Comments about Julia Janis
My Pickle Journey
My eyes open on their own accord on a Saturday. Flittering butterflies, they adjust to the warm 11 a.m. sun that gently rolls onto my quilt.
I reach and stretch after my long dreaming and tap the cloudless sky with my hands.
I feel a slimy, smelly substance stuck behind my lips. Swishing and swallowing won’t stop the stuff’s stench and sensation. I must leave my temperate covers and walk on the dreaded, icy lavatory ground.
The brush jiggled rapidly on my teeth, tenderly sweeping off the gook. And when I pointed it at the mirror, it splattered into a piece of ...