the wall

The lights – they flicker, casting an eerie and unnatural light in the room. The rush of the traffic sounds from below, muffled by the moth-eaten curtains drawn across the broken window. There is a television – switched on – sat in the corner of the dingy room, showing nothing but black and white snow; painting the coffee table topped with an overflowing ashtray and piles of dirty crockery in a silvery complexion. The floor is colourful – splattered with stains of every colour and strewn with clusters of rodent droppings and varying sizes of some white marble. The chipped stone forms a loose trail, increasing in size as it nears the source. A sharp ring of metal on stone can suddenly be heard. *ching* And again. *ching* And again. *ching* The sound was continual; rhythmical; methodical. It gets louder, vibrating the air around a four foot tall obelisk of grey-white marbled stone. The material seems to glow – luminescent; iridescent; vibrant; effervescent with a shimmering sheen. Behind the solid block, with hammer and chisel in hand, is the Man – the Creator.

The Man is aged – his face is weathered and creased; his hair is a dirty grey, extending past his shoulders; his eyes are lifeless and blank, gazing into a distant world and time; his hands are blistered and dry. There are flakes of maroon where his fingers are grasping the tools’ handles – tight and unrelenting. In a rehearsed and well-practiced manner, He brings hammer to chisel, striking the living matter for the 8456th time to date and another piece of glittering mass falls to the ground.

The clock on the wall ticks away – counting the minutes, the hours and the days. The figure continues his exercise of chipping away at the stone, molding it into the shape in his mind. As the days continue to pass, the mess on the floor builds around the Man’s feet. *ching* *ching* *ching* *ching* *ching* *ching* And then it stops. A whole year has elapsed. 365 days of continuous labour came to an abrupt halt. The Artist stood – eyes not even looking at the finished product. There was no need to – His muscles had memorised every necessary movement to create what He wanted. With supernatural strength, He hoists the statue onto his shoulder and moves towards a door concealed in the darkest corner of the room – a solid iron door, too heavy for those below him. He pushes against the side of the door and slowly – and unnervingly quietly – the door opens. With the portal fully open, he grasps at the single thread of wire suspended from the ceiling. And like the the First day, there is light. Light to reveal this hidden gallery of sculpture; this factory of forgery and replication. Row after row of identical figurines crafted out of the same matte rock, the lustrous glow no longer emanating from them. He sets His most recent creation down, returns the room to darkness and closes the door once more. He strides back to his seat, picks up his tools and waits for His next delivery.

For the umpteenth time, he’d fallen just short. His legs were just that bit shorter, that bit chubbier, and that bit weaker than the rest. He had, of course, run with all his might and will power – his arms flailing beside him as he tried to woo the audience. Yet all he could see were the backs of the heads of his fellow competitors. And try as he might, he just couldn’t muster up the speed to close the gap – they were getting further and further ahead, whilst he was beginning to flag. 

Tears began to well up in his eyes. He knew that this was a losing race. Only the fastest; the most skilled; the most beautiful would ever win at this game, and he was none of those. The droplets of liquid rolled down his face as he watched the others finish, their arms outstretched to meet the welcome of their prize. 

He stopped.

His breath was haggard. And in staccato. 

He dropped to his knees.

“That’s it.”

He was finished. It was over.

“I give up.”

And so the rain began to fall.

It was sweet on her tongue, with an edge of bitterness that left her wanting more. She let the morsel melt in her mouth – the liquid silk coating her mouth and gently numbing her palette. No sooner had she swallowed the toxin, did she become addicted. She knew immediately that this would not be the last time that she indulged on that heavenly food. It was like nothing she had ever tasted, and it brought an elation that she could only describe as orgasmic. Her senses felt heightened. She could feel the music, as well as hear it. She could smell and taste the sweat of man that lingered in the air. She could see every speck of light that danced off the walls and ceiling. It was as if time had slowed down just so she could savour every passing moment.

This, she thought, was heaven.

Her eyes fell shut: the weight of those lids finally became too much to bear. The world disappeared in an instant. There were no sounds to pierce her ears; no sights to blind her eyes; no smells to invade her nostrils; no tastes to soil her tongue; no sensations to abrase her skin – reality did not exist behind those veiled windows. In its place was a gentle warmth, which permeated her exterior and brought glow to her very core. A fire had been lit, but rather than the expected burn, it soothed. It quelled the evils within and returned them to the box from which they had escaped. She felt no anxiety; no stress; no fear – the day’s toll had been paid.

A sweet lullaby sang in her mind. Siren’s voice called out to her. Hush, she lulled. Hush.

Come to my bosom,
Let me embrace you.
Let me protect you
From hexes and voodoo.

Promises of bliss, whispers of ethereality. Such temptations, she could not resist. She dare not resist. She let herself succumb to the seductions of sleep, and let the blade from her hand.

He smiled to himself. It was a look of self-content and complete satisfaction, but also relief and joy. The fragments he had taken so long to find were finally in front of him and pieced together. The glue had yet to dry, and he could still see it oozing from the sides but he didn’t care. PVA glue dried clear, right? The red shards had been delicately reassembled with trembling hands, and more than once he had cut himself on the pieces – nothing serious; nothing that a plaster couldn’t solve.

Gently, he lifted the object so dear to him and held it against his chest. One whole year, it had taken. A whole 365 days to gather together the scattered components and decipher the arrangement. It had taken a lot of effort – blood, sweat and tears – but it was complete now: it was whole again. Ready to sit on his sleeve once more.

When all the world were nothing and emptiness reigned supreme, only the smallest specks of sparkle danced across the aether. In a waltz towards creation of the unknown, these beings in their gaseous ball gowns and lustrous tuxedos strode to an unfamiliar tempo – hands grasped, bodies together. With grace and ecstasy, they spun, and stepped, and twirled, and dipped, and slid, and lifted; climbing to a pinnacle – a crescendo – they had not expected. Until with thunderous din and ethereal light, what was two, now is one.

And so a star is born.