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A soft rustle of pages falls softly in the dusty attic, sounding upon the ears of the small girl at the base of the ladder. Slowly, she rises, soft footsteps padding first up the sawdusty rungs and then accross wood inlaid with centuries of old memories pasted one on top of the other until misty recollection rises with every passing footstep. As sunlight colors the youthful fingers, a delicate hand reaches for a clothbound cover and through the interwoven pattern of fingerprints that lace its boundaries the child can read into the past.

A dandilion at midsummer.

The book was anctient, the cover made of a velvety green material. The title was stamped on in silver, the letters peeling and faded. The pages were dog-eared over time, student after student having perused through the information. The first page bore the title clearly if the reader couldn't read the front cover. The words said simply, "A Work of Great Importance." Nothing more. Nothing less.

[EDIT!!!] so I just realized that when I did this post that I was replying to the last post on the first page instead of the last post. *Thunks head* stupid me. okay. so I'll really do the one that was before me.
which was snow to one who hasn't seen it.

Cold to the touch, the white powerdery substances falls quietly to the ground. It graces every surface that it can land on, eventually melting due to the sun or a child's hot breath, or even a pair of hands that mold it into shape. Sometimes it just turns to slush the moment it touches ground, the weather not being cold enough to hold the snow.

A dorm room

The snowman's smile was cooked, as if he were smirking instead of really smiling. The eyes were falling off of the face, the sun melting the snow that had been the glue holding the eyes to the rest of the face. the carrot nose had already been eaten off by deer the previous night, and the only thing remaining from the orange stick was a nub where the top of the carrot had been. the arms stuck out at odd angles, one looking as if it were ready to fall. the bottom portion of the snowman was misshapen, as if it were cellulite on a woman's thighs instead of a ball of snow. the scarf, hat, and mittens that were used to "warm" the snowman through the night had been soaked through with cold water from the melting snow dripping off of the tree it had been build under the day before. In a day or two, the rocks and sticks used to make the face and arms would once again be a part of nature and the mittens, hat, and scarf would be taken inside but thrown away because of mildew. But for today, the snowman had high hopes.

A blade of grass

In a library the sharp squeaking was heard of the marker on paper. The source of the noise was a boy in his mid-teens. It was late, and the library was near abandoned, making the sound of the marker moving against the page all the more distinctive. The sign was developing under the boys hand. Words of protest came from the marker. It's ink leaving a shine as it dried. The smell intoxicated the boy, and his campaign continued.

A Stuffed Animal

It is always there, multiplying to become more.
In a basket, a tub, or even on the floor.
The feel is ugly, and the odor is sharp.
The weight is heavy, and the look is dark.
It gets carried by Mom, at least once a week.
Helped by Tom, the son, the computer geek.
Fallen pieces picked up off the carpet
Even Phoebe's favorite sock puppet.
All tossed into the machine
where it is drowned in water and turns squeeky clean.
Once dried and folded nice and neat
It gets worn again and comes back for another treat.


((best friend))