Another installment of the close-enough-to-Friday Fictioneers.
I wake up at the workbench again, the dust of my unconscious labors packed under my fingernails and my hands aching from clenching the mallet and chisel all night. I recoil as I see what is emerging from the block of plaster: Morpheus and Hephaestus—Dream and Craft—overlapping and melded into a macabre amalgam; a thing which cannot be, yet is. It is a thing I feel myself slowly becoming.
People marvel at my sculptures at art exhibits. They beg me to share my secret inspiration, but I just smile.
Because I honestly don’t know.
And it scares me.