Art House Blog Life at Art House in Atlanta, Ga

Tell us a story in 100 words or less with an accompanying image

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We had a bunch of neat submissions this week. Check them all out below!

Knitting by Kristina Russell

My grandmother was an avid knitter.  As a child, I was transfixed by her lightening-fast pace, and the clicking of the needles.  It was more than a hobby; she expressed her love through yarn, knitting blankets and slippers for friends and family.

After she passed away 10 years ago, I found her stash of knitting needles.  Although I didn’t know how to knit at the time, I found myself unable to give them away.  They say that when the student is ready, the teacher appears, and five years ago I put those needles to work.

by Melody McWilliam – Ellensburg, Washington

If you want your kid to nap, he is going to need a story.
If you read him a story, he will want it to be a long story.
After a long story, he is going to get sleepy.
So, you tuck him in his bed.
If you tuck him in his bed, he’s going to want a toy to hold.
If you give him a toy to hold, he isn’t going to want to sleep.
“So, what do we do next time Joseph?!?” I asked.
“Tape my mouth and eyes shut!” He exclaimed.

If only that would really work…

Artemisia absinthium by Dawn Vollaro

I so wanted to like absinthe: the supposed liquid ruin of van Gogh and Toulouse-Lautrec.

Paul and I performed the classic sugar cube and slotted spoon ritual.  There was much fanfare, and we delighted in the signature louche.

But the Green Fairy disappointed.  Oh, she packed a punch, but she did not satisfy.

Did you know that absinthe makes for a wicked perfume?

by Adline A. Ghani – Petaling Jaya, Malaysia

Cool things happen in the mind of a 5-year old. One weekend in October, my son came up to me and held up a picture that he just drew. It was a drawing of two of his favourite dinosaurs, an allosaurus and a brachiosaurus. My son told me that the former was attacking the latter, and then he summed it up by saying, “Mummy, this is a picture about blood loss and exhaustion.” Such big words for a little guy; I wonder where he picked them up. Witnessing the carnage was Spongebob Squarepants and his best pal Patrick Star. 

by A – Israel

Both men of the household had valid reason to be nervous that night.

Father had his first television interview on the channel one evening news, This interview was the climax of a long period of public speaking, on the subject of negotiating with terrorists and cutting deals in return for the captive IDF soldier Gilad Shalit.

Meanwhilst brother had a date he’s been waiting on for along time with a guy called Dan, whose supposed to be half British, half Belgian, at least thats what he claimed on the internet. Pretty cute, a musician, maybe this one will be different he thinks.

Both men sweat in their best shirts, as they get ready for their evening buisness.

Artofus by Deborah Branning

Exactly one week ago a talented redhead with abundant hair put a pottery figure in my hands and said, It is for you. A fragile item and a busy morning at the art market required I cradle the object in my arm. What is that? An artist in a straight jacket. One suggestion was an Emmy. No, no, it is an Arty.

The Arty, Emmy, was so coveted, fashionable, desired, admired, popular, he will be reproduced by the potter to be the award at the next art show. The Arty is a cherished gift and gesture that signifies the ART-OF-US.

by Rappel – New York, NY

Tell me a story, you said. But I had no story: I was working on a story. The story wasn’t working but I was, teaming up allusions, teeming with illusions. Some words got stuck, others got a work out. Many, naturally, remained passive, untouched, undetonated. These small, insignificant words were efficient workers who didn’t dare step out of line. Then they did. Then the story trembled like a building whose bricks had become misaligned. This happens when the ground stretches. Cracks appear, things fall apart. The historical ground, the hysterical ground, the mental ground – our abiding story.

Popcorn by Diane Rabideau-Wise

“Popcorn,” is my bouncy little sister.  She’s a roller coaster of activity.  For Christmas Dad thought about buying her a puppy, but two balls of uncontrollable action was too much.

Two days before Christmas, Popcorn put her pet Kermi in her stocking.  All night the frog hung over the fireplace. Kermi’s sock sanctuary dried out his skin and made his croak sound like a kazoo.

Kermi took control, he leaped high and landed in Santa’s glass of milk.  Dripping we he escaped out an open door, performed his kazoo croak and victoriously escaped into a nearby pond.

Hoppy Christmas!

by Wendy Wollaeger Roach

” …the only one? Only on in love”  2 miles, 63 minutes? I can do this. Glad I didn’t wear my watch. “the only one, only one in love” Breath, in and all the way out. Bring toes together. “am I the only one, only one in love?” what song is that. I like that song…what happened to everyone else. Am I last? ” the only one in love” this current is killing me. “the only one, only on in love” how longs the Ironman, 5 ? “…the only one, only one in love.” Who sings that song?

AND REPEAT

by Michelle – Singapore

“Hey Gracie,” I say out loud one afternoon, gently poking at her side, ‘What do you like most about being a cat?’ She languidly raises her gaze to meet mine, and instantly makes me feel as if I’d just asked the dumbest question ever because, duh, what’s there not to like? She looks away nonchalantly and yawns. I answer to no one, and I belong to no one. She holds her tongue thoughtfully for a while. (Actually, she’s almost pensive.) Then, Gracie turns back, a dreamy, content look in her eyes. That said, I like how you belong to me.

by Susan Munoz

the cygnet bumped her beak against a leg. it was a sturdy leg, and the baby swan fell back on her rump. she peered up dizzily. working herself back to her feet, she shook her feathers and resumed her search.  a can of black paint had been left opened in the corner of the room and the wet top found itself in her trajectory. after some time, the room was filled with eddying circles of tiny black forks. there were so many places her feet never touched. they were drawn each time to the same arcs and turns, always to find only the leg.

by William Denton Ray – Indianapolis, IN

There once lived a King named Whim. He lived in a world where color had been condemned. His perch was on a cloud 9 stories’ tall. He was born to bring the color back to this dark place so he gathered his comrades upon his roost to set fourth the plan. The king said unto his cast “Who would take away our color here, oh where has it gone? It is now our duty to find the thieves and return our color by dawn.” So off the comrades went in search of the color thieves, through the puffy clouds and on the ground through fallen leaves.

Beware of the Clinger by Melissa Kojima – Los Angeles, CA

You know the wailing baby who clings to his mother’s leg as she drops him off at daycare?  That’s him.  A clinger.  He tries to hide it, like asking you for coffee, then never setting up a time.  Nonchalant, right?  Wrong.   The next time he spies you, he runs up to you, begs you to come by his work to give you a tour of the aquarium.  You like sea creatures, so you show up.  By the end, he’s attached to your leg, asking you to dinner.  You shake.  Too late, he’s fused like a starfish to a pier.

by Veronica grandjean – Switzerland

november in switzerland.  the most wonderful  somehow special light in the morning.

some white trees growing on my balcony.

lines. new forms. light and shadow.

and a piece of the blue, blue morningsky.

look at it.

just a few moments and then it’s gone.

that’s it.

by Beth Brown – Richmond, VA

One Way by Joleen Grussing – New Canaan, CT

Driving up the 101,

looking for all the world

like every other zombie at wheel

of misfortune, stuck in stop

and go, jerked by the unseen

traffic incidents reported ahead,

and the puppet master tilting at

strings of limb, steel, heart: one

good acceleration of tug

and it’s deed done, dead.

Dismembered, no more need

to belong or to ask – was it worth

the gas. At least, no mourning

wasted roundtrip fare.