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Rated: E · Prose · Emotional · #2242951
Evocative and thrilling
As a creator, he was the best. He always put his heart into it. He sculpted a perfect form: the torso with its muscles, the arms and legs, then the head in perfect relation to the body and limbs. The facial features were profound. The yes looked back at him intelligently and warmly. He smiled but he also felt a pang of fear. He always did. He worried that they might be too intelligent, too violent. Perhaps they would rebel against him.

Turning it over, he examined his creation. It had an almost eerie likeness to him. He smiled. He then thrust it into the fire. Flames danced around, licking his creation, and then becoming a part of it.

Monet didn’t know why but he loved this ceremony. He danced wildly, twisting and turning and throwing his head side to side. He was pumped and he was wild. He felt more than warm—he felt very hot, like he was on fire. It didn’t matter. He loved it. He was born and reborn during this time. The helpers kept throwing branches on the ground. When it finally became difficult to move, they lit branches and threw them to the ground. Monet and the others kept dancing. As they did so, they moved the fire so it picked up more and more material. The fire spread and became bigger. Again, it didn’t bother Monet as the fire licked his body. Monet and the others had rid themselves of their clothes before the wild dancing. Monet worked himself up to frenzied dancing—no rules, no limits. He felt alive.

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