Broken Glass

      The artist worked day in and day out. His mosaic sat in pathetic triumph as he laid out the pieces depicting a beautiful future. Colors fought amongst each-other in beautiful harmony and the artist dreamed of how they would explode when the light of the sun finally touched them.

      "Here," said the artist looking back on a painting of his, "here I shall add a tree." and so he hurried off to find the right shards. His last work had been so devoid of life. Surely he would not allow for the same folly to repeat itself. And so, the artist had a tree. "A rather strange place for a tree." proclaimed the critics as they mulled among themselves. "No matter," thought the artist as he continued his work, "for the piece is yet to be done."

      The artist worked all through the night. Here, a different color; there, a different shape. The image was coming together. But as he looked closer he saw a flaw in a shard. It caught the light where it shouldn't and reflected off to the viewer. This could not be so. And so the artist toiled to find a shard the same color and fit another into its place. Still did the image remain. Until the artist was to be bothered again by another flaw. Growing agitated, the artist replaced it but the color was just barely wrong. "No matter," thought the artist, "for surely no-one would be the wiser."

      As the artist stood tired in the morning the critics came to inspect. "Surely you plan on refining this?" the asked. "For the shape of her face is all wrong." The artist stood shocked as he looked into his work and saw what ugliness stared at him. There under his tree lay a maiden fair and wholly square in her visage. "Fine," grumbled the artist "fix it away I shall." And so he worked the whole night through. Here, he switched pieces; there, he sanded. Nowhere could he seem to escape the blunt glare of the lady and the wicked glare of his piece's flaws. The artist cursed the fruit of his efforts and continued on until he felt satisfied with the image before him. "What a beautiful moment." he said taking in all that was portrayed.

      The critics came at the break of day. "Perplexing," they remarked. "I fail to understand the execution," explained another. "You seek the perfection of beauty and yet your medium is all wrong." Each of them took their turns picking at what he had strove to create.

      To create beauty is the mission of the artist. "Why then," wondered the artist, "do I stand before such unseemliness." The artist took down the shards with limp arms and rearranged them carefully before standing back to observe his work. Blank eyes returned his gaze. The image of beauty was bent into a bleak and unsettling woe. Nowhere before him stood his vision of a future, grand. Instead the artist wept and his tears fell onto what was nothing more than broken glass.