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Inspired bySweet dreams are made of this Use just the character of the uploaded image 1. Now observe the image 2 closely. Do not attempt to preserve its original history, composition, or meaning. Use its visual elements as ingredients for an entirely new story. Select the most interesting elements, detach them from their original roles, and assign them new purposes, relationships, and meanings. Then, invent a surprising event that connects them—something that has already happened or is about to happen. Alter scale, position, function, perspective, or physical logic whenever doing so makes the story more interesting. Contradicting the original image is permitted. Create a surreal, minimalist, poetic, and meaningful scene that represents a pivotal moment in this new story. The result must evoke the image of a story never seen before. Do not illustrate the original image. Do not explain it. Transform its ingredients into something unexpected. Keep the wide-eyed, black-haired woman in the ivory dress as the sole character. Set her barefoot on a dry seabed beneath a muted green sky. Six tiny seas hang from red and ochre fishing floats, each casting the shadow of something lost: a key, a shoe, a spoon, a ring, a comb, a cup. A single black eyelash, long as a pier, curves up from the salt. At its tip she pries open a turquoise disc the size of a pocket mirror. Catch the instant the seventh sea pours out and rises toward the sky, carrying her reflection with it. For the first time, the reflection turns to look back at her across the flats. Give the rising water one bright edge and leave most of the sky empty. Use matte pigments, fine salt grain and sparse vermilion accents. No text, lettering, numbers, logos or watermarks.
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The woman in the white dress had been to six seas, which was easier than it sounds. They hung in glass bottles about three feet apart. She could visit two of them without putting down her lunch.
Under each bottle dangled something the sea had taken. There was a key, a shoe, a spoon, a ring, a comb and a cup. The cup still had a little coffee in it. She knew the cup. She had been there the morning it went missing.
Her mother had set it on the hood of the car while she looked for her keys. They drove all the way to the coast before either of them thought of it. For years she had pictured it sitting upright in a ditch, getting a little rain in it.
It was good to know the cup had gone somewhere.
The seventh sea was in a pocket mirror at the end of an eyelash. The eyelash was as long as a telephone pole and curved so beautifully that she went out of her way to walk beside it.
She opened the mirror. Water rushed upward. She felt the small cold drops on the underside of her chin.
Her reflection went with the water. A little way up, it turned and looked back over its shoulder. She had never seen her own face from that angle. It was the face of somebody at the window of a bus who had just remembered the person waving had to go home alone.
She lifted her hand. The woman in the water kept hers at her side for a moment. Then she waved.
By evening the sky had dried. The six bottles were still there, making little glass noises in the wind. She took the cup down and found a brown ring inside where the coffee had been.
At home she washed it and set it upside down on the rack. In the morning there was a teaspoon of seawater underneath it and a fish no bigger than a comma.
She got out the sugar bowl. It was the only thing she owned with a lid she could leave a little crooked.
