“Make me something.”

“Make you something?”


“Make you what?”

“Anything you want. Anything you can. Just make something for me, my Maker.”

So he made, for that was no challenge; a maker makes; she called him a maker so he made. He made dances and dreams and wishes and little wooden artefacts carved with exquisite, deft-fingered skill. He made books and afterthoughts and the end of the final sad sonnet. He made walls and clouds and the time when expectation is overwhelmed with realization.

He made and made and made.

Finally he stopped, for look, everything had been made. Then the maker looked at all he had done, at the things made for another’s wishes. He looked, and in his heart was a sense of defeat that came from having made everything but the one thing, the unknown thing, the mystery.

Failure weighed upon the maker heavily and instead of presenting his made things to his commissioner, he left. He went to his navel and contemplated. Then after un-timed ages he resurfaced, smiled a greeting to his favorite stars, and made his way through the infinities of reality to where his made things had been left. By the light of an oval moon he gathered them to his arms, piling taxis on trees, tucking whispers and whistles into the deep pockets of Wednesday mornings. Soon everything was gathered together, ready to be made into one final thing.

The maker travelled again, until he came to she who had sent him forth.

“I have made for you.”

She looked far into the quietness of his eyes and smiled a smile of gratitude.

“Show me.”

So he showed her all.

He showed her butterflies and winter skies and he showed her a rainbow’s end and the smile of friends and he showed her krakens asleep in the deep and he showed her where stars and their satellites hold pride of place.

She looked at these, at everything made, and in all the variety and difference and change she saw but one thing, the unknown thing, the mystery thing.

“My maker in truth, I love you.”

The maker heard, and from being maker he now became made, formed by the love of his lover.

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Clive lives by the sea in rural Cornwall, England, and writes short stories and poetry. He has been published by WordRiot, Pidgeonholes, & The Quarterday Review. Occasionally he blogs about finding writing tough at www.clivetern.com.

7 Responses

  1. Jeff Suwak
    Jeff Suwak
    at · Reply

    I really loved this story. Beautiful.

  2. Foy S. Iver
    at · Reply

    Gorgeous imagery. Warmed my soul. 🙂

  3. Ani King
    at · Reply

    This is really lovely. It was a pleasure to read.

  4. Louis Rakovich
    at · Reply


  5. voimaoy
    at · Reply

    truly splendid. thank you!

  6. Clive Tern
    at · Reply

    To the person who donated after reading this, thank you. I’m humbled.

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