The Kiln in the Desert

Against the sun’s crown shone a sword out of daylight visible through a glass until it blurred off along of the tilting of the eyes to ten-millionth of an inch. And a lens crafted by his own hands, it was. Though, it functioned not suchlike nor even near to an adornment nor a tool for it none more fed questions to the passersby who, by means of the worst of luck, sought only the fulfillment of their lives. And shattering it was Egil's direction of his intention.

Its shards, whatever that might have been, were sunken in the agitated sand resembling puddles save just frozen insofar as the ever constant mechanism of his memory. His idea of water vanished chained with the panorama of the world littleness by littleness. Like almost every manner, he was losing things. He’s left with a color the moment he veered into a certain angle. This, he lost his sight, the ability to make better glass as he thought of it and most presumably to behold the beauty of it.

The kiln was an ugly thing, but what it spewed was bleaker. Given that Egil was to have been hiding rather than keeping his works in one piece then at war breaking what he could have had made; windowpanes and the sort. I did not break them, but he excused.

Nowise, he reckoned lest of the acts that which fooled the folks into believing he went mad, thus, granting him his desire— he calls it freedom— and the peace he so yearned. The truth, he wasn’t. This truth, easy to tell. Few, very few, minds discern that he hid a sum of his glass works (that gives him at least a pint of contentment within) and a red mind seething beneath that scorching aggression.

Per act, a color, a phrase, uttered words, something dearly onetime arose before this, this act of glassmaking, this art.

From the sands on the desert to the kiln in his glasshouse, he instilled the universal lesson of changing mundane materials such as buds, chrysalis, or the latter, saplings into its final and greatest form: a flower, a butterfly, a tree.

All these things, however, all these were made by the tears of the blue face above his roof. It had heaps of flux and riches. Whenever it decided to be munificent, it let down an amount that could drown a beholder and for the unsure, torture a palm of sand with a root of pure light like a waterfall made out daylight swords. Egil regarded it wicked and heartless with no conscience convincing him of its fruits for another reason— it tempted him to make glass. Again, per act took experience, euphoric nostalgia, nostalgic euphoria, not traumatic phantasmagoria.

Upon the kiln, he sneaked a young glass topped on a metal plate on a decrepit stone table, calming the glass’s fire-cold glow. Another rum lurked innards a low cabinet and now felt his grip. He first unwinds the cork and drank straight from the bottle which tasted of silver but had a brass odor. He subtly licked his lips and hefted his cheeks, the rum overhead. Having made an overdone windowpane once and again was Egil’s direction of his intention once and again.

Notwithstanding, unlike those of flowers and butterflies and trees, his art needed to be handmade and from the heated breath of the kiln, glass would not birth should it ever had rainwater in its early creation.

He then caught a hush more roaring than to that of the winds. Raining was no less a golden occasion in the desert. The remnants of the lately shattered glass returned, got washed up by flood, filling the floor with soot, sand, water, and very laggardly nearing onto his barefoot toes. Delicate glass rived. Blatant. His response being “I did not break them.”

To become stultified under the blank curtain of a near-miss death in the war had cast the glass quality to a perfect mimicry of that inept yet ace lightning echoing a glassmaker. The way to know was clawing the sand. He did this so as to forge glass and not worry of using up every grain of sand for the wind had this obsession of replacing them. Sometimes, he’d have spiky marbles and not sometimes, seldom, he’d have a cloud of glass. And oh did it mocked him. His fist clenched much that the rum bottle went in fractions with the windowpanes, vases, other bottles, and all the miniscule blobs of misshapen glass.

Egil leapt and the sole below his charging foot pinched a shard between opened skin's flaps. His head knocked the bricked ground, more so the contrary, though it had brought him to a familiar sound of the war drums. The half stagnant slush invading his nose and mouth and his quarter of a conscious mind couldn’t do anything. In these such moments, he evades the pierce of his problems, taunting on the egress, especially when the problems grew worse.