Sweat slowly rolled down his forehead—tumbling and splashing over each fold his skin posed. The eyebrow suggested a problem. The green hairs thrusting themselves, almost violently, through the nicotine-ridden skin; only one mission sprouting out of the guzzling pores: to absorb the sweat with a feverish desire, to protect their only source of light—the eye. The only image they could worship, with all their vehemence and an eerie sexual passion. It was the twisted energy of a castrated animal, phantom desire for something one does not know or understand, but relentlessly pursues. Not all sweat got consumed by the pores and hairs, though; tainted with green pigment. Some, just some, eloped past the fence-like barrier, out of their prison.
With loving caress, the absconders silkily suffused themselves down the nose. Steadily, the now shining salt pool collected at the edges, spreading, leaking, into the eyes. Their journey was complete; the mission had been accomplished. The select few beads of sweat had reached their final destination, and now, they could meet, and together, join to further their travels—but as sweat no longer. The result of strain and stress had turned to sadness, and as the tears wandered the rolling meadows of the cheeks, a lone man, his green-dyed hair matted against his skull, cried.
This was the short story that started it all. I had to write one in class and, being extremely frustrated with the assignment, I wrote this (out of rebellion!). Once I got a taste for writing short stories, I got addicted. If I remember correctly, the specific task at the time was to “describe a gathering.”