The colors caught my eye. Athens in the winter is often blanketed by densely packed snow. Rarely is there a mere dusting of powder, the kind of cover found on manmade ski slopes. I was plodding through the public park located at the foot of a hill, high upon which sits an abandoned mental hospital made famous in the 20th century for it's less-than-humane treatments. The complex, a collection of tremendous, gothic-style brick buildings peppered with dingy, barred windows, lies in stark contrast to the colorful plastics and kid-safe jungle gyms in the park.

Bleached, the swings and toad-shaped chairs blended into the landscape. All was white. My sunglasses struggled to keep the seering reflection from blinding me. I walked around a pavillion, camera dangling from my neck, the nylon band itchy and making me sweat. Instantly I was attacked by a rainbow, a tremendous worm of color crawling forth from the hard, icy ground. I stalked behind it, my clunky black boots crunching in the snow. Crouching low, I stared into the mouth of the beast. I captured its heart on film, and fled. Though the spectrum serpent remained behind me, letting me get away after capturing its soul, and though in my heart I knew it was plastic and meXXXXXtal, it left me with a sense of dread, a sense of barely escaping something terrible.

Later, when I chanced to look at the photos I had taken that day, I came upon the picture of the worm. Its mouth stood gaping, ten teeth where twelve should be, the telltale signs of battling for food, just like me.