Date: Sun, 07 Mar 2004 14:41:30 -0800
From: Lael Stalnaker <lael_stalnaker@hotmail.com>
Subject: Fantasy in Crystal and Earth

  The cave is deep beneath the ground and far from any
people. Its floor of beaten earth is smooth and well worn
with the footsteps of the mysterious. Torches line the
natural walls, spreading an even light. The air is moist
with the spray of an underground stream that splashes in a
pool at the caves back wall.

  Ceramic pots sit in a circle, filled with various stones.
A man enters and goes to the pool. His body is bare save
for a layer of clever paints. Red ocher and ground cobalt
make swirls of patterns that outline his strong muscular
frame. Other minerals mixed with fine silt clay form
geometric shapes that accent his square facial features.
Even his hair is slicked back with silt. His manhood swings
free as he bends to the pool. He dips out a bowl of water
and stands upright once more.

  Carefully, moves back to his circle, to the figure that
he has been working on. Dipping his finger tips into the
water, he runs his hand over the clay. It leaves a smooth
trail and he quickly continues his endeavor. Within minutes
he steps back and surveys his handiwork. The clay is now in
the form of a man, complete in every way.

  Satisfied with his efforts so far, sets down the near
empty bowl of liquid. He moves to a pot and removes a
handful of sparkling clear quartz. These he then places
into the clay, though shallowly. Various runes are formed
that throw back the torch's light. Nodding to himself, he
goes to another jar and pulls out two oval emeralds. These
he places as the eyes, spring green. Another pot is raided
and sapphires take their place as a circlet upon the clay's
brow and carefully formed hair.  Granite pebbles become
finger and toe nails. Obsidian adorns the throat, gleaming
with inner light. A single opal rests where a naval would
be. Finally, a blood red ruby is pushed to where a heart
should be.

  Once again the man stands back once more and looks for
any flaw. Seeing none, for the feet to groin to head's top,
he is well pleased. His dream is now realized, in all ways
perfect and complete. One detail remains to be done and all
rewards come due. The man goes to the wall opposite to the
pool and picks up a small hand held drum. Using the flat of
his hand he begins a twofold beat as he moves around the
clay form. He moves slowly and deliberately, eyes always on
the clay form. His spend increases and doubles again. Soon
he is nearly running, the two-part beat rapid, matching his
own heart.

  Sweat is running down his painted body, smearing the
paint. With a final thunderous rumble, the drum stills and
he again faces the front of his dream man. The clay has
changed. The skin looks like flesh, the color that of a
well tanned man. The other stones no longer show and even
their outline is not to be seen. The dream looks like a
brown haired man, standing still with his eyes closed. The
artist watches a moment then shakes his reverie from his
mind. His hands run over his body, wipes the paint and
sweat into his cupped hands.

  Carefully, gently he smoothes this mixture onto the
dream. At his loving touch, the eyes open and look at him.
Bright green, those eyes watch as the artist paints symbols
over him. Delight grows as the hands caress and fondles the
firm skin and flesh. Both figures are deeply aroused. The
dream's own hands reach for the artist and mirror the
strokings. Both are in a state of near bliss. They circle
each other, admiring the play of moving muscle.

  Playfully, the dream moves away, glancing back at the
artist. The artist grins and pursues. Their chase has
consequences though. Too near the water and the spray
becomes heavy. Their play has brought them to an unforeseen
point. While watching the artist over his shoulder as he
danced teasingly away, the dream found the water. In shock,
the artist watched the dream crumble and fall. The clay ran
and softened. The stones fell away and tumbled to the
ground.

  The artist last sight of his dream was the joyous smile
that knew not what happened. Then the water washed even
that away. Stunned at the quickness of dream's loss, the
artist sank to his knees. Perhaps the next dream will be
sturdier, perhaps all of stone. The artist sighed and
lowered his head. Time to dream again.