Eolake Stobblehouse
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Flesh and Stone

By Jennifer Moore

In this quiet room, gods have been freed of eternal tombs. Heroes of old have burst forth from their alabaster cells, and monsters have escaped their imprisonment. My hands are, not those of a creator, but of a liberator. I stand before the marble block where I know there is a maiden fair awaiting salvation. I need but find her and release her.

I spend a moment caressing the rough, unrefined surface of my worthy adversary. The passion with which it holds its quarry is extraordinary. I stand in awe of its tenacity. Then, with one swift motion of arm and tool, the battle has begun.

It is a hard fought and slow victory. My muscles ache after the first hour, but I have long since grown accustomed to the pain. Chipping, chipping, chipping away, little by little. By the end of this day I will have come that much closer to one more freedom, one more beauty kept all these years waiting in the dark cold of the earth. By the end of hours upon hours of near-sleeplessness and starvation, victory shall be mine.

Time and weariness have no meaning when these pale souls cry out for rescue. I soon find that I have freed calves and feet, well-developed and bare. Already I see that they belong to a beauty far-surpassing even the fairest of maidens, but I have no time to linger. Already she is crying out to me, begging to be freed, wanting nothing more than to breathe, to show herself to the world.

I soon find that the lady wears no clothing. I find that fact pleasing. It would be sacrilege to cover up such perfection. I work upwards over pleasing roundness and shadow, almost feeling the softness I know will never be there.

Every moment brings me closer to this lady, as she must surely be of royal blood. Through waist and firm breasts, and all other aspects that make her woman, I feel I am acquainting myself with her. I feel that I have known her all my life, but only in dreams.

I find myself hesitating as I am ready to finally release her head and shoulders from imprisonment. What face could possibly do justice to such sweet roundness, to the curves that ever so slightly protrude? This is a charitable cause, I remind myself. She must be released, no matter what the consequence.

As her features take shape, my heart soars. Full lips form a delicate smile, as if in thanks to me. High cheekbones, knowing eyes, strong jaw line give the woman a depth I did not see before. This is more than beauty. It is wisdom, it is delicious vanity, it is femininity incarnate. I am not disappointed as I chip away the final remnants of crude rock from full, curled hair. She will glow in the sun, as is only fitting. I will polish and primp her later, though. For the moment, I am tired.

I collapse on the wall opposite my latest rescue. I am the spent lover, lying in delicious exhaustion. The lady smiles and simply stands.

I feel a fierce pride at this point. I have been the one to save her from her stony tomb. She is unique, she is special, just like each captive I have freed. She holds in her delicate hand a part of my heart, and I am so overcome with joy that I cannot understand why I weep.

I already know how my night will be spent. I will dust off the last of the loose rock, refine her, make her presentable to her public. Then I will sit and watch the light play across her body, across ivory breasts and alabaster face until the sun rises tomorrow. Then I will give her an audience to admire her. The whole world will see her, stand in awe of her. And she, unlike the pretty girls across the way, will not age. She will be pale and perfect forever.