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100 words long. Not a word more, not a word less.
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Him Pith & Pulp by Giles Ward
A sculptor takes a palm-sized knot of clay and rolls it into a ball. He squeezes, presses, puckers and teases it into a face-of-sorts; wisen with thought and confusion.
He removes his blindfold. He places the mushed-up ball-head on a plinth of pentelic marble and takes a single step back: It is a mess of thumbprint craters and pinched threads. It is him bloated gross internal. Him all twists and pains. Him pith and pulp splayed.
To you, he thinks, it is but the work of a pre-school toddler.
To me, he thinks, it is but a thing of beauty.
The SHORT TALE 100 – AUGUST 2017