written by Allie Higgins
The Creators.
Perhaps we are sculpted.
Chipped away from angular masses,
until they reach the pulsing life inside.
Smoothing, the contours of hands and noses,
knees and elbows, lips and thighs.
But neither has seen
both sides of human life.
Creating only the gender they know,
unique.
“I AM AN ARTIST!” they scream,
as they create each man,
or woman,
as differently as they can.
“I AM AN ARTIST!” bounces back to them
off the walls
of their cubicle of gender isolation.
“I AM AN ARTIST! YOU SEE? THIS ONE HAS A LARGE NOSE! SKINNY LEGS! GREEN EYES!”
“Yes, yes.” sighed God, knowing the true differences that could be made. But no one stops, sculpting foot after foot, neck after neck, penis after penis, breast after breast.
Creating, confined not by rules, but by how little they know.
“A-HA! this one shall have brown hair! Freckles! Big feet! An artist I say, I AM AN ARTIST!”
They started screaming, loud enough so they can remind themselves that what they are sculpting, chiseling, creating is original. Too Loud. One creator had heard another, so instead of a woman, this time It created stairs. Without knowing, It created the only real original It has, or ever will create. It climbed the foreign masterpiece and peered over the walls it had never pondered or questioned.
“What are you making?”
“A person.” it replied simply.
“Well, where are the breasts?”
“The whats?”
“And what is that?”
and without even looking up, the other creator replied “what?”
“Never mind…”
The creator turned and walked back down It’s stairs. Without knowing, It had crossed the line of gender separation and confinement. It sculpted the stairs into a woman, shrunk her, and gave her to God, to place her where she fits, and to tell her to grow.
this town is small 