The old man reached out for the hard leather gloves on the workbench in front of him. A drop of sweat lost its grip on the end of his crooked nose and fell onto his hand. He smeared the dirt covering his knuckles as he wiped it off.
He worked the bellows, stoking the coals of the bright forge, then grabbed the long blowpipe and rested it comfortably on the rusted support. He breathed in deeply, and blew a long, practiced breath into the pipe.
The glass grew. It grew round and sagged towards the clay floor.
The old man smiled and picked up the fullers. He began sculpting.
It's a hard task to sculpt glass. The old man's arms were wiry and dark, like that of a blacksmith. They had old scars from older burns - a testament to his youth, when he was bold, and foolish. The old man pressed into the glass, forcing it to bend and shape as he wanted. He had the soft, delicate and accurate touch of a surgeon, or perhaps a sapper working on his petard.
When he was finished, he opened a shutter and let the cold air and snow soften the flames, and harden his creation.
He held it against the fluttering firelight, admiring the lines; the crevices; the slight indentations that perhaps only he would know existed. He smiled.
A tear rolled down the old man's face. He sighed and lowered his head. He tossed the glass animal into the corner of the cabin, where it smashed into pieces and joined the pile of other broken creations. Only the old man knew what anonymous piece belonged to which beautiful creation.
He sat back on his stool by the forge, stoking the fire with the bellows, and whispered to himself,
"That was the closest one yet."
Fragile Ethan..
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