was jammin’, you couldn’t see his damned fingers move – he was goin’ so fast. It was like that guitar was a part of him; an extension of his arms, his hands, his fingers – yeah, especially his fingers.

I guess that’s why folks called him Lightnin’.

He wasn’t just a guitar player. He was a bluesman. He was a bluesman in every sense of the word. Some folks whispered that he traded his very soul to the old man in black for the right to be called a bluesman...

Lightnin’ came up out of the Mississippi delta, with no possessions other than the clothes on his back and an old guitar by his side. In a matter of a few years, he hadn’t just become a part of the ‘blues scene’ – he was the ‘blues scene’. People who had been playing for years came to see this young man play just so they could see what all the fuss was about and to try and copy his style. But as much as they tried to copy him, none of them managed to ever capture that spark that was inside of him. That spark is what made him better than all the imitators.

Eventually though, it was the fame, mixed with his own demons that caused him to fall from the limelight.

During his prime, Lightnin’ whored and drank with the best of them. People came out of the woodwork just to be his ‘friend’. Towards the end, when his fame, his friends and his health had all abandoned him, he still drank bourbon like it was water and took pills like they was candy.

Through it all though, there was one thing that Lightnin’ cared about more than any woman, any high, any fame…

The Blues.

Lightnin’ loved the blues. When you walked into a club and heard that unmistakable gravely voice of his crying out in anguish because his woman had done him wrong – it touched you. When you heard his 'old gal' wailing and screaming at you through the haze of broken dreams and cigarette smoke – it moved you. No matter what you were doing, when you heard Lightnin' you stopped and listened – and damned if you didn't feel whatever it was that he wanted you to feel.

That’s how good he was.

Even towards the end of his career, when he was older and no longer drew the crowds like he did when he was young; and people started sayin’ things, like he was washed up, burnt out, an old has-been whose glory days had passed him on by; even then Lightnin’ showed them that he was still a bluesman and that he could still jam with the best of them.

Lightnin’ showed them that, even then, he could still make his old gal cry like a baby, moan and wail out in ecstasy, or rumble like thunder.

Lightnin’ and his old gal showed them that they could still cut some nasty blues riffs, and I swear to God that you still couldn’t see his damned fingers move…

Even then.

From the poet: I have been writing for many years and share my poetry and other writings through my blog (http://kevinrouthpoetry.blogspot.com/).

Dancing Around The Fire

2011-07-20T00:00:00.002+01:00

by Robby K

I approach the smoke hoping to find food.
What they could be roasting, I wonder.
A rabbit family in its prime: plucked
From the barn of a village farmer.
Or a goat: one of the many that roam
The streets, idly gnawing at the women's laundry,
Having finally found a better use.
Or even better: an elk... in Africa?
I am delirious now. I should hurry.
Whatever it is, sweet juices will be streaming from it
And I shall thank God for his good grace: I am alive.

I have been walking for half
A day, the balls of my feet
Torn, my left arm enshrouded
In a constellation of shrapnel
Though I can feel it no more.
Only a few hundred metres to go.

Their village entrance has been blown to dust
Half the thatch in town has been burned,
Houses abandoned, left to burn
Just like mine has. But there is joy here
They are celebrating a victory
They were more fortunate than I was:
They pushed back the rebels' guns and jeeps,
Protected their girls from sure rape
And revel in their victory( as they should)
Though that smell is still here;
The same smell that soaked my sister's burning body.
They lost some dear ones too. Not many
From what I see: Only a few bodies
Soaked in red water, their final baths.

I see the people dancing around the fire.
They have their guns raised above their heads
Waving them at the sky like the black smoke from the flames
They are wearing military
Trousers and casual white shirts.
I can see it tied in the fire: my redemption.

Sounds of joy falling from the dancers.

It has been attached, feet together
Glazing in the sun
It writhes free and runs out of the flames
They push it back in and it stays there.
That smell again.
I must be delirious. For a moment
I thought I saw the shape of lunch
And lunch was a man.

From the poet: I am a biology student, originally from Chad, Central
Africa. I took an interest in writing not so long ago. I like
constructing narratives within my poems. I share some of my poems on
my blog: http://robbyspoeticcorner.blogspot.com/

Waterfront

2011-07-14T00:00:00.000+01:00

by Jeremy Ackman

Photographer's site: http://www.jeremyackmanstudio.com/

Solutions

2011-07-10T00:00:00.000+01:00

by DL Stone

Styrofoam Anarchist

Stained in the finest

fall colors and second hand clothes,

it stands in the front window

display like a titan

overthrown by the gods

of hand-me-down fashion.

With an androgynous smirk

sculpted on its molded face,

I wonder if it is a sadist

whom loves push pins piercing

the meaty white foam forming

the curves at the cauterization

of hips, or reliving in its mad

mind the polyester suits it wore

at Belk's department store.

Maybe it's laughing at

death, when it will be cremated

into peanut packaging for the fickle

Fingerhut catalogue shoppers.

In a last act of desperation

it sounds the alarm

to empowerment through

signals of silent animosity.

Standing so solemn,

waiting to overthrow the world.

What We Remember

The way you remember me

is the way a quarter drags

in the dryer, constantly

scraping, sounds redundant,

staccato taps at the corner laundromat,

or the scent of lavender on packed letters.

Paper similar to fragile skin,

and words that float helplessly

like the ashes of last winter's fire.

Once the wine glass spilled

days smudged out of the months

and I would trace your spine

with the tip of my finger.

What a dialect the sun spoke

in the morning, and our eyes would cross

while you rubbed a stubbled leg

over me.

The way I remember you is a memory

I could have made up,

a movie poster pinned

in oblivion, oblong embryos

in a surrogate mother's body.

Late in the evening

we wore arrogant smiles

with nicotine stains, and

we had such a grasp

of the situation

it crumbled in our grip.

E.T. Futuristic Lover - Katy Perry (Cover)

2011-07-07T00:00:00.003+01:00

by Adrian Balansay

From the singer: 21 year old singer Adrian Balansay is just a simple guy living in Texas. He loves to write and sing and cover music. He loves to practice Yoga, teach music and graphic design. I guess you can say he is an all around artistic type of guy. Always trying to find other outlets of his creativity. His total upload views on YouTube is around 400,000+ views.

YouTube: http://youtube.com/Numeria

Food for Thought, Or Not

2011-07-04T00:00:00.005+01:00

by anonymous

From the artist: 010000010110111000100000011101

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the end

2011-06-12T00:00:00.000+01:00

by Kevin Routh

sometimes life ends

not heroically

or swiftly

or quietly in our sleep

(like we thought it would)

but slowly

slowly

taking our dignity

and smashing it against sterile walls

and slowly

slowly

taking our personality

and muddling it

with tubes, treatments

and radiation

‘til there’s nothing left

nothing

From the poet: I have been writing poetry for many years and have only recently begun to share my writings with others through my blog. I strive to connect to human emotions and the human condition through my poetry. Some of my poems are happy, some angry and some are sad - but all of them are honest. They are all small glimpses into my soul.

My Link: http://kevinrouthpoetry.blogspot.com/

Somewhere to start

2011-06-10T00:00:00.001+01:00

by Connie Dalton

Every good story should have a hero (if not many) but this one doesn't. There are some losers, some survivors and then there's me. But then this isn't a story. These are mixed recollections of very real events. Mixed because I couldn't put these events in sequence even if I tried, my brain left confused and dazed by the quantity of emotions experienced, unable to organise itself.

I suppose I should try and start from the beginning but I can't quite bring myself to. So instead let me take you back to a memory I have. I don't know why I have chosen this one just that it's prominent in my mind. I'm often haunted for days at a time by vague memories of things I would rather stay buried, maybe writing about them will help me put them to rest once and for all.

It's the smell that wakes me. The sweet smell of brioche being warmed in the oven. My eyes adjust to the darkened room and register the few sharp strands of light which penetrate through the gaps in the wooden shutters. Its the middle of August in the south of France and yet the room is cool. That's just the way old French houses were designed, incredibly efficient at remaining cool in the face of the summer heat. I slip out from under the covers of the huge old double bed, menacing with it's dark wooden surrounds, and head towards the window, desperate to cast light over the various pieces of furniture, all made of dark varnished wood, all foreboding in their own way. Admittedly, to an antiques dealer, or someone with more mature taste, the furniture which is heavy and ornate would be enchanting but to a twelve year old like me, they are gloomy and ominous and reflect my feelings beautifully.

I wait to be sure that the sunlight has chased away the gloom before I turn around. As I stand there waiting in the face of the open window, I can feel the breeze which is warm almost muggy, even early in the morning. It gently runs through my hair which tickles the small of my back. My long chestnut locks, my crowning glory as my mother used to say, damp with sweat from the heat of the night. From my window I can see green fields and blue sky as far as the horizon, the quiet only disturbed by the occasional car which whizzes past on the only nearby road or by the bleating of the many goats. Some dream of this. Of sweet smelling pastries, of sunlight, heat, fields of gold and only animals to break the peace. Not me. I am in an idyllic setting and yet inside I am numb.

I slip on some clothes and go and sit on the bed, my feet dangle, swinging backwards and forwards wondering whether it is me who is short or the bed which is high, trying not to think of anything else. Trying not to think of the car, crushed, bent like an accordion, battered and broken. The hospital, the paper shoes we had to wear, the scowling nurses, the machines. The wine bottles, the old men, their cheeks stained with red blotches and broken blood vessels...then the noise of tyres on the gravel interrupts my wondering mind. Someone is here.

I listen intently as the car stops, I hear the car door open and close, footsteps, voices, broken French and fluent.

“I want to see her, please”... “I think she is still sleeping”... “please check. I just need to speak to her”...

I hear footsteps coming down the corridor and the kind lady who is fostering me gently taps at my door. She speaks in French slowly to me, knowing mine is far from perfect. “Your mother is here, she wishes to speak with you.” … “Please tell her I am not ready”... “are you sure...it's been weeks”

… “I just can't yet”. I don't know why I do that. I want her more than anything. More than anything I want to hold her and not let go. But then I suppose that's the problem. I would have to let go, would have to stay here and I'm just not strong enough. And I can still feel the anger, the complete uncontrollable anger. I'm know I'm not angry at her. I'm angry because my father is dead, because I don't know where my brother is, because I'm in a foreign country away from friends and family, because we had everything and now we have nothing not even each other. Because I'm scared. And it's true, when we are at our lowest we hurt the ones we love because we know it's safe to do so. I love her so much and I'll hurt her so much.

“I'm afraid she's still sleeping”... “wake her please, I need to see her”... “I'm sorry, the child needs her rest” I know she has reluctantly accepted the poorly concealed lie, probably because it hurts less than hearing the truth. And as the tears slowly pool onto the floor I wish for one thing only. Strength.

About the writer: Connie’s life story is one worth telling. This is her story about how life can change so dramatically in the blink of an eye, and what effects this caused to ripple through the rest of her life.

Link to the main blog: http://nevercafedespauvres.blogspot.com/

Crowned at Night Fall & Lilly

2011-06-07T00:00:00.001+01:00

by Sherry Wray

Crowned at Night Fall


Lilly

From the artist: My Name is Sherry Wray. I live in Southern Saskatchewan with my family.

With no formal fine art training whatsoever, and no knowledge of art history and even less of art technique.
I would say I am a self taught artist.

You can find me on Facebook under "Sherry Wray Artist" and http://sherrywraystudio.blogspot.com/

Originally the intention of my paintings was just about creating a strong image, purely visual, incorporating my experiences. I like to have different themes depending on my mood. Contemporary, ballsy, flirty, weepy, punk, no-nonsense, Funny, intelligent, unusual, independent, odd ball, and outsiders.

But most of all Lovely girls and sexy guys

Cover of Bruno Mars' "Just the Way You Are"

2011-06-05T00:00:00.002+01:00

by Davison

From the performers: We are 2 young kids playing and performing in around Washington DC we go by the band name Davison. A contraction of our names Davis 10 years old and Madison 13 years old. All of our performances (20 or so) are recorded live in front of an audience. Last year, our video "Mad World" was tweeted, Facebooked and commented on by the lead singer of Tears For Fears Curt Smith. Not Lady Gaga, but still pretty cool. Check us out on Facebook as well at www.facebook.com/davison.duo

A rainy day

2011-06-03T00:00:00.004+01:00

by Treebytheriver

tree loves to blog, play guitar, think, and write.

At his blog http://treebytheriverblog.blogspot.com he tries to encourage his readers once a week through showcasing the amazing aspects of the small things in life, like rain, grass, or thoughts.

This poem was written on a rainy day, to help him enjoy it more. Here it is "A rainy day".

The grass thirsts

the rain falls

A symphony

in nature's halls

I listen for

the great applause

But all I hear

is the sound of wars

I pray to God

for rain to fall

And wash away

these prison walls

To bring the joy

back to the rain

So we ca enjoy it

once again.

Punchmaster: a love story? (video)

2011-05-21T00:00:00.002+01:00

by anonymous

from the filmmaker: An tale broadcasted from the mysterious web space of dark mysteriousness and darknessness.........Mystery. OOOOOOOoooooooooooooOOOOOO (feel the Drama!)

School Project: Support Rats

2011-05-19T00:00:00.000+01:00

by Ima Girl

Alexia is also known by the name Alex.

A very confused person who does not fit in with her peers. She does everything wrong from how she dresses to how she relates to others. When forced to she will participate in school projects just not the ones her teachers or classmates want to become involved with.

Alex on this day picked supporting rats as her project and is attempting to persuade the class that rats are worth while creatures.

Alex tells her classmates about her research:She found through google god that rats have splendid personalities and are eager to learn and please those who interact with them. Not just for food as a reward but because rats can feel love and devotion to humans.Rats are very intelligent and possess excellent memory traits.Also as to mating and birth it is a little known fact but the female rat has pups.

Giving this project much consideration as to the presentation, Alex is determined to win people to the great cause of Rats. This is day one. Alex will not give it up.

From the artist: I live in a group home for girls. I am a teenager who loves to paint with digital art programs.I also like to write short stories to go with some of my paintings.

http://art-poems-stories.blogspot.com/

Don't you feel the love?

2011-05-17T00:00:00.010+01:00

Here is a poem written by Marie, who authors her blog To make a rhyme, where she posts three times a week. Sometimes they are poems, or picture posts, or even posts written in French.

It’s easy to find
A smile
Or a sweet touch
The feeling you belong to

A home
The smell of a pear pie
Sugar and spice
Feel the warmth and don’t forget to

Laugh
You feel alive
Do not rush
Take your time tomorrow

Is not there yet
Night brings dreams
Hope and believe
Nothing is too big for

You
Draw your desire
On a pretty pink paper
Destiny listen
Your heart knows when the time comes

To
Love

Two Poems

2011-05-15T12:00:00.001+01:00

by TracyRobin

Imagine, A Dedication

Imagine, if you will
Having something old
Yet it is something new

Imagine, tragedy giving birth
The loss of an older brother
The loss of a beloved cousin

Imagine, always knowing
That the past is never far
That he is still here

Imagine, laughter and secrets
He listens and teases
She babbles and cries

Imagine, one from another
One has passed, angel
One has come, rock

Imagine, new beginnings
Fragile yet treasured
Growing everyday

Imagine, new friends
Sharing old memories
Making new ones

Imagine, the silent song
Steadfast yet carefree
Passionate and deep

Imagine, if you will
Something new
From something old

From the poet: I enjoy writing verse, whether it is ordered or random, it helps me find peace with my emotions. Imagine, A Dedication was written in memory of my cousin Mike, for his brother and me. It is a reflection of how Mike’s passing has reunited me with his brother. It’s about our relationship, remembering our past, our loss, sharing old memories and making new ones.

Unsaid

Twisting tentatively

Words

Colorful collisions

Woven

Cosmic Kaleidoscope

Ideas

Marvelous mutiny

Birth

Thoughts gone unsaid

Swimming in my head

From the poet: Words and emotions mingle in my mind and sometimes dance with a feverish pitch. I simply have to write them down. I’m motivated so often by my emotions and the insanity of my life that it just feels good to write and then reflect. It’s therapy for my soul. It’s what writing is all about for me. Unsaid is just that… the emotional volley of words swimming in my head…

http://tracyrobin-soulfuljourney.blogspot.com/

Untitled

2011-05-14T00:00:00.000+01:00

by SJCT

From the photographer: I'm a part time blogger and photographer. A link to my blog: http://www.sjctphotography.blogspot.com/

Recycled Decoupage Serving Tray

2011-05-12T12:00:00.001+01:00

by Jamie Duncan

This recycled decoupage serving tray was created from a baking sheet, paint, and scraps of tissue paper. You can find the step-by-step instructions here: serving tray step-by-step.

Bottom Left

Perspective


Right Corner

From the designer: Jamie is an interior designer, decorator, and crafter living in Orlando, Florida. She has always loved working with her hands and finding new ways to improve the appearance of old stuff. You can find more do-it-yourself projects on her blog: day-and-age-design.com.

Conquered People

2011-05-11T00:00:00.003+01:00

by DL Stone

Droplets of blood bloomed on my thumb. A small spot of flesh had ripped off and the fresh white meat stung whenever I quit sucking on it. I scooted myself out from under the lawn mower and cursed the Yard Machine company.

Teresa must have heard me on her way inside the house. Her clean running shoes stopped at the edge of an oil spot and the water bottle she pulled away from her lips crinkled and popped as it tried to reform itself. A bead of sweat ran down the soft flesh of her neck, and it forced me to recognize how exotic and morbid her breasts looked pressed tight and contorted against her chest from the gym shirt.

I wrapped my wounded thumb in a shop towel and fished a cigarette out of a pack on my work bench. A box fan blew hot air into a hot space, and I waited to hear what her problem was today.

“Did you sleep okay?” I asked.

“So-so. It feels like I instantly wake up when the drugs wear off. Ambien gives me a deep sleep, but when I wake up I feel groggy and discombobulated.”

“I know you beat the shit out of me and yelled like the house was on fire.”

Teresa’s eyes got wide and a look of horror passed over her face.

“I did not.” She said.

“Look at my back.” Deep red marks and scratches from her engagement ring punctured the skin. I woke up feeling like my appendix had burst after her tiny fists pummeled me and separated my vertebrae.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember a bit of it.”

“It’s okay.” I said as I pulled down my shirt.

“Look, I know you don’t want to hear this but we have to do something about the car. I’ve been patient about the air conditioning problem, but enough is enough. I dealt with it two years ago when I was pregnant and miserable. I dealt with it last year when we couldn’t roll the windows down because the baby complained. But this year you’re going to get the compressor or I’m getting a new car.”

I sparked a fire to the cigarette and thought about our plummeting savings account. The end of the week marked three months I had been laid off. The unemployment checks were running out and the unemployment office stayed full.

“You know that’s not feasible right now.” I said.

“I know how you feel about it but I don’t see any other choice.” Teresa said.

“You could take my car, like I’ve offered a hundred times.”

I could feel the significance of my input sliding out from under me the way I felt my heart race. Every day I was unemployed weakened my paternal hold on this family. Teresa was getting more leering looks since she dropped fifteen pounds and the marriage bed had become filled with indifference since I lost my status as the breadwinner. The equal front we tried to establish with the kids had become lop-sided.

I stared at her. My cigarette dangled from my mouth. There was so much more I wanted to say about buying a new car but the first one to speak loses.

“I’m not going to drive your car. I always sink down in your butt print, and then I can’t see over the steering wheel. Plus it’s old and clunky, which makes me feel like a grandma.

“Look, I’m not trying to start an argument. I need to go change clothes and pick up the kids from your mom. Just see if you can do something to fix it.” Teresa said.

The stub of my cigarette sank down into the sand of a flowerpot with a little push. When I threw it ceramic shards ricocheted back at me from the door frame. I couldn’t even win an argument with an inanimate object.

Photography Works

2011-05-08T04:03:00.002+01:00

by Jeremy Ackman

Haberdashed

2011-04-26T00:00:00.001+01:00

by Scott

He loved the glint in her eyes. But also her hat. Especially her hat, really, so perfectly placed upon her head. He was smitten. But it could never be. She ignored him, as far as he could tell. Also, it would be difficult to buy gifts for one with everything. Namely, the hat. Red, velvet, high quality, sold out on Amazon. He needed her. No, he needed what she embodied, the capstone to his heart. That hat. The next day, he saw her. Just her and the hat. Only the hat now. He stood there, embracing his love, all alone.

From the author: Scott is a writer...er, scratch that. He’s just some guy who likes to put sentences together and hope they make sense. They don’t. Not really. It’s the thought that counts.

He likes tennis, cycling, and moonlit walks on the beach. His goal in life is to run a marathon, and his sign is Pi....oh? This isn’t the right place for that? My apologies. He hopes that you’ll enjoy his work, 100 words at a time.

Just Had INCEPTION!!!

2011-04-21T12:34:00.003+01:00

JeffreyMusicChan (Jeffrey) is a Vlogger on Youtube and is a brand new Youtube Partner.
He creates situational-comedy vlogs about the little awkward moments in everyones life.
Ranging from "Table Manners" to "Fast Food Stores".

You can find out more at:
www.youtube.com/jeffreymusicchan

Forever Tethered

2011-04-16T00:00:00.006+01:00

by Sonney Wolfe

It’s a hot September day and I’m driving eighty down highway 65 – A/C blasting, windows down, my citrus perfume and Harry Connick Jr. trailing out the windows like smoke oil from a stunt plane. I’m going to my sisters’.

Sometimes I need them. They are the only ones who accept what I really am, have been, and am going to be. They accept it all without discussion. They just do, all four of us do.

There is a forebay on the way and I always stop. I once had my thirteenth birthday there. Memories of leaving tweenhood and entering teenhood lay beneath the oaks there in the shade that hovers before the sand that leads to the water. I sit at the picnic table where my cake once sat and remember the sounds of birthday-party banter and balloons rustling. I wore my first two-piece that summer and tanned my never-before-seen stomach.

In the water, tethered buoys mark the swimming area, and they are helpless to a body of movement -- bobbing down and up as wakes from jet skis and boats roll under and across them like mini hills and valleys. Bound by physics, the buoys sway.

There are four of us, in order from oldest to youngest: Me (33), Daphne (27), Hailey (24), Abbey (22).

Hailey and Abbey live together in Chico, and Daphne and I decided to drive in and crash at their house. Visiting is always a spur-of-the-moment idea. My need to see them comes quick and strong, like a crack addict’s sudden hankering to get high. When it hits, I must pack up and drive to them.

We come together like a slumber party, we four, throwing our bags on the floor, hitting a cheap restaurant and sharing appetizers and beer and being way to loud and pissing off the other patrons.

Through the evening we rebel like teens: None of us brush our teeth before bed, the bathroom door revolves, bursts of laughter and childhood stories circle and entwine us, and we end up sprawling on the living room floor with pillows and blankets – some classic comedy like Space Balls glowing from the T.V. through the dark while we snore and drool and situate ourselves like a litter of sleeping kittens.

By mid-morning after coffee and powdered donuts, everyone has furry teeth, is B.O. ridden, sugared and cigarette-smoked out.

This is the closest thing to “home” I have found on God’s green earth: spending the night with my sisters.

Kernels of the Cob 2: Revenge of the Cob

2011-04-14T00:00:00.003+01:00

by Clayton M. Benedict

From the filmmaker: Currently, I am working on finishing up my last two semesters at Georgia Tech, and my current game plan is to write my thesis, get my degree, and then spend the rest of my life wasting my education by pursing my interest in comedy. Good plan, no?

http://nexuschoice.blogspot.com/

Interrogation: Chapter 2 - Part 2 of 2

2011-04-11T00:00:00.001+01:00

by Alex White

Chapter 1
Chapter 2: Part 1

Awaking in a soft cotton bed filled with silk sheets Rick assumed the worst was over. He took in a deep breath full of lavender and scented candles. The world seemed strangely blissful, after everything he’d gone through and the pain he’d felt; now it seemed to all fade away. A goofy smiled displayed across his face while a slim figured Hispanic woman walked into the room. Her voice sounded like a chorus of angels, and her skin was a golden bronze.

“It seems you’re awake, can I get you anything?”

Rick smiled even wider and shook his head softly, for some reason he didn’t find the need to get away. The little guy in the back of his head was screaming at him that this was a member of the same group that imprisoned him, but all Rick could feel was, well, nothing. Woah, back up. Rick tilted his head up and saw an IV drip bag above him, great, Morphine. They shot him up with Morphine, now the painless feeling was much more reasonable and his smile faded as he snapped back to reality. He sat up and ripped the IV needle from his arm and turned to face the woman, which he was thankful, was still a woman. Rick’s mouth formed a thin line and he began to further think about his situation. Around him were red and gold linens, on them sprawled some form of Japanese Kanjii, his silk bed sheets had the same markings. The doors were adorned with painting made form bamboo mats. Rick shook his head and set his face into his palms; He was in Japan. The woman spoke up again,

“I suggest you leave the IV in sir”

More Photos by Drachma

2011-04-06T06:06:00.001+01:00

by Photos by Drachma

You can see more stunning work by the photographer at:
http://photosbydrachma.blogspot.com/

Interrogation: Chapter 2 - Part 1 of 2

2011-04-02T00:00:00.007+01:00

by Alex White

Read Chapter 1 here

Rick found himself in a hallway; it was different from the room he had just left, but the cold steel walls and blank look still gave him a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was not Rick; he was not used to being helpless and not in control. Staring blankly he half ran, half limped, down the hallway. He guesstimated that he had lost about twelve percent of his muscle mass from sitting in that chair, maybe twelve and a half. His vision was becoming sharper and the colors no longer ran together, but for some reason he hoped they would. That feeling of just giving up and lying down wasn’t yet gone, maybe it was the effects of the benzodiazepine, yes, it was most likely a drug related effect. He let out a gasp as he lost his footing and pitched forward, Rick managed to save himself by scrambling to hold on to the corner beside him, turns out he made it to the end of the hallway. It was a common T intersection, something in his mind said to go left and he thought it better not to try and argue with himself in his current state of mind. He drew in a breath, pushed off the wall, and shot himself forward. Behind him a single piece of clothing drifted to the floor, a fatal mistake Rick hardly ever made. He left a trace.

The second hallway resembled the one before it, steel walls, and dull grey floor, fluorescent tube lights lit the way, and it gave Rick that pungent sense of disability. He gripped the combat knife he took from Scar tightly and pivoted on his back foot, utilizing the momentum form his sprint to flick the knife behind him. It sliced through the air and into the skull of Alice Wigde, a combat trained military officer that specialized in anything top secret. Rick dropped to his knees and his eyes fell to his hand then snapped back up to Alice’s bleeding body. What had he done? He didn’t even know he was being followed; he just threw the knife as if it was walking. Tears stung at his eyes as he realized that he just unknowingly took a life. Just what the hell was he? He knew impossible facts and figures, he had a strange amount of knowledge, and now he had a deadly premonition. Absolutely none of it made sense, and after sitting there, drenched with sweat, he gave up trying to figure out what he was; He was obviously something that somebody wanted dead, no not dead, but contained. He recollected himself and stood up, his stance a bit more firm, his face a bit less lost, and his fist clenched. Rick, without emotion, walked up to the girl and reclaimed his blade, wiping the blood off on the girls combat jacket which he would of considered taking, but he doubt it would fit. With a renewed sense of direction he calmly walked the other way, for some reason he knew it was the way out, and he learned not to question the little smart guy shouting the answers in the back of his head.

Later down the hall Rick began to think he was lost, he always seemed to wander into a replica hall of the one he was previously in, despite this he still had a feeling that he wasn’t going in circles. But he began to think the little smart guy wasn’t too good at directions. A loud crash came from behind him and light flooded the hall. Blinded by the unfamiliar natural light he squinted and threw up his arms to protect himself. Before growing accustomed to the light a large man approached him, but it wasn’t Scar. This was Ron Wallace, he was muscular, each muscle jagged and toned, he wore green combat pants and a white sleeveless shirt; he was black. So as the freight train barreled towards him, Rick swore the place shook with each footstep; he had no idea what to do. He could try and run, but his legs wouldn’t carry him; he could try to fight, but it was a fact that Rick would lose; and lastly he could try to talk him down, Rick quickly pushed the thought aside, knowing that this man wasn’t stopping for anybody.

In a matter of seconds Rick’s feet left the concrete floor and he was hauled up on to Ron’s shoulders. Rick noted that the man smelled of blood and sweat, oh and with a hint of aftershave. But he smelled something else there, it wasn’t a physical smell, it smelled like emotion, Anticipation perhaps. He brought an elbow up and smashed it into Ron’s neck, the larger man gritted his teeth and fell to one knee, swearing in Latin. His voice heavy with a Jamaican accent,

“I’m on your side Dumb Ass!”

Rick decided not to believe him, why, well he didn’t really find a reason to believe him. So he brought a knee to the man’s chest, this time there wasn’t much more than a wince form Ron.

“That’s it!”

After that Rick doesn’t remember much more, the world began to spin and he pitched forward into the abyss of unconsciousness. Turns out, Ron knows exactly where to hit somebody in the head where they won’t quite die, but they come damn close…

Rick found himself thrown awake by a sharp pain, like someone was twisting a cork opener into his head. But then he realized that would probably be a little less painful. He couldn’t hear anything; his ears were only receiving a wind-beating sound, as if they were… Wait, he was on a helicopter! Rick took in his surroundings for the first time. He was lying face down on a hard plastic bench in the back of what seemed to be a military helicopter. The walls were a charcoal black and strung with a series of black nets that seemed to hold safety equipment, dead in front of him looked like a locker that he presumed held firearms of some sort. He grunted and painfully pulled himself to a sitting position, the quick change of blood flow did not agree with him and he was sent to the floor, his vision blurring into different shades of black. He closed his eyes only to be met with a rainbow of blinding colors, and then the world got dark once again.

From the author: I'm Alex White. I'm an avid writer and love to write anything of any genre. From fiction to band reviews, that's me. This is a story that came to me while reading the book 'The Last Jihad'. The way the author described the interrogation room made me want to make my own story in a similar room. So while this story has nothing to do with an interrogation; it was inspired as such.

Horses

2011-03-18T00:00:00.002Z

by S. Okundaye

We sat to watch the Grand National.

We bit our nails, we ate our meals, hushed

As the coverage panned out of our screens. Behind

The screen, a thousand miles away, the ground had

Rumbled and the white horses had begun their gallop.

We sat awed as the horses reached the finishing line.

The horses were no longer white; black with the stench of death

As wood and horse collided with startling speed, we thought

Not of the lost but of the scale of nature’s Pandora

That does not infringe on our hazardless lives.

So are we concerned or are we voyeurs?

We the desensitised to the Earth’s bitter seed,

That disperses with no warning, wrecking homes and lives,

Whilst we think not of the ocean’s murder but instead

Of its mighty power, we the seekers of disaster porn.

From the poet: I am an aspiring writer though I have only just started to put my work online and plan to continue this. I am from London, UK and wrote this poem only yesterday. After the recent tragic events in Japan, I started to ponder the way in which people respond to such tragedies. I have come to believe that people do so in a way in which they almost become detached from the loss of life that such disasters create but instead concentrate more on the physicality of such natural disasters.

On the way to Grandfather's Mountains

2011-03-16T00:00:00.002Z

By Ramakant Pradhan

From the photographer: I am an amateur photographer based in Charlotte, NC. Most of my pictures are from the places in and around Charlotte. This place is abounds in natural beauty, cradled as it is, in the arms of the Blue Ridge Parkway. My work is featured on my blog "Tryst with the Shutter Bug" where I have tried to showcase some of the places I have visited in the last couple of years. Also featured are some of the experimental pictures as my fascination grew with the camera.

Blog: http://tryst-with-the-shutter-bug.blogspot.com/

Flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rpradhan/

Interrogation

2011-03-14T00:00:00.003Z

by Alex White

Rick awoke in a haze; his vision was too blurry to see anything clearly. As he tried to wipe his forehead he realized his hands were cuffed tightly to the back of some kind of wooden chair, from the feel of it the chair seemed to be made of teak or cherry-wood, but his mind was inching closer to the brink of death. He tried again to open his eyes, but he was struck with a blinding white light and was forced to close them again. He took in a deep breath and tried to make sense of his situation because that’s who Rick Hoffman was, a strategist. He had just been at a party, and not some college party, this was a ball. He strained to remember who was there; a deep vein began pulsing on his temple, either from thinking too hard or the sheer heat of the room. Now, at the ball there were two people whom he knew. The queen, she was there, but what was her name? He thought he should know, but the memory just wouldn’t come. The next person he knew was a close friend, he could remember his name, it was Steve. Fair brown hair, slim build, always dressed in those bright white suits that seemed to always one-up Rick’s own wardrobe of casual brown sports jackets and white shirts. But, that was about all he remembered of Steve, no last name, no profession, no relation, it was all just a blank spot.

Realizing that thinking was out of the question, Rick tried one last time to open his eyes. This time he wasn’t met with a blinding white light, no, instead he saw a dull yellow glow. He blinked a few more ties to produce tears and looked around; things slowly came into focus and Rick could take a long hard look at his surroundings for the first time, and now he knew why the room was so unbearably hot. There were no windows in the room; instead, he was enclosed in a quite small room with walls made of what looked like ancient stone. Each rock set at odd angles, having no real pattern of alignment or size. He shook his head, sweat already soaking hair that fell past his shoulders. Wait! What? Rick didn’t have long hair; he had a well-trimmed, nearly buzzed style. Just how long had he been in this prison? He hung his head down, not surprised that his clothing was ripped and tattered, or that his shoes were dirty and wearing holes through them. He laughed bleakly, almost giving up on figuring out what was happening. Hold on, he did want to give up, he had an irresistible urge to just close his eyes and go back to sleep. But why?

Photos Graffiti Style

2011-03-06T00:00:00.009Z

by Marie Viaud

From the photographer: "Graffiti Style - I have always been interested by this form of art.
Whenever I adventure myself in popular or old parts of cities, It is a delight to take my camera out and bring back home another serie, that I'll add to my collection.
I have done this for a while now, in B&W mostly, but trying to move to color recently. Not professionnal work at all, just a passion."

For more of Marie's work click here for The Written Word and here for Photography.

The Man Walked On

2011-02-27T16:09:00.005Z

This story has been written by Just Me 99 from Just My Stories.

The man wore ordinary clothes... a pair of grey jeans and a nondescript shirt. A haversack was flung over his left shoulder. His shoes were old but of good taste. He carried with him a pungent smell of sweat and dirt, a smell of being a man.

The roads were almost empty. It was long past midnight. But this city never sleeps, so the occasional indifferent car would whiz by oblivious to the man and his path. The night was warm with a hint of a damp breeze. Monsoon was approaching; the first showers of the season would burst forth to embrace the longing of the thirsty earth, anytime.

The man walked, his pace neither slow, nor fast. He walked in a steady rhythm that perhaps matched the beats of his heart. He walked with a purpose shared by the breeze that spoke of the rains to come.

The wind that blows across the sea, also rages havoc in the desert. The wind belongs to no-where. It touches the soul of every speck of creation, but belongs to no-one. The wind cannot be possessed, neither can it own anyone. Perhaps the wind understands LOVE.

The man walked tirelessly. From time to time a cab would pass by, and on seeing the solitary figure walking on, would slow down in anticipation of a night passenger. Fares are always one and a half times more after midnight. But the man paid no heed, he just walked on.

The ink-blue sky was studded with a million stars tonight; some lonely, some clustered, all embracing infinity. Each may have had its tale to tell. Each may have sung its song a million times; and the notes may still be found floating somewhere in the universe. A whisper may have reached the man’s ears, for he paused a moment, without any apparent reason. Were the stars talking to him? Well, that was for him to choose, and not the stars. But the strange note that had reached his ears and caused him to pause, must have been LOVE.

Silence held a blanket over the streets he traversed. A deep blanket which the faraway sound of a passing train could not penetrate. There were hungry children of the night and their cries seemed to stir the soul of silence. The silence spoke to the man and told him to open the chains that bound him. It told the man that he was free to choose his own destiny. The Silence must have spoken the language of LOVE.

When the first rays of dawn tentatively caressed the sleeping earth to wake it tenderly, the man was sitting on a bench in the pavement. He had placed his haversack next to him. The Sun’s rays touched him too with the same devotion that it touched every blade of grass. The man felt a profound joy within. Somewhere in that touch, there must have been LOVE.

He was hungry. Across the lane, an early vendor was setting up his makeshift shop on a wooden platform on wheels. He sold peanuts and tea and biscuits to early morning walkers. The man waited till the shop was set up, the kettle was placed on the fire. He ordered some tea and biscuits and gazed in anticipation as the water started to boil. The vendor poured him a steaming cup and gently handed it to him with a smile. The man reached into his pockets and held out some coins, and returned the smile. They talked of the impending rains and cricket scores. The man refreshed his body and mind with the humble cup of sweet spicy tea, and a couple of home-made wheat biscuits. Perhaps he tasted the labour of LOVE.

The sun shone brighter now. The city woke up to a flurry of activities. The tea vendor watched as the man, with careful precision flung his haversack over his left shoulder and began to walk. He wondered idly who the man was. He did not look or dress like any of the early morning walkers he knew. Where was he going? Perhaps he was going home. Or perhaps he had left his home for some other destination.

A young girl cycling by in shorts and T-shirt looked at the man. She found him attractive, he reminded her of a lover she once had. Perhaps this man had a lover.

The man walked on the side-walk. There were other pedestrians now. They were rushing by; each had a chore or task to attend to. Each was buried in his thoughts. The man let them overtake him. He knew his pace, he knew his city.

That day there were twenty cases of rapes, fifteen murders, and thirteen accidents in the city. There were also infinite gestures of love, some visible to the eye, others visible to the soul.

And the man, the ordinary man, who may have been just about any man anyone ever knew, kept walking on. His story, after all, is the pivot around which the history of the universe revolves. So somewhere in that story, there must have been LOVE.

Modest Images

2011-02-25T00:00:00.002Z

by Nadia Jolobova

Wallflower

2011-02-23T00:00:00.002Z

by Taylor

The author suggests you play the accompanying music to go along with reading the following piece.

I want you to meet someone.

She lives in a house planted at the heart of an ancient forest. A wood characterized by towering oak trees with roots that hold the earth in a strong, enduring grip and with leaves of a green deepened by age. Thick branches preserve the house in solitude, keeping it well hidden from wandering eyes. Not a whisper rustles the foliage. All is still.

Long ago, the stillness of this particular forest bred uneasiness in the animals living there. Stagnancy could not sustain them. So they left. However, the woman I am about to introduce you to is still there and has always been there. Unmoving and silent, she is the forest in human form. Her home, if you could call it that, is composed of a single room, a single chair, and a single light, illuminating a single box. The only decor to be found is the flower-print wallpaper, pealing at the edges and yellowing with the effects of time. Here the woman sits, from dawn to dusk and from dusk to dawn. Eternally still, focused solely on the wall before her. Neither aged nor youthful, she carries a face that not a soul could recognize, so plain and undefined are her features. If it were not for the flowers, she could very easily be mistaken for an extension of the wall. Her hair, a dull shade of brown, hangs limply over the back of her chair, nearly touching the cold linoleum floor. A white shapeless gown, serves as her attire. The fabric is thin, providing little comfort between herself and the crudely fashioned chair in which she sits.

Timeless

2011-02-18T12:21:00.007Z

This writing comes from Alicia and her blog is called Hopeful Misanthrope. Here is what she says about herself and her story:

"I'm Alicia, a 17-year-old aspiring writer, aspiring traveler, aspiring everything, really. This short story was inspired by a simple discussion and flow of thoughts in one of my classes in school. I tend to question everything that surrounds me, which I sometimes view as a flaw and sometimes as an asset. Society's restrictions and regulations of what is "right," along with the narrow when and why and how we are given, are often the subject of my questioning, and time is a large portion of that spectrum. I hope you enjoy this piece, and maybe I'll even find a reader or two out there who can imagine a world without time, too."

The sun rose, stretching, extending its arms and yawning as if only just awakening. The children below, however, have been awake, playing and running and chasing across the field that is only now beginning to receive a glimmer of the sun's rays, returned from their absence and happily welcomed. The children, they frolic in the still-dark field, without fear or inhibition because they know nothing of time. They have never heard of such a concept, never been taught this, and who would ever imagine something so useless?

They do not know that, many years ago, the world was a place filled with ticks and tocks and ticks and tocks. Timepieces inhabited every building, clocks crawled up every wall and perched on every table. Time followed the people everywhere they went, they glanced at their wrists more often than they gazed into their lover's eyes. It was inescapable, and the people came to realize that the only way to be free was to destroy what hindered them.

They decided, then, to eliminate all sources of time from the world as they knew it. Ancient clock towers were demolished, timepieces ripped from walls and wrists and pockets until every last one was at the bottom of the sea. The people agreed never to utter the word "time" again, never to even think it, and to raise their children and all future generations in a world free from those restraints.

Was is possible? A few wondered, Could it truly be done? They would never know until they tried, and so they did.

The children, of course, knew nothing other than this anarchic world. The shadows, the tides, everything that had formerly held some sort of meaning, they did not mean anything, did not hold any significance. This worried some of the elder, more conservative people at first. A world without meaning? Impossible. Irresponsible. Irrevocable.

Without any predetermined meaning, though, the world in time became a beautiful place, far more beautiful than any human had ever seen before. Children made up their own meanings for the smallest things. The shadows changed with the butterflies' moods, one said, when the butterflies were sad the shadows fell behind you as you walked, when they were happy the shadow was in front of you.

No no, another spoke, when the shadow is behind you it means your mother is mad at you, and you had better go and pick her some flowers to soothe her. When the shadow falls in front of you your mother is not mad, but you should pick her some flowers anyway.

They agreed, they disagreed, but they knew and happily accepted that none of their own theories were right because right did not exist. That, perhaps, was the only thing they were certain of.

Self-portrait

2011-02-17T00:00:00.015Z

by Ian Hudson

From the artist: A3 size, oil paints on stretched canvas. This painting has taken me around 40 hours to complete. It is a self portrait, don't worry I'm not vain, it's for my college project. I have got to admit though I am very pleased with the finished result. This was my first ever oil painting and I have now fallen in love with the medium. The hair and eyebrows was the most challenging process, trying to make them realistic was hard work.

Bottom of a Glass

2011-02-15T00:00:00.005Z

by Xavier Burgin

From the filmmaker: My recent film, Bottom of a Glass, was entered into Campus Movie Fest at Alabama and won the Best Drama award for the school. It will be going to the International Level and I'll be going out to California for free to see it screen there.

www.quethelights.com

Valentine's Day Contest: and the winners are...

2011-02-14T00:00:00.014Z

Note:

We decided to go for one poem and one short story, since the contest was open to both categories. As it turned out, only one short story met the contest requirement of being under two pages long, so naturally there is only one winner in the category.

However, the other two stories may have been a bit too long to be laureates, they are still very good and we warmly recommend reading them anyway. You can find the links in the sidebar under ‘Creative Writing Contest Participants’.

So there... Extra reading pleasure.

We hope to soon hold a new contest, with some alteration as to organisation (such as polls to vote rather than voting in comments, word limits instead of page limits for fairness’ sake and maybe slightly more challenging requirements) and we hope to see all of you here again when we do.

Have a happy Valentine’s day everyone!

Here are the ‘Valentine’s Day Creative Writing Competition’ laureates:

Winner 1:

‘Crimson’, a short story by Alicia

They had nothing to say to each other.

He looked down, looked up, looked everywhere but at her face. He examined her hands, there were so many lines on them, so many veins, all somehow interconnected. He thought that maybe that was poetic, maybe it said something about the two of them. No, he scolded himself inwardly while scowling outwardly, you're no goddamn poet, stupid. He could have been a poet. He looked at her legs, her feet. He counted her ten toes, painted the darkest shade of crimson that anyone had ever seen, the shade he had not yet forgotten, could not even if he tried. Every time he thought he saw something that might be that color - a rose, a young child's hat, a balloon - he searched and searched, but it couldn't be matched. He saw red, he saw burgundy, he saw vermilion, ruby, russet, but never crimson. He was always trying to find traces of her, he spelled out her name in his cereal, he ordered his coffee with cream and sugar because even though he used to drink black coffee that was how she liked it, he couldn't keep her from leaving him physically but he could keep her from leaving mentally.

He slowly raised his head, meticulously weaving together the words that he wanted to say to her as his gaze rose from her toes, her feet, her ankles, her knees, her waist. He closed his eyes, for a moment he thought he was going to pass out. He had almost fully formulated a sentence when he opened his mouth, and then opened his eyes.

He was alone. He heard the bell of the bakery door ringing as it was opened and then closed, and he saw her walking, growing smaller and smaller until she was only a silhouette and there was not even a hint of crimson in sight.

Winner 2:

‘Us, in the heat’, a poem by Aimee

I marry you in the mud, and a saucy orange comes over us,

Hot pink and rude burgundy.

On a sweaty summer’s dusk we watch the night birds rise,

Wing beats on rain in our secret jungle.

The sentient mountain guards us,

Cutting the sodden air with his cap.

Your skin is moist and magical,

Let’s make love with the stars watching.

Jeremy Ackman's Photography

2011-02-13T00:01:00.002Z

The following four photos are brought to you by Jeremy Ackman. Recently he has been getting into photographing in low light situations, as well as night time photography. You can find more pictures by Jeremy at Jeremy Ackman's Dreaming Tree Photography.

1000 miles

2011-02-12T00:00:00.006Z

by Marie Viaud

I walked a long distance

Back to the place I was so terrified

To remember how long it takes

To learn about the past

I turned when possible

Escaping the darkness

But it's a complete lie

To try to defeat doubts

I walked through a strange door

A mirror that reflects the mind

I've learned to trust my feelings

And to forget the time

A long journey this one

To understand why

A laugh, a kiss, a sound

To take me home - 1000 miles

About the poet: My name is Marie. I’ve just started writing in English, though I’ve been doing this for years now but in my mother tong (French), after taking Creative Writing classes.
I have been doing this as a hobby till now but am planning to spend more time at it going forward.
To find more of my work, please visit: http://wwwwritingvibe.blogspot.com/

Seashell

2011-02-10T00:00:00.001Z

by Ian Hudson

From the artist: This is a pen and ink drawing of a shell. This was another observational picture created with a watered down wash and then the detail was added with a bamboo pen. This was part of my project man made v natural. I enjoy using this medium as it can make a piece look dramatic with it’s tonal values.

http://hubpages.com/profile/Ian+Hudson

Oil Paintings by Drachma

2011-02-09T00:01:00.004Z

One of our Gallery's regulars has some more brilliant art to contribute to our fine walls. These oil paintings were produced between 1980 and 1992. For more artistic work please visit Photos by Drachma.

Thoughts on Thoughts

2011-02-06T00:00:00.002Z

by Alicia

We all have those moments, those "Wow-that's-pretty-brilliant-I-should-do-something-with-that!" ideas that pop into our heads seemingly from nowhere. And then, just as quickly as they came, they're gone. But where do they go.. are they truly gone?

These thoughts that jump into my head, they can't be only visiting. They accumulate and gather and whenever a new one enters the room that is my brain they shout WELCOME! and fasten a party hat on that thought's head because this is the room of lost ideas, forgotten ideas, almost-but-not-quite ideas and they are just so happy with each new addition to the room because it makes them feel a little less alone. It is not really a party but they wear party hats anyway. They sit and stand and mingle as they fester in my mind, like entrapped office workers stuck in a cubicle, hoping that the uncomfortable chair they sit on and spin circles in will take them somewhere new, even though they tried that yesterday and the day before that and the day before that and the day before that.

They find, though, that it never works. Not once. Because who ever got anywhere by sitting? We think we're spinning, dreaming, envisioning, seeing, but really we're just sitting.

The only option, it seems, is to rise off of that chair and put all of that pent-up energy into something worthwhile. Those ideas in our heads surely are not lost. They may have fallen off of their intended pathway, but those ideas were once dreamers like us. They dreamed of traveling, of flowing freely from our pen or pencil or paintbrush onto the beautifully blank sheet of paper in front of us. It is up to you and I, though, to finish those thoughts and ideas, and to bring them to the transformation that they deserve so that they may finally have their dream realized.

“I EXIST!" they cry, "LOOK AT ME! I AM A WORK OF ART!"

Those purposeful shouts? Those exclamations of glee? Those are our formerly pent-up thoughts, no longer slowly passing time within our minds but finally realized in their fate.

From the author: I'm Alicia, a 17-year-old aspiring writer, aspiring traveler, aspiring everything, really. A natural introvert, writing has always been the only way I am able to clearly convey the thoughts that run rampant through my mind. For now I'm stuck in the lonesome routine that is suburbia, but I intend to explore everything possible once I graduate high school. For now, I'm just making the best of what I've got.. and writing about it.

My blog can be found here: http://conqueringwanderlust.blogspot.com/

Valentine's Day Creative Writing Contest

2011-02-05T20:10:00.000Z

Hello creative writers of all lands,

in for another contest? We at the Gallery decided to hold a ‘Valentine’s Day Contest’ for short stories and poetry. Since this is the first time, there will not be a lot of requirements (later editions may be a bit more tricky). The challenge is simply this:

“Write a short story/poem to the Valentine’s Day theme: (anti) romance.”

We’ll only allow entries of two pages max, otherwise it will be difficult for people to actually read all of them. Shorter ones are not a problem. You don’t have to write anything new; if you already have a romance-theme story or poem handy, it is okay to submit it. To enter, just post a link to your blog in the comment section. To vote, just give the author’s name and/or title of the story that you thought was best. Don’t vote for yourself.

On Valentine’s Day, the 14^th of February, the winning entry will be posted here, on the Gallery and there will be a virtual award ready for the winner to show-off with on his/her blog. For this publication, the regular submission guidelines do not apply; you don’t need to do anything extra like following or emailing, just entering the contest is enough.

Lots of inspiration and success to all of you and we’ll be looking forward to reading what gems of writing you all come up with,

Gallery No. 3

[*By entering this competition you acknowledge that the post submitted is your own work and that the Gallery can in no way be held responsible for any kind of intellectual theft. Also, you allow the Gallery to publish the winning entry.]

Chimpanzee

2011-02-04T00:00:00.004Z

by Kristen Roberts

From the artist: I completed this pen & ink project in my Drawing in Illustration & Storyboarding class using three different techniques: stippling, hatching, and cross hatching. I post pictures of my artwork and write creative stories about each piece in the hopes of inspiring others to be creative and reach their dreams :)

For this project we needed to research the current endangered species list and choose one to draw. I chose the chimpanzee. The first one is when it was in the works. The second attachment is the completed project.

Follow my stories of achievements and struggles as I venture into the world of graphic design school... will I succeed? http://graphicdesignconfessions.blogspot.com.

The Red Order

2011-02-02T00:00:00.021Z

by Taylor

It was the gray before dawn. An eternal solemnity hung in the sky above a seemingly endless line of marching bodies. They followed a path bordered by two yielding red lines and two rows of men on either side with clubs held at their shoulders. It was a road that held no destination, only an infinite trail of soot and ash. Old and young alike took the same measured steps with their eyes cast downward as if cautious of where they placed their feet. It was a parade of lifeless faces, each indistinguishable from the rest with voices similarly untraceable. In unison they chanted, “The path is safe because he says it’s safe. We are safe because we follow the path.” Not a breath of emotion lived beneath these words and the controlled rhythm of their voices carried an eerie quality.

No one could recall when the path was made or who had been its architect. The people walked within its restrictive lines without question, believing it was the only way to keep themselves safe from the “dangers” that lay beyond it. Though no one had ever directly told them what those dangers were or how the path kept them safe, it was accepted as a truth they all innately understood. The path bordered in red maintained order and was order. This was life.

Change is a tireless force, however, and life as they had known it, was about to leave the path. There was a break in the line. A woman had stopped and turned to face a guard standing outside the path. She searched his controlled gaze with an imploring look before whispering, “Who is he?” The guard stood motionless. Again she asked of him, “Who is he?”

This time her question was met with the reply of two clubs at her back. The woman cried out in pain and fell to the ground as the men beat her, their mechanical blows making a distinctive whacking sound on her crumpled body. Her pleas grew hoarser and increasingly desperate as she continued to murmur, “Who is He? Who is He?” A final blow to the skull silenced her. The guards dragged her body alongside the path, leaving a trail of blood behind. As she disappeared from reality and into the darkness, the red stain that remained served as the only memory of the woman’s existence. On the opposite side of the soot-ridden path was a similar crimson trail caked with the blood of past “questioners”. It was a constant reminder to the people that they too could become a layer of fresh paint on the red borders of a senseless journey.

Marilyn Montage

2011-01-27T00:01:00.005Z

by Kristen Roberts of Confessions of a Graphic Design Student.

From the artist: Kristen Roberts, a Graphic Design student completed this pen & ink project in her Drawing in Illustration & Storyboarding class using three different techniques: stippling, hatching, and cross hatching. She posts pictures of her artwork and writes creative stories about each piece in the hopes of inspiring others to be creative and reach their dreams :)

You can follow her stories of achievements and struggles as she ventures into the world of graphic design school... will she succeed?

Water Colour Painting

2011-01-26T00:00:00.002Z

by Ian Hudson

From the artist: You can view my work on Hubpages, IanHudsonFineArt. I am a thirty three year old student studying at Sheffield college, England. I have three years before I have finished my degree, so I haven't really got my own style as yet. I will say I enjoy painting the most followed by photoshop work. I try to use as many mediums as possible for my creations which range from portraits to still life.

Moving Photography

2011-01-25T00:00:00.003Z

a collaboration between Photos by Drachma and Acorn

Mountains in Alaska

Photograph of India

Essense of Love & Strangers of the Night

2011-01-24T00:00:00.002Z

by Just Me 99

Essence of Love

Laughter – shallow, tired;

Murmurs, smirks, whispers

Opinions, claims,

Vain pity of the self

....predictable.

Mirrors mocking mirrors,

Gulping down the horizon;

Meaningless visions

Screaming, begging

Identity.

Yet,

Embedded in life

A teasure,

Unique, priceless, divine;

Unmatched, prefect,

Proud, guiltless,

Absolute.

An offering....tender, vibrant;

A celebration....sweet, radiant;

A statement, a tribute,

A lingering passion...

Nature’s will.

Like sunshine...pure, pristine;

Nourishing, touching, bathing,

Caressing body and soul,

Unparalleled expression

Of truth.

Let us savour

The essence of love,

By your eyes talking to mine;

Your pulse, my heart,

Defying the rhythm

Of time

See More...

Photos

2011-01-20T00:00:00.002Z

by Marie Viaud

From the photographer: I am a French girl living in Ireland who apart enjoying writing, likes Photography too. I am making my first steps with a Digital Camera from December 2010 (It took me some time to let go of the old one!).

I'm impressed by the idea of being able to catch one moment and to make the world alive in one shot. I keep all my photos - And if I had to take only one thing with me, it would be them.

http://delasuitedanslesides.blogspot.com/

Greetings from the Director

2011-01-19T18:24:00.002Z

It looks like there's a bit of a lull in submissions for the moment so I thought I would take this opportunity to say a few things about the gallery and ask you all for an opinion on something.

First of all, thank you to all our early contributors, it means a lot to me and all of us who worked on this blog to have your support with this project. We hope you stay with us as the gallery grows bigger and better over time.

Next, some words on multiple submissions from the same artist. Definitely this is welcome, though I would like to limit everyone to one work per week (every seven days) so that we keep things varied in here. Also, it is our policy to always give new contributors to the gallery preference over established contributors when posting to keep things fresh. But like I said, right now there is a bit of a lull so if any of you who have already contributed have something else you'd like to share, please feel free to send it my way. And if there's anyone reading this who hasn't yet contributed but would like to (won't name any names...), what are you waiting for? We'd love to display your work!

Last thing, and this is what I'd like some feedback on, one of the gallery curators gave me an idea a few days ago. The original idea was to run a contest of sorts on the site with the prize being a "special feature" or something of that nature. Well, I thought about it a bit, and came up with this:

On the first of every month, I gather up all the submissions to the gallery from the previous month and place the links to each post on a separate page in a randomized order. The page will be called "Feature of the Month contestants" or something. Basically, everyone can vote for their favorites, including their own work, with everyone receiving up to three votes: your first place vote getting 3 points, second place vote 2 points, third vote 1 point. Voting could be done through email or a comments section. Voting will last exactly one week. After that, the winner (which ever submission receives the most points) will be featured on its own page for the remainder of the month.

What does everyone think?

Two Pieces of Short Fiction

2011-01-17T00:00:00.002Z

by Just Me 99

A Night of Dreams

The headlines screamed out from the front page of the newspaper : " NOTORIOUS SMUGGLER AND KEY AIDE TO ABU RAJAN GANG KILLED LAST NIGHT IN SPECIAL ENCOUNTER" and under the caption, a black & white close up of the dreaded (now dead) man.

She stared for an eternity.......the caption playing & replaying in her head, begging for meaning. The letters coiled and recoiled in a blur of questions, her focus on the slightly distorted image....the face that was crystal clear in her mind where it had been captured and held for seven long years.

It was raining that night, business was low. The barowner was trying to engage all his efforts to ensure that the handful of patrons stayed on long enough to cover the night & its losses. Two semi-clad girls in their late teens were swaying to a sleazy number, glancing coyly at the drunk red eyes of the few men lustily swallowing every move of their body. That is when she was sent by the manager, to the foor, to sizzle the night and ensure that the glasses kept on filling.

She struck the perfect posture, flashed the enticing smile, made the most suggestive moves all accumulated results of hours of punishing practice in front of one cracked mirror. She was engaged for the kill, feet tapping, arms lifting, torso bending, in just the right angles. It was then that she felt his eyes looking at her from a corner away from most of the other men, a solitary figure among the shadows. She had the distinct sensation of his eyes engaging hers, he was not staring, just embracing her with his look. She wondered if it was a dream, for what else could it be? And barely conscious of what she was doing, she dropped her practiced perfection and became herself, her most seductive self. She danced like a wild peacock oblivious to the hungry night. Tonight she was Cinderella and he was her Prince. It was a dance of courtship, to attract her mate, a dance without inhibitions.....or vulgarity.

Valediction

2011-01-16T00:00:00.006Z

Written by Alex White from Radical Writing

The author, Alex White attends a small school in the middle of nowhere. He is in the tenth grade and strives every day to better himself as an artist. Be it music, drawing, or writing, he does it. Writing is his favorite though. He writes things from fiction, to biographies, to how-to articles, to political speeches; fiction is his strong point and is what he writes most. This piece is fiction, the idea came to him on one foggy morning while sitting in first period. It's a story of a young adult and his adventures through a strange and mysterious world.

Fog rolled over the dilapidated ruins of a Gothic styled church that sat in the lower streets of New York City. The weather man had predicted a cold front, Jace cursed him silently as he shuddered in the cold, the man was right. But he had to admit even if it wasn't for the bone chilling wind goosebumps still would have traced his arms. The Courtyard in front of him looked more like a cemetery than any church he'd ever been to. In front of him loosely hung a wrought Iron gate, the tips pointed with arrows, the concrete which held the hinges long past it's life expectancy. Large arches carved with strange markings and Gothic designs reminded him of something out of a Buffy the Vampire Slayer Movie. He wondered if this was really a Divine Sanctuary or Satan's vacation home. The Fair haired boy smirked at his own thought of blasphemy. Jace wasn't religious, which caused him to wonder what he was doing here in the first place. It was probably the intricate architecture and overall mysteriousness of the building that attracted him the most.

Rubbing his arms through the thin material of Under Armor he was dressed in the boy shuddered once again. Jace exhaled a white puff of air before looking up, through the narrow slits of the gate and saw a silhouette approaching, her soft footsteps over the snow sounded like nails on a chalkboard in the dead silence of night. The approaching girl was an old friend of his, but he stood his ground and shuffled in place, trying to keep warm. The figure approached and Jace could see her in full detail. Her auburn hair spilled over her shoulder, her face angled and narrow, she had more of a cute appearance than anything. She was slender and short, but her size only complimented her appearance that much more. She stopped a few feet short and stared into him with emerald eyes, the moonlight glinting off them like crystals. The brown haired boy shivered and spoke sarcastically, a hint of playful disdain in his voice.

See More...

The Secret Affair: Me and Mrs. Jones

2011-01-15T00:00:00.002Z

by Xavier Burgin

The Secret Affair: Me and Mrs. Jones from Xavier Burgin on Vimeo.

From the filmmaker: Xavier Burgin is a student at The University of Alabama working on Film Production with minors in Liberal Arts, French, and Telecommunications and Film. Xavier began his website, Que The Lights, with the intention of building an online portfolio to ensure

all of his work was under a unified theme, but this idea blossomed into a full-fledged blog which allowed his readers to not only stay updated with his work, but gave them a look into the growing culture found at The University of Alabama. Xavier has worked on

independently made short films, photoshoots, commercials, and concept-based videos.

His work "Me and Mrs.Jones" is number three in a five part mini-series focusing on the members of african american greek fraternity and sorority Omega Psi Phi and Alpha Kappa Alpha

More of his work can be found at:

www.quethelights.com

The Best Book I Ever Read

2011-01-14T00:00:00.016Z

by DL Stone

For the newer cars I take a hammer and bust everything around the radio. Getting through the dashboard is impossible in a reasonable amount of time, so the hammer is the most effective method. Once I can get my hand behind the stereo, I pull on it as hard as I can, then I cut all the wires leading to the speakers, the ground wire, and the wire going to a battery terminal. Sometimes people leave the receivers unmounted in the dash and I can just jerk it out, but that rarely happens. These days, since everyone drives a newer car, I mostly get factory stereos. No one customizes anymore.

As I do this, Ed pops the trunk with a crowbar. He searches for anything that we can sell, or objects of our personal interest. Sometimes people have a nice speaker system, but, usually, they are factory installed too. Factory speakers are crap unless we happen to find a Lexus or a BMW. One time we found a pound of marijuana in a brown duffel bag, but most people just have bags of old clothes or garbage lining the trunk floor.

After the car is clean of anything with value, we separate the parts and catalogue them. Stereos and speakers we sell over the Internet, or to car shops if they look new enough. Ed replaces the wiring himself, and I buy the boxes and manuals from online distributor. Every week we drive to a pawnshop in North Carolina to sell jewelry, CDs, tools, or whatever they will buy. Ed knows a drug dealer who pays good money for every gun we find in glove boxes.

The first few times we broke into a car we didn’t know what all to grab. Like the car jack, who would think to grab that? But the money we make on car jacks alone is ridiculous. People somehow lose the damn things then turn around and buy another one. We also forgot to lift CDs. On average we make three hundred dollars a month on CDs. Sometimes instead of taking them to the pawnshop, we go to a flea market and sell what we can. Individually, people will pay more per CD than pawnshops are willing to give us. After we consider all of our expenses, we make more money off of miscellaneous stuff than the actually car stereos.
See More...

Photography In Boston

2011-01-13T00:00:00.012Z

by Jeremy Ackman

Photos by Drachma

2011-01-12T10:53:00.008Z

Pictures submitted from Photos by Drachma.

Drachma works his day job as a physician, but is very involved with his hobbies, which include photography, which he has been actively pursuing since he bought his first camera at age 7. He considers himself an amateur, but a very dedicated one. Other things he does after hours include painting and writing, where he is currently finishing his first novel.

Heartbeat

2011-01-11T00:00:00.006Z

by Marie Viaud

No heartbeat the doctor says. Heavy breaths. Stupid dream.

Somebody else should have heard it. It’s getting cold. Touching herself to know it’s real. Whatever.

Dropping her hand on her belly. Holding it tight. She won’t escape and in two months they’ll all be safe.

A red cross on the calendar. She remembers…….

16^th of June, it’s a cancer. Margaret Rose Annie. The chosen names. New bed. Pink cover. Some tiny drawings on the wall, Bambi and the seven Draughts. And a nice coloured cream shelf for her teddy bears. Later.

It’s far to close. She knows. She should tell him he’s a liar.

She’s acting weird. Ugly sadness. Like a contagious sickness. They are all running away. Wishing she could leave the world. She isn’t a woman anymore, anyway.

Feeling like the tall denuded trees, frozen in the wintery wind. No cover to keep her warm. Not even the grace of the spring to come.

Life is escaping her body in a hideous routine. Not enough tears to purify her, nor the courage to tame the beast that tortures her senses.

No hope. No goodbye. A silent death.

What would they say in medical terms?

If her heart beats, she is alive. They know nothing.

It’s very sad.

About the poet: My name is Marie. I’ve just started writing in English, though I’ve been doing this for years now but in my mother tong (French), after taking Creative Writing classes.

I have been doing this as a hobby till now but am planning to spend more time at it going forward.

About the poem: My mum told me a story that has haunted me till the moment I have decided to put words on a paper to feel what it could be like to lose a baby.

To find more of my work, please visit: http://wwwwritingvibe.blogspot.com/

Chapter Twenty

2011-01-10T00:00:00.132Z

from The Book of Drachma

Craycroft sat alone in his study. A stout log burned quietly in the
fireplace, and an oil lamp provided light enough to read and write, but he
could do neither. Between the burning grief he felt and the Earl¹s latest
revelations, his mind and heart were too chaotic to let him record his
thoughts in logical order. The paper lay blank on the table as he refilled
his tumbler with dark red wine.

“The Earl is right,” he thought. “This is more dangerous than warfare, for
these things we have done are beyond any knowledge and beyond our control.
We have thrown a feeble old man and a mere lad into the winds of fate, and
to what end we could scarcely guess. Ah, Drachma, you have always seemed to
play easy in these games of chance and come away victorious. For all our
sakes I pray your fortune and wisdom hold true again.

“What a chance the Earl has taken! If the king's advisers were to hear of
this it could be the end of his rule and our safety. He is right, though, to
try to protect the painters and potters, for without our craftsmen, there
would be no wealth or security on this fair isle, king or no.”

He took a sip of his wine, savoring the dark, sweet flavor and warm glow
that rose from deep within his chest. It did not really ease his sorrow and
fear, but did give promise of numb repose.

To My Masterpiece

2011-01-09T00:00:00.008Z

by Matthew Funk

A long time ago, in a place that was certainly filled with wonder, there lived an artist. He was renowned throughout the land, and was talented in every medium imaginable. Everyone admired him, and he was happy.

He lived in a house with his wife and his cat. His work has made him rich beyond his wildest dreams, but he settled for a perfectly average dwelling. It was a small but cozy house with the ground floor consisting of the kitchen, bedroom and living room, and the second floor devoted entirely to the artist's studio. His wife was sweet and supportive of him, even during his more obsessive projects, and they loved each other. The artist thought her the most beautiful creature in all the universe.

One day, after he'd finished his latest project, the artist realized something. He'd dedicated pieces to kings, he'd dedicated pieces to queens, he'd dedicated pieces to famed explorers, knights, heroes and politicians. His work was dedicated to more people than he could remember and was seen in cities across the world, but there was one person that his work had never been dedicated to: his wife.

Clown Fish Flash Aquarium

2011-01-08T00:00:00.006Z

by Acorn

From the artist: A few years back I was a Flash artist with a social engineering site called "Wallop" and they called us "modders"

It was started by Microsoft, taken over by another company and encouraged Flash artists to display work on their site in the hope that the members would buy some. It was not that successful and I ended up with a few flash animations that I would like to share as Wallop seems to have disappeared.

It is possible to get Flash animations on blogs but they need to be hosted on another server, I am using photobucket pro and allowing bloggers to link to them and display them on their blogs, full instructions are on my blog. A Google web site has also been set up to allow my Flash animations to be downloaded and hosted on servers of your choice.