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The Sculpture

Paper Mache’ and mothball eyes, the witch licked her lips and sang, "Lady ladle, hints of tangled tethers and rooster feathers, a sculpture of the dark shadow and a bit o mossy hair, the forthcoming maw of evoking poking mediums, the devil may care!" She used the mothballs for eyes and silk, corn silk for the hair, moss for the beard and a touch of rooster blood for his curious smile. "Casket, baskets and questions of sum, lifeblood blossoms permit me to come!" She exalted as her arms pin wheeled in supplication.

The paper Mache quivered and chance bestowed life to the aberration in a roiling cloud of mist.

"ArRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHAAAAA!" the statue gurgled. "Tell me a secret." the witch whispered with a sibilant fervency. "AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHAAAAAA!" the statue replied. "Tell me of the dark shadows ye belong to sir!" she implored. "ARRRRRRAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHAAAAA!" the statue replied. Frustrated the witch smashed the statue with her fists until it was nothing but a scattered conference of bothered paper.

She thought in solitude and dreamy custom, for the passage of breath emerges from naught with the advent of both tangles and god’s hand rather than the twilight of a dying day.

Story by:

Ron Koppelberger

will806095@bellsouth.net

submitted at 6:38pm

23 December 2010