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by Jae Blakney
10/07/2011 / Short Stories
The sculptor made a ball of mud, injected it with magma and covered it in mist.
He poured in place the pools of cool and soothing blue.
He formed the fields of cold, white pillow.
He painted the surface of the mud with succulent cushions of many-colored green.
Then he crafted tiny, fleshy things and placed them on the ball of mudgently, as they were very delicate.
He took a piece of dusty rock and twirled it in the sky, that the pools of blue might play for his little fleshy ones a comforting lullaby.
He took a handful of fire and hung it in the sky, that his sensitive fleshy ones might learn of the warmth of their maker's heart.
He took more fire and hung it, too, in the sky, in a thousand, thousand places, that his tiny fleshy ones might learn of the depth of their maker's thoughts toward them.
Then he infused his fleshy ones with his very own breath.
And the fleshy ones despised the ball of mud.
They closed their ears to the lullaby, and it became for them a crashing throb.
They closed their hearts to warmth, and the handful of fire became for them a fearful thing.
They closed their minds to depth, and the fires became for them signs of hopelessness and futility.
The sculptor's delicate fleshy ones fought against the pools.
And against the strength of the pools, which he had placed there to carry them, they shattered themselves.
They fought against the pillows.
And in the cold of the pillows, which he had placed there to refresh them, they froze themselves.
They fought against the cushions.
And against the ribs of the cushions, which he had placed there to shelter them, they broke themselves.
But the sculptor did not take back the dusty rock.
He did not extinguish the handful of fire.
He did not sweep away the multitude of fires.
He spoke tenderly to his fleshy ones.
He implored them to stop destroying themselves.
Some of them stopped, but rejected his efforts to repair them. They said they were strong and independent.
Others also stopped, but taught their neighbors that it was the sculptor who had damaged them. They said it was punishment for breaking the rules.
Just a few of his cherished little fleshy ones submitted to his repair.
And those few began to hear the lullaby,
Began to learn of warmth and depth,
Began to let themselves be cradled by the work of their sculptor's hands.
Copyright 2010 by Mary J Blakney
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