The Smith

She rises early from bed, for those in her profession needs to seize the day before it breaks. Dressed, washed, ate and drew from the most meager tasks. She put too much water with the coffee this morning, so her mind and nose had to work to convince her tongue that it was not completely tasteless.

Then she got to work. From the world she collected things deemed worthless, yet she thought could be the limbs, the facade, or the torso of her creations. So she smelt her iron the fiery pits of her personal hell, the self-doubts, the questions, stripping the worldly things away until she looked only at her own soul. The holy water of companionship quenched the heat, allowing time for thoughts to liquify in the hiss of cooling metals, translated onto a mold, a page.

She had no hammer, but a pen will do, to carve with carrot marks or slashes. A shape to be found. A keyboard to refine the final thoughts.

And here, you read, the sculpture stands.

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