Sculpted
By John Winslow
Nobody knows this, because it's never been done. Well, it's happened once. But compared to the uncountable other times unwittingly attempted, nobody knows this.
Do you remember when you were a child, and you played in the mud? It didn't begin this way, but eventually you started making little men. They dried in the hot summer sun as you quickly tried to finish them before it was too late. And when their forms were solid and brittle, you smiled at your tiny creations. In your eyes, they were perfect.
But they weren't. And as you grew older, and you made this pastime your occupation, and as your skill improved each year and your technique refined with every sculpture, you became more and more happy with your perfect little things. But they weren't.
A friendly gentleman in a crumbly suit once toiled day and night in his cramped one bedroom apartment to finish his sculpture. It had taken him a lifetime to acquire the rough hands he now used to roll the damp clay around into perfect little bits, attaching each perfect little feature onto the perfect little head. Scraping and rolling and kneading and slapping and cutting and poking, all these perfect little sections firmly placed onto the perfect sculpture.
Everyone tries to make their work absolutely perfect, but nobody knows what happens when you get it just right.
Nobody knows this, but Joe. Joe, the friendly suited one bedroom apartment fellow who gave his life to see what he was seeing now. And when his perfect creation breathed in for the first time, it was like it had sucked all the air out of the room.
And then it screamed, and Joe could not.
- - -
Here lies John Winslow. All he wanted to do was to dance on the Moon. Dammit John.
By John Winslow
Nobody knows this, because it's never been done. Well, it's happened once. But compared to the uncountable other times unwittingly attempted, nobody knows this.
Do you remember when you were a child, and you played in the mud? It didn't begin this way, but eventually you started making little men. They dried in the hot summer sun as you quickly tried to finish them before it was too late. And when their forms were solid and brittle, you smiled at your tiny creations. In your eyes, they were perfect.
But they weren't. And as you grew older, and you made this pastime your occupation, and as your skill improved each year and your technique refined with every sculpture, you became more and more happy with your perfect little things. But they weren't.
A friendly gentleman in a crumbly suit once toiled day and night in his cramped one bedroom apartment to finish his sculpture. It had taken him a lifetime to acquire the rough hands he now used to roll the damp clay around into perfect little bits, attaching each perfect little feature onto the perfect little head. Scraping and rolling and kneading and slapping and cutting and poking, all these perfect little sections firmly placed onto the perfect sculpture.
Everyone tries to make their work absolutely perfect, but nobody knows what happens when you get it just right.
Nobody knows this, but Joe. Joe, the friendly suited one bedroom apartment fellow who gave his life to see what he was seeing now. And when his perfect creation breathed in for the first time, it was like it had sucked all the air out of the room.
And then it screamed, and Joe could not.
- - -
Here lies John Winslow. All he wanted to do was to dance on the Moon. Dammit John.
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