Round 3 - The Craftsman and the Apprentice (Sensar vs. Sam)

[Kaez]

Your story's title is:

The Craftsman and the Apprentice

[Sensar]

The Craftsman and the Apprentice

My teeth ground into themselves. The heat in the room was becoming unbearable. The sun was filtering in through the window to my right, streaking through the dust swirling around the room. I carefully rubbed at Matilda's thumb, watching the curve slowly reveal itself. Finally. It had taken all day, but the left hand was beginning to resemble something remotely human.

I felt a light tap on my shoulder. It smelt of glue and wood-shavings; it smelt of dust.

“Would you like to hear a joke?”

The voice was raspy, but deep, the kind of depth where you lose consonants. I couldn’t help but smile. I put the sandpaper down and brushed my hands off on my jeans. “Absolutely.”

Jesus tottered in front of me, head jauntily tilted to the side. He stared me down with his beady eyes, stroking his beard and hmming slightly. “All right. Listen well. I was sentenced to death on the cross, right? That’s bad enough, but they gave me a crown of thorns, and had to carry the thing all myself. It was a real pain in the tuckus, you know?” He rubbed it for emphasis. “It took all day to get there, I was completely parched, could barely even speak. Then they nail me on up I go.”

Our Lord and Savior clambered onto an unused block and gestured across the worktable. “Actually, here, do me a favor. Let’s get the image right. Wrap that wire around my head for me.”

I reached across the table and grabbed a spool of wire. “Would you like me to nail your hands, too?” I asked with a half-smile. A quick cut with a knife and a strand was freed. I carefully looped it around Jesus’ head and made a little knot.

“Can you imagine what that does to the palms? Anyway, here I am up on this cross, right? And soon enough people are coming to watch me die. My followers and wailing and crying, wailing and crying. Then I noticed something. I couldn’t see Peter in the crowd. I tried calling to him.”

Jesus suddenly jerked his arms out on either side, hands hanging limply off his out-stretched limbs. His head lolled against his chest. “’Peter,’” he whispered, “’Peter.’

“’What, what, is it Jesus?’ called the people. ‘We can barely hear you!’ So I tried to speak louder. ‘Peter,’ I called as best I could. ‘Is Peter here?’”

The Son of God head his lifted slightly. “They were all asking frantically. ‘Peter? He’s asking for Peter, is Peter here?’ Sure enough, my loyal apostle stepped forward. ‘I am here, Jesus,’ he cried. ‘What is it, my lord?’ ‘Peter,’ I called, ‘I can see my house from here!’”

Jesus flipped his palms upward and cocked a foot out in a victorious pose. I didn’t respond for a moment. I wasn’t really sure how to respond. But my lips answered for me, crawling upwards in spite of themselves. “Oh, God.”

“Just so,” said a very merry Jesus. “Now that we have a smile on your face, let’s see how you’re doing.” He flitted next to me and peered at my work. Nerves immediately began to mingle with my mirth. “She’s coming along quite nicely,” he said, hand back on my shoulder. “Tell me about her.”

“Well, her name is Matilda,” I said, lightly lifting one of the wooden palms. I had just finished the carve work on the left hand. I was much happier with it than the right, particularly the fingernails. “The basic body structure is going well, and all the joints have held up so far. I’ve been putting together the dress from some purple lace. I’m thinking, maybe one more week? It’s such slow going.”

Christ patted at him with three light taps. “That’s always the way. Slow and patient. You’re doing well. Give the right hand another go, and then I’ll give you instructions for the face. Matilda, you said? Have you decided what she’s best at?”

“She’s a dancer,” I said.

“Oh, a dancer, huh?” said Jesus, surprised. “Ballet? Flamenco?” He shook his shoulders a little.

“No, she’s not a trained dancer, but she loves to dance,” I said. “She won’t ever be the most graceful girl at the ball, but she’ll have the most heart.”

Jesus was silent for a moment, and I swore my pulse stopped for a beat. Then he grunted slightly. “Okay. That sounds good. Good first step. Maybe slim her arms down a little more then. Just some light sanding will do. Do it by hand, nice and slow, you don’t want to ruin their evenness.”

I examined her arms again, her joints creaking in protest and they turned. Now that I could closer, I could see what he was saying. They were a bit bulky in comparison to the hands now that I had shaved them into shape. I looked down at my notes. Where were the proportions for fingers and wrists again?

“But, that will be for tomorrow,” said Christ. “But we’re done for today. The sun’s going down and we should both be going home.”

“Already?” I glanced up at the clock. Sure enough, it was five. My heart sank, the pain of the day forgotten. “All right, let me clean up my station.”

“No, don't, don’t worry about it,” Jesus said as he wandered away. “I’m done for today too, and we’re the only ones in here tomorrow. You can leave her out.”

I gently lay Matilda’s wooden hand on the table and re-aligned her limbs so they wouldn’t strain themselves over the course of the night. Right hand and arms, I thought. Standing, I stretched my arms up and back behind me. Aches and pains from a day bent over Matilda had crept into my lower back and neck and were roosting now, knotting themselves into discomfort. Rubbing gently at the pain, I moved towards the front door where my bag sat tucked away in the corner.

I snagged it up and threw it over my shoulder. I turned to watch Mr. Ball slowly, carefully, lower Jesus, crown of wire still wrapped, into the cabinet by hid desk. It never ceased to amaze me how this withered and bent man still commanded such fervor and life from his work.

“Goodbye Mr. Ball,” I called as I turned the handle.

“Goodbye Connie,” said Mr. Ball, raising a hand in farewell. He was moving steadily towards his desk now to gather his things. His head jutted forward and his blue eyes twinkled. He scratched at his thin white goatee. “Be well. I will see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ball,” I said. I turned out the door.

[Ad Absurdum]

The Craftsman told the Apprentice to arrive at sunrise and so he had obeyed.

Her house was at the tip of the valley, elevated above everything else, first to greet the stream which carved through the city below. It was along this stream that the Apprentice had climbed, the mountain road ascending steeply, apparently not keen on defaulting to the usual switchback technique. There, near the summit, was the Craftsman’s house.

She waited patiently outside, cross legged, her breakfast already finished. A smile was on her face. A smile always seemed to be on her face. He bowed. She stood.

“Let’s begin.”

And so it did.

~ ~ ~

The Apprentice could first remember the fireworks the night his father went away.

Back then the Great War was still a novelty. A mere word, like any other, without ‘Great’ attached to it. Nothing about it betrayed its true length, its true toll on the nations involved. Then, the idea of War was still a noble thing. A cause for celebration.

And so the fireworks rained down. Upon the legions of soldiers lined up, upon the awed citizens. Upon the Emperor, whose speech was drowned out by the music from the night sky above.

The Apprentice was with his mother and his two sisters. His father was amidst the ranks of soldiers, ready to march out when the last splash of colour died out in the sky.

The Apprentice would see him again. Just once more.

~ ~ ~

The Craftsman’s house and workshop were one and the same. Here she would sleep and eat and bathe. And here she would make the fireworks. There was no distinction for her. Work was life and life was work. As such, her kitchen and workshop co-mingled, occasionally invading into each other’s territory with a misplaced pot or fuse. The Craftsman never paid this any mind. If she could, she would have removed the walls from her house entirely, letting each of the rooms fall into each other, objects from one oozing into the next until it was all just a single homogenous place, a definition of her.

She led the Apprentice to the main table, a long wooden bench already cluttered with an assortment of jars. Some transparent, some opaque, yet they all appeared to contain powder or dyes of a sort, each one their own faded colour. Coarse or fine, there was no organization or sorting to their setup, the Craftsman had appeared to place them as she pleased.

“What do you see?” The Craftsman asked the Apprentice.

The Apprentice paused, considering there was some trick to the question presented. Looking to the Craftsman, and then back to the table, he considered his answer–a second too late.

The Craftsman blinked. “Powders. You see coloured powders,” she said.

“…Yes.”

“A food is known for its flavour, a firework is known for two things.”

The Craftsman had paused again, and this time the Apprentice’s words immediately boiled out, seeing the question implicit in her words. “It’s design, how it erupts. How it shapes across the sky.”

He presumed the Craftsman’s half-nod to be clinical approval. “And?”

“Colour?”

“Colour,” she plucked one jar from the group. A soft pink glowed inside, the colour of cherry blossoms. “A firework with no colour is like a wild berry without its tartness. Empty and forgettable. Colour must be memorable. It must stain the eyes like an ink drop. Even when one blinks it should glow, forever remembered.”

The Apprentice nodded, soaking it in.

“Today, you will make Red. Carmine. Scarlet. The colour of romance. Vivid and vibrant. Seduction. Cherries. Apples. Pomegranite. Give me a red of reds. Something that encompasses all of these, but favours none of them.”

The Apprentice frowned, looking across the jars. There were a few reds there, nestled amidst a forest of cooler colours. “Do these other reds not suit us?”

The Craftsman looked across the jars. “Dilluted and unforgettable. I need something real. I need something raw. You know how to mix these, yes?”

The Apprentice nodded.

“Good.”

And she left him, moving into another room and closing the door beside her, leaving the Apprentice to wonder if this was a first lesson or simply some cruel prank.

~ ~ ~

“Father is said to return in a week.”

The Apprentice pretended not to hear his mother’s words at first. They sat across each other at the table, his two sisters–her two daughters–flanking them, their faces neutral.

“The Emperor’s army is in its final push, that is what the rumours in the city are.” He could feel his mother’s eyes burning straight into the top of his head.

“This is good.”

“They require more men. Notices have been posted in the temples. Reinforcements to finally end this war.”

~ ~ ~

“Give me silver. Not steel. Not the dull glint of swords. But the crackle and sparkle of frosted metal. Something that shivers. Something that can dance to the same tune as the moon. One to indulge the lunarscape.”

~ ~ ~

Three pairs of eyes upon him, his sisters now indulging their mother. The Apprentice kept his own to his food, letting the chopsticks dance between them.

“Father will ask about grandfather’s blade, about your swordplay.” The words bit into him, as sharp as a thorn.

“I have practiced.”

“You’ve been creating children’s toys.”

“I just started, mother.”

~ ~ ~

“Turquoise. The colour of a crystalline pool , forgotten in the rainforest. More green than blue–no, wait, blue than green–I can’t bear cyan. Make it rich. Creamy. Gemstones, the kind you would find in a dragon’s lair. Give me turquoise.”

~ ~ ~

“And what? Do you plan to end it? Conveniently quit this fireworks charade when the war is finished?”

“The Emperor will need something to celebrate–“

“The Emperor needs soldiers. He needs a victory. A city full of weakened men, more concerned with petty chemistry will not do that.”

“I will–“

“Tomorrow. Your father comes home tomorrow and I’m certain he will be overjoyed at the news. Truly awed by his only son.”

The Apprentice’s chopsticks scratched against his bowl, like nails against a slate board, but he said nothing else.

~ ~ ~

“Yellow. Happiness. Daisy. Sunshine. Butter. Sunflower,” the Craftsman tossed one of the vials to the Apprentice. “Use this one. And no gold. Two different things. Gold will be next week.”

The Apprentice nodded, trying to hide his disappointment with the news. Gold next week, inevitably meant more colour mixing. Magenta had been yesterday, and before that, green, and before that, blue (or azure, as the Craftsman had insisted).

He decided to tip-toe the issue, starting with an innocuous question.

“Is there…is there any reason why you choose a certain colour on a certain day?”

The Craftsman seemed to smirk, and for a moment the Apprentice thought she had discovered the true flavour of the question. But then she replied. “Yellow. Happiness. The Emperor’s army returns today, with only one more march on the capital to succeed. Is that not a reason to celebrate?”

The Apprentice swallowed. Yes, the army. His father. All of them awaited in the valley below. “I suppose it is.”

The Craftsman’s smirk remained on her face. “Suppose, hm? Well, make it a yellow then, with just a lick of blue inside. Don’t combine them, we’ve already done enough green.”

The Apprentice nodded, attempting to swallow down the sigh emerging.

“As well, make me another azure,” the Craftsman’s words splintered through his thoughts. “The one you made me last time had too much cobalt on the seams.”

~ ~ ~

Father’s voice was different then what he remembered.

“You make fireworks, son? Show us then. Show us what you have inherited from your Craftsman.”

“I have none…”

“You have none, and what has she done all of this time?”

“Colours.”

“Colours? Is this what my son is? Kuni? Maker of colours?”

“I will…I will be a Craftsman.”

“You will be a disgrace.”

~ ~ ~

“Did you stumble on the way up?” The Craftsman again, was waiting for the Apprentice as he ascended to her house. It was still early morning, and the rice fields were radiant below with the gleam of the rising sun, the whole valley blazing mirror-like.

The Apprentice’s hand went up to his own cheek, feeling the archipelago of bruises there, a stark contrast to valley below. He shook his head softly.

“Was there an issue, back at home?” She asked softly.

“What is the colour for today?”

“If you need a rest, then you only need to ask. Your previous colours have been–“

“What is the colour for today?”

The Craftsman hesitated, more words clearly lingering in her tongue. But they never wafted out, and she simply nodded. “White. Pure. Unfiltered. The kind that only occurs during snowfall. The kind that is blinding to look at when the sun peaks.”

The Apprentice stepped towards the workshop, removing his fingers from his face.

This is what the gods have granted me? An emasculated son?

“Your azure…” The Craftsman’s voice trailed behind him, and he turned, expecting disapproval.

“Your azure….it was perfect. You’ve made immense progress.”

He didn’t reply, but walked straight into the workshop, the words chasing him as he slipped inside.

~ ~ ~

A mixer of dyes? Is that what you have chosen? Is this the legacy you impose on my family, during the Great War?

“May I ask a question?”

“You may,” the Craftsman didn’t removed her gaze from the vial, the substance inside shining a brilliant ivory.

“When will you show me the other part of your workshop?”

“What do you mean?” The Craftsman squinted, keeping her face turned away from the Apprentice.

He pointed to the door, the one that lead to the back of the house. “Every day, you work in there. I do not see you until lunch. For hours, you are building fireworks…I understand that mixing colours is important. But…should I not be learning the other skills as well?”

The vial was placed on the table and the Craftsman herself hoisted her body up, sitting amidst the vials and the jars, her trademark smile returning to her face. “Tell me…when is the last time you remember my fireworks being show in the city?”

The Apprentice paused, his mind searching. His memory was still polluted by his father, the bellow of his words from last night, the string of his slap, it scarred his thoughts. Finally, some clairvoyance came to him. “Three years ago. The last time the Emperor had returned, his birthday…”

“And tell me, the season is summer…last time I recalled, the Emperor’s birthday was in winter. Do you think the Emperor’s birthday has changed?”

“No…”

“So what purpose is there to make fireworks then? There are no celebrations, no birthday to behold, and the Great War continues, why do you think I am making fireworks?”

“But what else could you be doing in there?” The Apprentice pressed. “This is what you are known for. You spend all day in there, and for what?”

The Craftsman shook her head, her voice hesitating. “I don’t make fireworks in there. When the day comes, and the War ends, we shall. And these colours are a hope that it will be sooner than later. But until then, there is nothing. Nothing at all.” She turned her face away, bringing the vial up to the filtered sunlight as an excuse, but the Apprentice could see her arms quivering, slightly. For a while, she simply inspected, and the Apprentice waited.

“This is good. First attempt as well. You’ve improved.”

“Thank you.” The Apprentice took his own bag. Usually, it was one colour a day, and then dismissal. He would return to the city, wandering the streets until the sunset, until he was summoned for dinner. He would prepare for the new slew of insults from his father, more than likely accompanied by his fellow soldiers. He would look to his sisters, to his mother, only to be met with the same dismissal of neutrality they had given him every night before…

“Have lunch with me,” the Craftsman said. “The day is young.”

He looked up, surprised, as The Craftsman hopped from her bench, gesturing towards the door.

“Although you may be wrong about the fireworks, you are right about another. I spend far too much time in that other work shop. You’ve surprised me so far. Your colour training is progressing faster than I can remember myself doing. Let us relax for the rest of the day. Not just lunch, but dinner as well.”

The Apprentice paused, his bag already over his shoulder. It felt like delaying the inevitable, it felt like just accumulating more scolding, layering on the sneering and disapproval. Father screaming at him for being absent at dinner, for refusing to celebrate his return…

But then, he traced his hands up to his cheeks, to the patchwork of bruises that still stung across it. All the while, he met the gaze of the Craftsman, her smile persistent on her face.

And the choice was no choice at all.

~ ~ ~

Between bites of her dumpling the Craftsman decided to speak, not bothering to finish chewing. “My parents disapproved of this hobby of mine.”

It had been the first words she had spoken since he had finished his dye. They had worked together preparing lunch in silence, mutely rolling the dumplings in tandem, their hands working together without need of any explicit communication. It was a simple task, and the Apprentice found it amusing that this had been the first project they worked together on. Not fireworks, but simple dumplings.

“When the Craftsman chose me, I was surprised as any. Amidst all of the boys. They knew the technical things. The make up of fireworks. How they burst apart, their inner mechanisms. I had none of that. Between chores, I was allowed to paint. Pastel-water colour things on left over parchment. Nothing special, but it was escapism, enough to relieve from the duties, the expectations that my parents had on me,” The Craftsman laughed softly, soy sauce dripping carelessly from her chin. “Imagine their surprise when my artistry got myself the Apprenticeship. Put a dent on their plans. I was to be married to a General. A prize for another wealthy family, A diplomatic tool. But I wanted none of it. I wanted to create art…and that’s what the Craftsman saw in me. And that’s what I saw in you.”

The Apprentice’s face was solemn, his own bowl barely touched. The hunger was there, but it didn’t seem appropriate, other thoughts still corrupted his mind.

You are not my son.

The bruise still lingered on his cheek, each movement of his jaw made its presence known, a blunt pain that shocked across his jaw.

“My father gave me the same mark you bear now. Plus…” The Craftsman’s smile dropped for a moment. “More…a mark of disapproval. I know how you must be feeling. But, you are more than just your father’s son. Much more.”

“They hate me…both of them. As well as my sisters,” The Apprentice’s chopsticks came to pick up his dumpling, but they stuttered along the bowl, dropping it again.

“They speak from tradition and its hideous sets of guidelines. Guidelines that want to be another piece of kindling in this all consuming fire we’ve called the Great War,” the Craftsman wiped her chin and spat. “If they love you, they will come to understand your path. If not…”

The Apprentice watched her search for the words, a dumpling finally pierced on his chopsticks.

The Craftsman finally shrugged. “Just let them go…”

“I understand, but yet, I feel unneeded,” the Apprentice said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s as you said. We don’t make fireworks,” he placed his bowl down, resisting the temptation to toss it. He didn’t bother attempting to mask his frustration. It steamed out, glazing over every word. “There hasn’t been a need for them in three years. It’s a faded memory to most people, lost in the scorch of the War. Why take on an Apprentice now? You are still young. Still keen in the mind. At least ten years from being an elder. Yet I am here, mixing colours for you. And I understand patience is involved. Yet, if there is no reason to make fireworks, then why now?”

The Craftsman waited from him to steady his breathing, her own lips mouthing out words, as though finding the correct thing to say, as if teetering over and sculpting a delicate phrase. “Tell me, looking out into the valley, what do you across from us, on the opposite mountain?”

The Apprentice gazed out, finding the mountain in question. “The watchtower, of course.”

“And here, right in my garden. What flowers bloom closest to the stream?”

“The Chrysanthemums.”

She nodded, but when she smiled again, it appeared wilted, less bright than before.

“Was this a trick one?”

“Hardly,” her laughter peppered out. “But to me, when I look out to the Chrysanthemums , it’s a smudge. A blur. And when I look to the mountains…blank, nothing. Anything I look at…disappears to me.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Her finger rose, pointing directly to the center of her eye. “It started out as a little absence, a tiny dot. Right in the middle. But it’s grown over the months, all consuming, erasing anything that I try to view directly.”

The Apprentice looked at her, whatever of the meal he had consuming now rising to his throat. “You mean…”

“As young as I am–and, believe me, I appreciate the compliment–it seems, that at this rate, I will be blind by next spring.”

The words lingered, the sentence stinging his mind. He didn’t want to comprehend it. Not its meaning nor its consequences. “I’m sorry.”

“If it’s anyone’s fault, it is most certainly mine,” she stood slowly, leaving her bowl upon the mat. Looking across the valley once more, her eyes squinting, she paused, again gazing at the watchtower.

It only took a moment before she shook her head. Gesturing to the Apprentice, she moved back towards the house. “Come. I have something to show you.”

~ ~ ~

The Apprentice had seen a firework up close once, not in its detonated form, but still a rocket, its hidden nature still inside of it, waiting to be unleashed with a simple lighting of its fuse. It had been decorated, surface sculpted to resemble a dragon, its sneering grin and wide eyes hinting at its true purpose.

The rockets inside the Craftsman’s other workshop, while not held to the same decorative splendor, still abided to the basic principles. Their bodies were sculpted for flight. Tapered noses and fins along their narrow bodies, fuses slithering out from below.

The Apprentice’s expression was one of bemusement. “You lied to me.”

The Craftsman shook her head. “These are not fireworks,” she said. Walking amidst the shelves, she plucked one of them into her hands, holding it up for the Apprentice to see. “Perhaps, one could argue, similar, but I disagree. Forever, I will disagree.”

“What are they then?”

The Craftsman responded with a question of her own. “Tell me, what is the purpose of a Firework?” She passed the rocket into the palms of the Apprentice. Taking it gingerly, he contemplated for a second, before replying. “Celebration manifest. Something meant to inspire awe and wonder and joy.”

The Craftsman nodded. “Very similar to the answer you gave back when I chose you.”

“Apologies.”

“Don’t, it’s why you were selected in the first place,” she snatched the firework back, her smile wilting on the edges. “A few years back, well into the war the Emperor approached me. It was not one of his usual requests. No, those are usually for his birthdays or great feasts. Instead he asked me if would assist him in winning battles.” Her last word received blunt punctuation as she brought the rocket in her hand down onto the table, splitting it open. Its inner working spilled out into the workshop–puffs of magnesium and other metals, the chalky smears of colour dye, as well as small steel balls, polished to a mirror-like clarity.

“What did he want?”

“To weaponize my creations. He had heard rumours of the kingdoms of the North. Rumours that they used flaming rockets to terrorize their enemies and set flame to the rest. He wanted me to transform–no, corrupt–them into flaming comets. Winged carriers of death.” She passed her hand underneath the balls , the sheer quantity of them making it more similar to a gleaming cataract, a silver-shined waterfall. Now, the Craftsman pressed these into the Apprentice’s hand. To him, they felt warm to touch, yet far too smooth. Completely textureless. No matter how he clenched his palm they seemed to roll free.

“I swear to you now,” the Craftsman said, taking of the balls into her own palm. “Each of these will march upon the rival Capital when the Emperor does tomorrow. Each of these will kill a man. Everything that I’ve created in here will spill blood.”

This clenched the Apprentice’s fist, this kept the balls static.

“A thing of prior joy. Meant to inspire happiness, now turned into a machination of fear. All the rival kingdom will know of me is, Juni, the maker of death.” Taking her sandal, she crushed the rest of the rocket at her feet, her lip curling slowly as she did it.

“You did it for a noble cause. To protect the country.”

“I wish that were the case. Perhaps then, I could have lived with myself. But no, I did it for fortune. The Emperor promised me this land. Promised me riches. And I took it. Who wouldn’t? And yet, it is still my biggest regret. There is no style in what the Emperor asks. No colour. All of these, boy…” She spread her arms and gestured about the workshop, most of it encrusted with undelivered rockets. “It is a monstrosity, designed to shriek into enemy lines and set ablaze their encampments. There is no joy. No happiness.

“This is why I lose my sight. The heaven’s punishment for me. Why else someone as young as myself? I just want to create fireworks again. Design them. Breathe life into them. Not this mechanized procedure. Not this uniformity. I want individuality and life. I beg the heavens every day, I weep and I beg that this war will end so I can just be free to build them again. I just want to see them rain across the sky once more. That is what I wish.”

She picked another one of the rockets up, cracking it open, letting the balls spill out. Then another. Then another.

“Perhaps you feel I’ve deceived you. Perhaps you feel that I haven’t taught you anything so far. But I couldn’t get you involved in this. I couldn’t ask you to create what I create in here. You came here to make a light show for the heavens, not a hell-scape for the Earth. You came here to spite your father, and the war, not to be a tool for it. And even now, I am sorry for showing you this.”

The Apprentice gazed look at the Craftman’s feet, the shrapnel of her creation accumulating around her, the metals balls seemingly magnetic, coalescing at her feet. “Don’t be,” he whispered out, his voice delicate. “You did what was commanded.”

“I am a hypocrite. Nothing more. I wax to you over lunch how we are breakers of tradition and yet show you this afterwards?” Shreds of rocket fell from her palms as she opened them, moving them upwards to wipe the tears from her eyes. “Promise me this. Promise me one thing, for when you take my place. Promise me you’ll never use this bench to make what I’ve made. No weapons. No instruments of fear. Can you do that for me?

“Yes,” there was no hesitation.

The Craftsman’s grin was shallow, yet it spoke volumes. Her words trembled out. “You will do good here. I know you will…but now, in hopes of the War ending. I–I, need…”

The Apprentice himself could feel his own lips twitching, his own smile forming. “What colour is it now?”

A laugh. “Anything. Anything you’d like.”

~ ~ ~

Fall. The valley burned saffron, it’s mountains nearly matching the sun in its colour and luminosity, each and every leaf exploding with colour.

The Apprentice stormed into the Craftsman’s workshop. She had been finishing her breakfast, her chopsticks idly waltzing amidst the contents of her bowl. “The Western Kingdom has surrendered. It is over. The victory parade will be here by the evening.”

The Craftman’s chopsticks clicked together, her fingers trembling to keep them in place. For a while, she seemed to gaze down into her bowl, her hair falling across her face. For a while, there was silence.

Then. “It is over?”

“Yes…”

“We have won?”

“Of course and the Emperor demands a celebration, which means–“

“Yes. It is time. I will show you everything I know.”

“Really? I can–“

The Apprentice words cut short in his mouth like a dampened fuse, the rest of his sentence evaporating off of his tongue. For now, the Craftsman looked up to meet his eyes. And when she did, he could see they were the colour of milk, cloud white.

~ ~ ~

When the day came and the fireworks were finished, servants from the city came to wheel them down on carts. In the evening, the Craftsman and the Apprentice went down themselves, following a river of lanterns along the road, one of many that descended towards the capital city, golden lines that condensed into the gilded heart of the city.

The capital square was choked with a riptide of people and the Craftsman and the Apprentice slipped right in. They had been offered privileged seats of course, on the roof of the palace, but the Craftsman had politely refused.

“Fireworks are best experienced to the tune of people’s joyful cries,” she had said. “I can’t bear to imagine it any other way.”

And so they had settled in with the crowd, two faces amongst a thousand, and as the sky deepened into its rich indigo, and the stars spilled out amongst them, and the people quieted down, the hiss of lit fuses could be heard…

There was a detonation of sound. A detonation of light. An eruption of colour. Scorch-tails of mauve, amber, emerald that seared upwards, downwards, sideways–looping, curling into one another in a crackling display of electric calligraphy. Colour and light and light and colour gushed and frothed over the heavens. The world below bathed in its radiance, the metals and waters of the city taking on a blistering molten appearance.

The Craftsman hands held on to the Apprentice’s robe, and her unseeing eyes swam with tears.

“Tell me. Please, tell me,” she said, her voice wavering, stuttering. “Is it beautiful, Kuni? Is it beautiful to them? To the children? The elders?”

The Apprentice hesitated, taking in the question. She had never used his name before.

“Yes….yes, it is stunning. It’s brilliant.”

“And the people?”

“They all love it. You’ve done perfectly…”

“We. Us…you have….you have–“ But the Craftsman’s shuddered beside him. And when he looked to her, he could see she was weeping, her tears glowing with the colour-song of the heavens. And neither they nor the gasps of the people around them could drown her out, not to the Apprentice.

And they stayed like that, together, as their creations roared above for all to see.

~ ~ ~

Time had passed, and winter had come, its gnarled frost breath claiming dominion over the land for the few months the gods had permitted. In the midst of its grasp, the Emperor had perished. He withered away in the darkness of one blizzard fueled night, his funeral sparsely attended in the twilight of another.

It was spring now and the valley thrived with cherry blossoms. Around the city, the forests blushed pink, soon to recede again into their usual ocean of green. It was at this time, when the Craftsman was sitting outside his house, when the Emperor came.

A new Emperor, still young, and his face still sharp and handsome. He rode up on his ivory horse, past the gleaming rice terraces and through the blooming chrysanthemums. He rode with his most esteemed generals, his body guards, servants, and warriors. When they approached the craftsmen property, they broke formation, becoming a miasma of glinting steel and silk banners.

The Emperor came to a stop in front of the craftsmen, and when he spoke it was in the same rasped crawl as his father. “My army rides out in two weeks time. We look to conquer the Southern Kingdoms.”

The Craftsman looked up politely, but did not stop eating, his focus and chopsticks still more keen on his meal.

“We will require artillery. The best in the land, and the knowledge to create them. The knowledge you inherited.”

The Craftsman’s chopsticks plunged into his bowl, plucking up another piece of pork.

“We will require your fireworks,” the voice of the Emperor sounded like a huqin, its strings pulled taut.

“No.”

The valley sung with the tune of half drawn swords, most of the generals quick to react to what they saw as treason. The Emperor himself blinked, but did nothing. His words spoke for him. “I don’t believe I made myself clear. I require–“

“You will not have my fireworks.” The Craftsman placed his chopsticks into his bowl and sat it on a stone beside him. He remained seated, his expression still shimmering with polite neutrality.

“It is not a matter of choice for you, Craftsman. You are obliged to obey. Otherwise you will–“

“I understand the consequences and I accept them. But I swear to you, you will not have my fireworks. They will not be carted under your banners. They will not be ignited for your battles. They will remain here, in the city.”

The Emperor’s Generals had dismounted and drawn their swords as they approached. Together they form a semi-circle around the Craftsman. A crescent moon, glittering with jagged steel.

“Do you understand the consequences?” Voice delicate. The Emperor’s horse stepped forward, its hoof crushing a chrysanthemum into nothing.

“Will it be torture? Death? Humiliation?” The Craftsman now moved to drink his tea. He took a generous sip, before finishing. “You may do such things. But you will lose my talents, forever. Not just for your instruments of war, but your tools of celebration as well.

The Generals moved forward, but the Emperor stayed them with a clenched fist.

The Craftsman eyes fell to them briefly. They splashed with amusement as he continued. “Perhaps you will win this war, or perhaps you won’t. Either way, you will lose my fireworks, your light shows. Your victory will be a silent one, a sullen one. And every year after that, for every time you celebrate your birthday, the heavens will remain voiceless, dark, uncaring. There will be no praise in the starry nights for you. I swear to you this, on my honour, that your reign will be joyless. The people will not crane their necks for you, they will look to the ground instead. Your celebrations will end in stuttering silences, rather than symphonic detonations. You will be known as the Emperor the heavens rejected. The Emperor who deprived the stars of their lush tapestries of colour. A pitiful ruler, in front of a melancholy crowd. This I swear to you, right now, on my life.” The Craftsman placed his tea beside him, and folded his arms on his lap. Not once did his expression change.

The Generals looked to their Emperor, whose own eyes never left the Craftsman. For a while, they stared, saying nothing, the shadows stretching and darkening around them.

“This I swear to you,” the Craftsman repeated.

The Emperor looked to his Generals, and then looked to his army, and the looked back to Craftsman. Finally, his horse turned, and with the back of his robe dragging in the flowers behind him, the Emperor and his army left the Craftsman’s house.

The Craftsman himself sat for a while longer, letting his eyes wander over the valley. He was searching for inspiration, a colour to choose. A pity that the Emperor had decided to interrupt him at his most introspective.

A shame as well, the Craftsman realized. He really should have asked him for a colour.

[Kaez]

Sensar

It took me a second to actually process the fact that -two- of our Round 3 entries star Jesus as a main character. Two. Not none, not even one, but two. That's amazing. #blessed

So it is a little jarring, y'know, reading a story and realizing it features actual-Jesus. But you do a good job of being self-aware of this. You call him 'The Son of God', 'Our Lord and Savior', etc. to really bring the point home that you're aware that this is kind of a ridiculous story. So I think you actually handled that kind of masterfully. And the whole time I was wondering, "How's he going to tie this together?" And you did -that- masterfully, too. I went back to the beginning and re-read Jesus' introduction and it all added up. It all made sense. It wasn't shoe-horned. And the filler in between was really nice. Little touches of thoughtfulness. The whole text just radiated a really gentle, slow, lighthearted energy that I completely loved.

I do want to comment on the length of the story. It's short. It is. But... for a story as short as it is, it doesn't really feel like it's -lacking- anything. A very common critique I had in Rounds 1 and 2 was, "You could've made this longer and it would've been better." I don't know that that critique is actually applicable to this story. And yet... even in spite of my saying that... I can't help but feel not completely satisfied. Just because it's very, very hard to make a story this short feel satisfying. The human mind doesn't have enough time to build up and release in that kind of brevity. But this story occupies the weird, liminal zone between "needs to be longer" and "flawless flash fiction". So I don't really know what to make of it.

But I do know that I liked it, and that I have virtually no critique of it. It captured the topic, it was lovely, it was funny, it conveyed a happy tone, it had aesthetic consistency... I liked it. Good work here. A noticeable step up from your first two entries in the competition. Do something like this for your Round 4 story and you'll be successful there too.

***

Sam

Who -is- the Apprentice? Who -is- the Craftsman? Who are they -really-? Deep down inside? They tell me about their histories. They tell me their feelings and thoughts. They speak completely openly and candidly. They tell me all the answers. And I'm left with no questions. I'm left with no curiosities. Though they say everything, is there anything they don't say? Anything deeper? Hidden? What about the culture of this place, the setting, the world? Is there anything to know about it? There's a war, yes, but -what else-? It's a Chinese-inspired culture, and yet the craftsman is a woman? Is this remarkable or unusual? Is the war a good one or a bad one? What's the environment like? Who is the boy's father? Why is he how he is? What of the rest of his family? How do they feel? What conflicts are there? What inner turmoils? What beliefs, what challenges to the beliefs? What expectations are defied?

Your writing is beautiful. You make sentences that pop and crackle like fireworks. Your ability to construct a gorgeous, eloquent, evocative sentence is paralleled on AWR perhaps only by Matteo. You're a brilliant writer. But writing alone can't hold up a story that's not told well. And in this case, for me, the story was just hollow. Both characters spoke with the same voice. Both of them opened their mouths and spilled eloquent exposition. They didn't have substance or feeling to them, and that meant the conflict between the Apprentice and his family didn't create any emotion. It mean that the ending, his fierce opposition to the Emperor, didn't come from a place of feeling - I wasn't made to -care- and -relate- to and -feel- either character. If I didn't see what the Craftsman offered the Apprentice, if I didn't see how much she meant to him, then how could the ending mean anything to me?

The culture and the world in which its set also felt empty. We have a female craftsman in an oriental culture. Was that a big deal? What were the implications of that? Disobeying one's father in a culture with, presumably, a strong sense of familial piety didn't come with any more of a consequence than a smack to the face? Disobey the Emperor in front of his own troops and he just turns away? What of the war? Who was in the right or the wrong? How violent was it? What were its consequences so as to make me care about their refusal to make weapons?

The whole story hinges on me caring about the characters. All of the plot points hinge on me getting immersed in this world, of feeling what they feel, of empathizing and sympathizing. But you don't conjure those things up. Ironically, this was a story that felt like a firework without color. It was amazingly written and yet... not memorable. I don't want to say it 'lacked heart', because the whole story is built around emotions.. but where were those emotions? Where were the personalities, the feelings, the inner conflicts, the -colors-? Why did the Craftsman and Apprentice both seem to be colored the same? Why did the world not feel reactive and responsive? Nothing felt -impactful-. Nothing felt to be of consequence. There were no risks, no consequences, and therefore, no resolution or reward.

***

Both of these stories were really beautifully written. And though Sam's was much longer, and by being much longer had much more time to get me invested and immersed in it... Sensar's felt more complete. It felt more whole, more thoughtful. So he gets the point.