Hello and welcome to the Writober series! These posts will feature flash fiction stories that I wrote for #Writober 2020 — one prompt each day for the whole month of October. Prompts provided by Fanwriter.it‘s pumpINK list.
Day 3: Sculpture ?
He takes his sculpting seriously.
Around here, everybody seemingly does; but he knows best. He knows they don’t put enough effort into it; he can see all the imperfections of their works; he can see how much they train, hoping to become a master one day, but the truth is — they never will.
Not everyone can become a sculptor; you have to be born one.
He was born one.
Sculpting came to him as a child as easily as walking. He always had something in his hands, he always needed to be moulding, changing, creating something.
A sculptor is the human closest to a god.
Seeing his fellow sculptors and students fail so miserably at godhood infuriates him. How dare they waste those hands they were gifted? The ability to think, replicate, create? Giving birth to all those imperfect copies, nothing more than deformed, misshapen bodies of marble and clay and sweat?
Their ordinariness makes him sick.
No imperfect thing should be put into this world. That’s his mantra; he lives by it every day. He applies it to his sculpting: nothing but perfect proportions, perfect looks, perfect expressions is worthy of being called a work of art; is worthy to be a sculpture.
He gets complimented on his work, and it gets displayed in galleries, much to his pleasure. He gets asked so many questions, but mainly: how are his pieces so realistic?
He laughs it off; what a naive, ignorant question it is.
As if there could be any other way for his art to be so close to the real thing. If they can’t figure it out themselves, they don’t deserve an answer.
Now, now, hush. Don’t wriggle so much. The clay is drying; soon, you too will be part of the perfect collection.
Just stay still.
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