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The Mystery of
the Artist
Flash Fiction/ Faithwriters Writing Challenge
Word Count 720
He
knew me in a way that most men could not. He was, after all, a
carpenter. He was a man; tough, calloused hands, muscular arms and
triceps. He was no stranger to hard work. I knew at the very moment that
He took me upon his shoulder – the way he touched me, maneuvered me, and
appreciated me- that he was an artist.
I knew that this
moment was what I was fashioned for- I was created for him. I could
sense that he also felt that His destiny was in me. He was my purpose,
and I was his.
Then we came
together in a marriage of blood.
Is there irony in
the fact that I was created with his hands, and now he will die, nailed
to mine? The Artist’s executioner is his own creation. No, it was
something far deeper.
There was
something about this man who bled streams of blood and water on me that
made my dried roots strain to drink again; something about this great
artist that made me want to cry “I am alive!”
Though I don't
speak their tongue, I could see what was happening. Some spoke
violently, others murmur sarcastically, but he spoke to them with
passion and sincerity.
They could not
kill him; he gave his life up. Who can do this?
As he breathed
his last breath I unexpectedly felt indescribable emotion serge within
me. Suddenly Earth and Wind shouted in anger and brokenness; splitting
the ground with an earth-shaking howl. Moon and Sun came together at
midday and embraced each other in sorrow, turning the day into night,
and joy into dread.
Men and women ran
around in confusion; frightened children screamed, and families hurried
into their homes hiding themselves. Then it began to rain.
It rained
heavily. There was nothing ordinary about this salt-bitter rain; it was
the tears of a billion heavenly creatures crying, miserably. A tangible
darkness covered the whole earth.
Soldiers came and
pulled him away from me. I couldn’t stop them; I didn’t want to be
separated from this man. He meant something to me. He was the only one
that had known me, loved me, and then he died upon my chest. And they
stripped him from me.
I was covered in
his blood. Not even the drowning rain could wash me clean of it. But the
crimson blood that stained me made me unique. I was no longer an
indistinguishable brown piece of Pine. Now I was clothed, by him, with
Royal red. I felt life. He had changed me in some amazing way.
His body was
taken away from me, but I still felt him near. I watched them carry him
down the long muddy path until they disappeared over a hill.
I was left there
with a great mystery. Who was the artist? What had he done to deserve
our horrible union?
He was an artist,
of that I was sure. But what did he create that was so evil that could
possibly cause him to be found worthy of death? What had his hands
created that was so forbidden, unwanted, and defiled that would place
him upon me for judgment? Had he given life to a monster? No. Not this
man. He was the Artist of artists. There was no way that any other could
ever come close to him. He had life in him, and he must have breathed it
into his artwork?
Was that the
problem? Was his living art offensive to them? Were they jealous of what
he had created with blood, sweat, and tears? Had he created a
masterpiece in his own image which caused everyone to burn with envy?
Was his art
misunderstood? Did they mistakenly think that his artwork was something,
no doubt, incredibly brilliant and beautiful, was hideously dangerous?
I am left here
with only questions and no means by which to find the answers.
Who was he?
What did he
create?
What good could
come from killing such a man?
As I wait here,
lying in a pile of wood, drying out so that I can be thrown into the
fire, all I can think about is the one thing that holds all the answers.
The center piece
of this great mystery is beyond my reach…
What did He
create? |
