The Sculptor. Short Story.

It wasn’t right, not even close. He looked at the sculpture, circling slowly. No. This was wrong, not what he wanted at all. But how? How was it wrong? It wasn’t at all like he imagined. He knew it was wrong, he could feel it in his bones, but he didn’t know why it was wrong. He needed to change it, starting again was almost impossible at this point, he had to figure out why it was wrong, to figure out what he should change.

The space was messy, but it always was when he was working, brushes and twine and bits and pieces of detritus littered the floor. It would until he was done with his newest masterpiece. Everyone was waiting for him to finish, everyone wanted to see his latest piece but he couldn’t unveil it, not until it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. His last three pieces were an absolute hit, dominating the papers for days, everyone wanted to know who he was, where he got his ideas, his inspiration. For now he cultivated his artists mystique. They wouldn’t know who he was, not yet. Soon they would, but for now he had to be anonymous, build a bit of a buzz about himself.

It was a difficult medium to work with, but that is what made him stand out. They had to be created and displayed with the utmost care. Of course, with the first three inspiration had gripped him, he had worked night and day and everything had just slotted into place. Even the places where they were displayed had called to him, the light, the colours, everything had just worked.

There was obviously nothing else he could do here, he just had to go out and get something for it. He didn’t know what yet, but he’d know when he’d see it. Found art. There was something about it, something that made the sculpture, the piece in general, just better. He stood back and let out a deep breath, time for a walk. Even if he didn’t see it, the fresh air would no doubt help.

It was a sunny day, which always put him in a cheerful disposition. It had been raining for the last few days. Everything felt new, fresh, after the rain. Though he didn’t like it, he liked how everything felt afterwards, the air felt lighter and smelt cleaner. There were others walking the streets, no doubt keen to be out of the house after the long hours spent inside. There was a faint wind, just enough to add a chill to the air.

He wandered through the park, not paying attention to much, just allowing his thoughts to wander. He’d find what he needed, he knew he would. Some clouds parted and the sun shone down, showing him it was there, as if god himself knew of the importance of his work. He approached it, studying it from all angles, it really was perfect. Of course, he’d have to wait until there were fewer people around, wouldn’t do to be seen carting it about the place, but he didn’t feel worried, he was relaxed. He’d have it soon enough and then he could allow himself to be taken over, to allow the creative process to just flow through him. Soon his next masterpiece would be finished and again the world would be abuzz about him. He could feel it already, the warmth in his chest, the pleasure of a job well done.

He stood back, lights shining down upon his creation. He had done it, he had surpassed himself, it was perfect, it was glorious. Somewhere in the background he could hear faint noises, but they weren’t important, he could deal with them later, for now, now he just needed to take it in, slowly, properly. He circled around it, amazed and astounded with each circuit. This was by far his greatest piece yet.

That mewling whining noise was starting to get annoying. He turned from his masterpiece, though loathe to turn his back on it, and looked at the woman. She was still tied down, blood covered her face, only cleared where tears had flowed. She was saying something, he didn’t know what, probably just mumbling at this point. He had seen her in the park, her glorious hair. When the sun shone on it he knew, knew he needed it. It looked as though her very head was aflame. Three other people had gone into this sculpture, but she was by far the best part. She was what drew everything together, she was the saving grace of it all. He picked up the knife he had used and leaned over to her ear, he whispered one word, “thank you.” Then he drew the knife swiftly across her neck. It didn’t take long. It seemed a waste to not use the rest of her, perhaps she would be the beginning on his next piece. After all, she did provide something special for the last, perhaps her skin? It was quite pretty, or maybe her eyes, they were a lovely shade of blue, yes, he could see it now, they could be the centre piece. For now though, now he had to place this piece and he already knew the perfect spot.

The church wasn’t local and getting to it was a bit of a pain, but it was gorgeous inside, with high, vaulted ceilings and lovely stained glass windows. He had been here a few times when he was a boy, with his grandmother. She was always religious, she used to bring him with her sometimes when she went to church. It was the perfect place to display his sculpture and a nice wide area at the altar so you could circle around it, really see it from all angles. And, as an added benefit, the church didn’t lock its doors at night. If anything it signalled that they wanted something like this to happen, they were waiting for it. He almost felt as though the building itself was created just for this one day.

He read the paper while sipping his coffee, he had been right, his latest sculpture was even bigger than the others, it was all they were talking about on the radio, in the paper, even on the TV. A quick and simple search online even brought up pictures of them all. His fame was becoming greater, everyone would know him soon enough, but he wasn’t done yet. He could feel it, inside him, other sculptures wanting to get out. He wouldn’t stop, not until he knew he couldn’t undo himself.

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About Alan James Keogh

I am a 24 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
This entry was posted in Horror, Short Stories and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to The Sculptor. Short Story.

  1. Reblogged this on ofmiceandblondie and commented:
    Once i began reading this, I could not stop. Well done! Thumbs up to this-it’s a must read!

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