Writings, yey
Tink.
Tink.
Tink.
This would be one for the songsters. Forget all that mawkish stuff about the menfolk going off to war and coming back legless, armless, but not loveless, or those womenfolk who dressed as men to hunt their men and confront their love on the highway or the high seas, for whatever paranoiac thoughts passed through them. No, no, none of them had his LOVE, his PASSION for his queen, that would see him through this, however long it took.
Tink.
Tink.
Tink.
To the casual observer, or coincidentally passing poet, the standing stone was like many others on the Hradnian Plains, two mansheights tall, roughly spherical, but tapered in a manner that suggested a peaceful spearhead. This particular stone was somewhat larger than the rest and its pinecone shape tapered somewhat in the middle, giving it distinct femininity in the endless ranks of phalluses. That had caught his attention when he'd first rode past, all those years ago. The shape had seemed to speak to him, call out to him even as he drove his mount onward, like the towers that thronged with weeping, wailing women as fleets sailed out. The next day, he'd come back and stayed for as long as there was light to see. The next day was the same, as was the next. On the fifth, he'd brought a tape measure and some rope and started thinking properly. By month's end, he'd bought a hammer and chisel.
Tink.
Tink.
Tink.
The dream had driven him on, day and night. Friends and family had been briefly amused to see such in a lackadaisical comrade and cousin, but eventually, they'd gotten bored and gone off to the next interest. Vagabonds! They had no understanding of TRUE DESIRE, nor of ART! They saw no further than their blind noses, eternally raised to the sky, seeing NOTHING! He'd even gained some celebrity over his work, but that had faded, as was to be expected from such LESSER MINDS! They were only concerned with their drink, pigswill and amusement, not with what truly MATTERED in life, the true IDEALS man was meant to follow, to the DEATH! Who cared that his fortune was lost, that his house ran to ruin, that that disgusting little oik of a brother was to be left the family swathe. No, all that mattered was releasing the FORM of his beloved from the bonds of rough and uncouth stone.
Tink.
Tink.
SPUNCH.
Shocked eyes jumped back to reality, flicked down, and confirmed the reports already flooding from his bare feet and calves. Pressed as they were against what had moments ago been the hard, polished marble of the plains but now flowed to the ground in rolls of endless femininity, he could as much deny the truth of his hands as he could pick the stars from the endless blue above him. Years spent toiling slipped from him as he gazed into her eyes, pink as the vein of rosestone he had carved them from, while the hammer and lightly blooded chisel fell from his hands, sliding down her curves to the grass below, forgotten.
“Beloved,” said he.
“Saviour,” said she.
This, he thought as they came together, her long, rich arms enveloping his miniscule form, would definitely be one for the songsters.