By Julie

An old, prehistoric pond, dripping with moss and algae, stands in the middle of the forest. A constant drip sounds, of water drops falling from a low-hanging-tree into the pond. Small animals dart around it to the next pond. It seems as if this one is not even here. All that acknowledge it are a few tadpoles, swimming around the edges of the murky water. The animals all vanish from the area, going to drink from the other forest pond. Time seems to stop as a tense ripple spreads across the quiet pond. A shadow moves within the heart of the dripping pond. There is something in the pond – something alive. Glimpses of the shadow move along the pond, closer and closer each time to the surface. The creature dives down to the murky, unseen bottom of the pond, after a possible tadpole or small fish. But then the glimpses appear again, around the edges. A flipper. Part of a tail. An outline of the seal-like creature. The glimpses move closer to the surface, closer to the center. Finally, a prehistoric head rears up from the heart of the pond. Tiny, beady eyes squint at the moss and the forest through the misty air as it breathes. Then time unfreezes. The creature feels a cool breeze, and glances back towards the other pond. The crowd of animals is returning. The creature dives back into the pond and becomes again glimpses. Finally, as the first forest animal returns, the creature disappears, all but a ripple. For this creature is part of the secret pond – best left unseen.

Slowly, carefully, sniffing the path ahead of him, the small rabbit takes small bounds through the white luster in the woods. Looking up from the path, he spots another rabbit peeking cautiously at him from behind a bush covered with snow. He takes small, careful steps toward the other rabbit. Wordlessly, they join each other, hopping occasionally over piles of snow. They stop for a minute to nibble on a strand of uncovered grass. Suddenly, they both spot something. Ears prick up, eyes scan the snowy woods. A crunch of snow fills the air. They take off through the snow in leaps of glee, away from the winter noises of the forest. As they reach the edge of the woods, they gradually slow, look back and forth with their eyes, prick up their ears, but no sound comes. They are alone. With another burst of joy, they leap out into the field! Minute after minute, they hop around each other, in and out of the snow, hop near and far, playing and chasing. Finally they slow down to catch their breath and look up at the sky, raining white fluffy bits of snow. It is darkening, and the rabbits are tired and out of breath from playing, and wet from the white fluffy snow that has covered their world. Wordlessly, they bid each other good-bye and walk, stopping every few seconds to nibble on a blade of grass or listen for more winter sounds, to their separate rabbit burrows. Each takes a last glance at the field and the forest of their home, covered with white freeze and long rabbit footprints. Each knows – they will be back as soon as they can. With one last, quiet step, they are in their warm rabbit burrows.

Black is a moody color. The color of the Arctic when it’s winter, and the color of a raincloud in a storm. Swirling shades of darkness mixing themselves together as if they a being combined in a pot, with a cloud of billowy black smoke hanging overhead.
Black looks like the back of a beetle, shiny and dark, and a television when it’s turned off. The color of plump garbage bags being hauled away in a big truck. A crisp night when it’s all dark with no stars, midnight colors swirling in the sky.
Black feels like the smooth, scaly back of a viper, scaly and moist and smooth. Black velvet of a cushion, or chilly and smooth as stained glass. Smoggy, as if a cloud of smoke is hanging over your head and won’t float away…
Black tastes like a raspberry, puckery, tart and bumpy, but kind of creamy in a way. But it depends on how you look at it, it could also taste like a long, stringy piece of licorice, plain with only slight flavor. Black stays in your mouth for a long time, maybe all day.
Black smells like burnt bread, or thick smoke, clogging your throat with a stench of fire and coal or even burning hair, an awful smell. But, as if it is stiff smoke, there seems to be a hint of crispness, like a cold winter night, but without snow.
Black sounds like the caw of a crow or the cry of a raven. Like two pewter symbols being clashed together. Black plastic on the lid of a vial breaking in two. A candle being snuffed in a breath of wind. Black is a sound that inturrupts the peaceful silence.
Black is not pointless. Black brings moody and darkness to the world, seeing its inhabitants have something to talk about or complain about or squint through.

Purple is royal. A pure royal color. Like the sofa in a room fit for a king, or comfy cushions in a cartoon genie’s lamp. Like a fuzzy hairball character from another planet. Purple is strange, graceful, and regal.
Purple looks deep and bright, a luscious blend of red and blue thrown carefully together into a smoothie of purple. Like the bright electric “Pop-up Purple” in the “Rock ‘n Pop Swirl” ice cream from Baskin Robins. The soft, soothing purple in a lilac bush. Or the in-between sight of a normal pansy in a flowerpot.
Purple sounds like a beautiful two-syllable word. Pur-ple. Pur-ple. Say it out loud. Pur-ple. As clashing and majestic as can be, but something a mere pig might “Oink!” or an old donkey might bray. A combonation of something and nothing. Mild as a spring day on a field full of lambs. Purple is a rythemic word, too. Pur-ple, pur-ple pur-ple.
Purple feels warm and fuzzy like a shaggy old rug. Rougher patches, and places that seemed to have never been touched by human hands. Wild parts fraying and tangling, but softer ones, perfect to sink your feet into. Like skipping through a field so covered with flowers, you can scarcely see the grass. Breezes and petals tickling your ankles.
Purple smells like fresh flowers and a tickling scent of raspberry weaving its way in. Like freshly cut grass, just run over by the lawnmower. Like tea bags right before you’re going to put them in your tea. Even a tiny pinch of both salt and pepper. Purple smells like the humid air of the rainforest, but still the share of dry, thirsty grasslands.
Purple tastes like fruit salad, loaded with grapes and topped with whipped cream and jelly crashing against your tounge. Sweet and sour. A wonderful taste stopping to rest on your tounge. Like grapes right off of the vine, or a raspberry cobbler right out of the oven. It reminds you of a fresh salad or a hot cake. Purple is a vegetarian color, I think.
Purple. What a fresh, royal word. It reminds you of indigo butterflies and birds sailing above your head. Velvet, too. So regal, but then again, so new, fresh, graceful, bouncy, free.

Blue is a fresh flowery color, like bluebells or blue tulips. A short, sweet, sound. Calm as a pond, but crazy as elecric blue fur on a dog or a panda bear. There should be a shiny metallic-colored blue-ish beetle, just called “The Blue Beetle.”
Blue looks like a bluebird flying against a clear, bright sky. Like a butterfly in a painting by a famous artist. An alien planet in another universe in the blackness of empty space.
Blue sounds short, sound, and sweet. Like a song. Something a baby might say, a baby word. The name of some famous reptile, one that lives in the ocean and eats plants. Calm waves and the noise of the great Nigera Falls.
Blue feels soft and furry, with possibly a few feathers thrown in, too. Like some tiny baby bird. Warm, like the crust of a blueberry pie. The core of some small miracle waiting to be discovered.
Blue smells like freshly picked blueberries in a straw basket, after picking them it the mountain bushes. The armoa of fresh, warm blueberry waffles, and the scent of blue raspberry ring pops. Wonderful smell coming from some piping hot tuna fish for lunch when you’re famished.
Blue tastes like cold salty ocean water from a beach where it’s hot. The bursting taste of flavorful, sweet blueberries on your breakfast plate in the early morning. Like blue raspberry popsicles stright from the freezer.
Everyone needs a little bit of blue in their world. A little bit of paradise. A little bit of magic. Fairy dust is probably blue.
Blue is the third color in America. Blue is a babbling brook. Blue covers most of a globe in school. Blue is a blue spruce tree, never losing It’s needles. Blue is sky, genly topped with fluffy white clouds and big black birds flying south.

Grapes are delicious. Purple grapes are better than green grapes or black grapes. They explode with a cannonball of round flavor when you bite them in your mouth.
Grapes look like little gumdrop-shaped gaggles of round, small, marbles. Purple, black, and green. Not shiny. Dull. They seem to have little unique patterns etched into them. They look like something out of a stained glass window.
Grapes sound like a Greek word, a delicious snack. Like some dish they prepare in a scorching desert, and by the sea on cold days. A round oval word split in half, like a grape. It sounds happy. It sounds like crepe. It sounds tasteful.
Grapes feel like smooth elephant skin. Smooth and thin and bumpless. When you eat them, it feels like bare eyeball that has a nice flavor, up against your tounge, but not as eerie as it sounds when you say that aloud.
Grapes smell like grape popsicles, a faint wandering smell as strong as you like it. It reminds you of a faded tapestry in an abandoned castle. A smell that might have history behind it, barely peeking out.
Grapes taste fresh and freshly picked. Very ripe, too. Little bursts of flavor that fills your whole mouth with a Whiz! and a Bang! But it’s soft like a little owlet. Like a miracle that fell from the sky.
Grapes are good for you! Everyone should eat more grapes. Grapes are healthy and delicious. I like purple grapes best. You should eat more scruptious little grapes.

White is a new color. A clean color. A quiet color. White is a proud color. White is a color of purity, and life, and hope, joy, and freedom.

White looks like a newborn snowy owl, Antarctica, and my mother’s scarf when she was small.

White sounds like the call of a dove, the roar of a polar bear, and the sound of fluttering paper when you run with it in your hand.

White smells like sour cream, new sneakers, and the rosebush at home.

White feels like floating on a cloud, a pearl necklace, and soft feathers from my pure white feather boa.

White tastes like popcorn, vanilla ice cream, and plain yogurt.

White is a new color. A clean color. A quiet color. White is a proud color. White is a color of purity, and life, and hope, joy, and freedom. White is the coat of a lamb. White is a color that makes me happy. White is snow. White is…white.