This story is for Miranda Kate's weekly flash challenge. This is from Miranda's post:
This week's photo prompt is of a sculpture taken at a specific angle. This was created by Zenos Frudakis, an American sculptor and this is called the Freedom sculpture and can be found at 16th and Vine Streets, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He does interesting work.
Here's a link to the prompt photo.
I borrowed an idea from Jewish lore for this story. It's a little horror, a little romance, a little sad. I'm not Jewish, so take anything I write here with a grain of salt. Kosher salt, of course. No offense intended with the bad joke...
Please note that anyone can join in with a story up to 750 words. Mine has 352 words for those who are counting (not including the title).
The Golem's Dream
by K. R. Smith
Ezra looked down at his hands; they were strong, but rough and indelicate. He had been created from the dust and clay, brought to life by the words of his mistress. His duty was to serve, which he did gladly.
Why would he not? The tasks were simple enough: protect her, fetch food and drink, sometimes carry objects too large or heavy for her graceful frame.
Above all, he could enjoy her presence.
He had delivered the evening meal and was standing silently by the doorway as his mistress entered. Her sumptuous hair, her gown, her body all flowed effortlessly as she moved. It was so unlike his clumsy, plodding ways. She walked past him, then stopped suddenly and turned to face him.
"You are my crowning jewel, Ezra, my greatest achievement. You are of the earth, yet at times I look at you and feel there is more there than I know." She looked into the dark pits of his eyes. "Are you happy? Can you even understand what that means?" She shook her head and smiled. "If only you could speak."
If only. He raised his hand to reach for her but could not bring himself to do so. How could he defile her beauty with his coarse touch? He lowered his hand and gazed into the distance, embarrassed by his effrontery.
His mistress retired once the meal was finished, and Ezra returned to his small room. Many troubling thoughts filled his mind. Could he bear to leave her? Never. And yet, could he bear to stay, to be forever tormented by impossible dreams?
Ezra knew the answer.
He looked in the mirror at the word written on his forehead. His fingers dug into the clay, ripping away the one letter that would end his frustration. As his body failed, he staggered backwards, his limbs, his torso, crumbling. His only hope was, that perhaps, she would finally understand.
In the morning, all that could be found was a piece of clay with the mark א engraved upon its surface surrounded by streaks of dust in the shape of a hand.
While you're here...