His heaven was formed entirely out of plastic. He poured the substance from an oil can, molded and patted the molten mass, until it hardened into diffuseness the color of fleece. He stood back and saw that it was good. Then he exhaled shadows and light which flew over the surface in a kaleidoscopic dance, raging and flowing like seas at high tide. When he cast his stare towards the finite walls of his holy realm he found they had merged with infinity. If it were possible to fall he could have done so perpetually, never leaving the universe that contained him. But he did not ponder this. He sat cross-legged in the center of his creativity and waited.

He saw that he was alone and it displeased him. He patterned angels out of the nothingness. They formed before him, aesthetic outlines clothed in a costume of fine alabaster thread softer than silk, if it were possible to touch. The angels wore skates which bore them through the unwalled realm. They moved with a steady grace transcending the physics of motion, like falcons in an endless glide never needing to flex their wings. As they passed his field of vision he admired their details which lingered in an afterimage quickly filled by the next of the heavenly forms.

Behind them fluttered a cloth, transparent red, created by the meeting of shadows and light. With a dexterous flip of the wrist the passing angel let loose of the cloth. It hurdled net-like, closer, upon him, invisible as it wrapped his body. The cloth vanished into his skin just as the heaven's walls had merged with a blurred infinity, or as a single snowflake vanishes in warmth. With each new layer he felt his thoughts wander ever further beyond the steady hand of controlled thought. And soon he drifted into sleep.

This was his last resort since counting sheep had lost its effect.

Story #394

This photo appears by the kind courtesy of a fascinating young visual and photographic artist called Cylixe. You may view her video collages at Youtube, or her photography at Flickr. I think you'll see why I was so fascinated by her art. The black and white photographs are poetry for the eye, which is not to say that her color photos are anything less. Please visit her galleries and tell her what you think. And Thanks to everyone who contributed a comment or story here.

June 23rd: If you've clicked in via blogger's "Blogs of Note" - welcome! And thanks Blogger, for this honor! What a stunning surprise it was to notice all the sudden traffic. This blog has been around since 2004 - but lately my posts have not been so frequent. To get a feel for the idea of spontaneous stories written to found photos, I invite you to try the "Random Story" link under that awful profile photo to your right in the sidebar.

Note: One of my short stories has been translated into Spanish at the E-zine Ediciones Efimeras (# 112). Click the green icon and look for the story entitled "Mecánico"