What does it mean to chisel? To begin with something raw and peel back layers until a shape emerges. What does it take for a sculptor to chisel marble, a woodworker to cave wood, a conman to chisel money from someone unsuspecting? So many questions for writers to explore with the unusual prompt.
Many felt stumped. Chisel? Others jumped in with characters who possessed chiseled cheeks and rippling bodies. All pushed through and came up with a fascinating look at humanity. Put a tool in an artist’s hands, and you’ll be surprised by the results.
The following is based on the March 14, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a chisel.
PART I (10-minute read)
Red Carpet by The Dark Netizen
He put on his best smile, and began walking down the red carpet, flashing his perfect set of teeth to the cameras.
The paparazzi had all gathered to one side of the carpet.
He was unperturbed even when he knew the press wanted a piece of him.
He had been nominated for best actor this year, as he showed flashes of sheer acting brilliance, in addition to his chiseled features.
Dressed in his well fitting tuxedo, he posed for the flashing cameras.
The fitting had turned out quite tight, and as he turned, he ended up flashing the cameras…
Deception by Ann Edall-Robson
His chiseled features had softened with the years. Still handsome, with a rakish look, and eyes that flashed like lightning bolts when his thoughts turned to what his son had done so many years ago.
He stood with his hip leaning against the workbench, looking out the window of his saddle making shop. The cloudy expression changed when he spotted his grandson working with a young colt in the corral across the way.
Watching the young man, he could see himself at that age. The family traits, and looks had definitely not missed a generation, but would the deception.
Chisel by Robbie Cheadle
Dan slammed his toolbox down on the table. “My new paint scrapper is missing. I haven’t even used it yet.”
“Are you sure it’s gone?”
“Yes,” he opened the box. “See, it’s gone. You haven’t seen it anywhere, have you?”
“No,” said Julie, thinking of the little fondant man who was reposing on the paint scrapper in her art cupboard. It was a great tool for moving her artworks with and she planned to keep it.
She smiled at him. “Why don’t you leave your toolbox in the kitchen until you find it?” His chisel had caught her eye.
Princess and Pauper by Abhijit Ray
Princess Pihu had five maids taking care of her every needs. Laborer Ramu had to take care of needs of his family. Pihu had never done any work, Ramu had not done anything but work.
Watching Ramu’s sweat soaked body, chiselled by hard labor would evoke unexplored feelings in Pihu.
Land lord’s daughter has fallen for the daily wager’s son was the story in the grapevine. Jealous coworkers, raised the matter with Pihu’s father.
Pihu saw Ramu being beaten up tied to a pole. Neither Pihu nor Ramu uttered a single word. Pihu was mute and Ramu was deaf.
The Assault by Anurag Bakhshi
I woke up to see someone leaning over me, as if he had just kissed me, and was about to do so again.
The man had blue eyes, a chiseled jawline, an equine nose, and that blind confidence that only comes from lifelong entitlement.
“You creep,” I screamed, as I pushed at him, hard. His face registered shock as he went flying back.
I jumped up, and landed next to his supine figure. The last words I heard before I choked the life out of him were, “I’m Prince Charming, Sleeping Beauty….”
I wonder why he called me that…
An Interlude by Joanne Fisher
Aalen had made camp for the night. Not feeling like sleeping she had found a piece of wood and used a sharp stone for a chisel. She began chiseling it into shape, though she had no idea what she was making. She heard movement in the bushes near her and then there was a loud panting by her ear.
“I wondered when you were going to show up.” Aalen said as she looked at Vilja. “They’re all dead Vilja. Killed in cold blood. We need to make things right.” She hugged her wolf and wept. Vilja licked her face.
Those Beaks Are Made for Eating by Susan Sleggs
Outside my window suet feeders for woodpeckers hang on the crabapple tree. They are chained because climbing critters like to steel them. The little Downy Woodpecker feeds with the tiniest beak, the size of a push pin, but it’s the fiercest of the bunch. The Hairy is next in size and its beak resembles a small nail. The Red-bellied sports a picture hanging nail and the Flicker’s beak is long and sleek, like a sharp needle. The extra large Pileated Woodpecker has a huge beak in comparison. It looks like two chisels on a hinge. He takes big bites.
Carve the Cake by H.R.R. Gorman
The cake melted like butter beneath his carving knife. He chiseled through the icing and fondant, into the raspberry jam and vanilla center.
“What did you wish for, Pop-pop?”
Pop-pop gave the granddaughter a toothless smile. Though his eyes were clouded from cataracts and his body now feeble, he put the knife to the table smoothly and handed his “little pet” a slice of cake. “If I tell you, will you promise to make it come true?”
“I wished to share another cake with you next year, sweetie.” He pinched her cheeks and cut another slice of cake.
The Hospital Closure Is Announced by Anne Goodwin
Excitement flutters inside her like the start of a baby. Could it happen, or is it a fairy tale? Amy Johnson flying so high she could chisel a chunk of cheese from the moon.
“Who decided the hospital had to close?” A woman jabs a gnarled finger at the Belgian. “Was it you?”
Rather than solving a mystery, the detective has created one. But, Mrs Christie having summoned him for a reason, Matty wracks her brain for a solution that would appease her guests. “Buck up! We must all forgo some comforts in wartime. Even our dear King George.”
Scraped by Tanushka Dangayach
I found myself Lying on the ground. Silver and metallic, scraping the ground. I glance around the area. Shoes lay about on the ochre ground. Kids loitered in the parking lot. Lying there, I looked up at the sky. The sun shined in my eyes, bright and brilliant. Shoes thudded on the pavement. Dropping down on the ground, a person bent down grasping my handle tight. “Aah! Look what I found!” said the raspy voice. Picking me up, he pushed my head against the ground.
I walked up to Larry. There he sat with a chisel in his hand.
Learning Curve by D. Avery
“What did you say Marlie?”
“Basswood. Google said it was a good carving wood, and then I learned we had it in our front yard, except we’d been calling it Linden, and I cut a piece of it to carve. Daddy taught me how to carve, Mommy! Mommy! You’re not even looking at my carving.”
She wasn’t, either; she was looking quizzically from Marlie’s bandaged hand to Marlie’s quiet father.
“Daddy taught me how to be real careful with the knife and chisel, but that was after I’d used the limbing saw. That’s when Daddy taught me about first-aid!”
TImeouts by Ruchira Khanna
“I don’t want to go to school tomorrow!” Nate announced loud and clear when he entered his home and sat down with a sulk.
“What happened, honey?” Mom was quick to take the eight-year-old in her lap.
The Mom continued to tickle and caress.
After a couple of minutes, he blurted, “My teacher gives me a lot of timeouts!”
There was silence.
“I’m sure you cannot identify what is right and what is wrong,” said Mom as she gently stroked his arm, “These timeouts are like a chisel. They will help you recognize and analyze your behavior, going forward.”
Perspective by Norah Colvin
The monumental task cast a shadow deep and long, miniaturising the toolkit at his feet.
He shook his head, muttering complaints and impossibilities.
The supervisor appeared. “Better get started. No time to waste.”
He rummaged through the toolkit, lifting, inspecting and replacing each implement in turn.
“What’s the holdup?” bellowed the supervisor.
He grabbed the mallet and whacked the stone. “Take that!” Chunks smashed around him. He wiped his brow and whacked again.
“Great. You’ve started at last,” encouraged the supervisor.
Later, as the light turned, the shadow faded and diminished. He lifted his chisel and refined his work.
Perfection by Reena Saxena
“Don’t be afraid of gathering enemies! It shows that you have chiselled your life to perfection.”
“How can enemies make a life perfect?” She was still reeling under the impact of a breakup, and the threats she received after that.
“Chiselling involves making a choice – you keep what you like, need or want and delete the rest. You revise your opinion on seeing the final outcome, and then, refine it a little more…”
I’m happy to see the glow in her eyes. Happiness shows in the pink flush of renewal on her cheeks.
“Welcome and embrace the New You!”
Chiseled Cheekbones by Susan Zutautas
You’re so bubbly, Sarah? Her mother said. What’s up?
It was going to be a surprise but I’m going to get my cheeks done.
Oh, for heaven’s sake don’t tell me you’re serious!
Sarah’s father was in the other room and heard the conversation. He went out to his workshop to grab a tool thinking he might be able to change his daughter’s mind.
See this Sarah, showing her a chisel. This is a tool they use to chisel your cheekbones.
Oh, Dad, you’re so silly, the one they use is much smaller and besides I won’t be awake.
A Muse by Goldie
was styled to perfection.
A stray lock,
gently hanging off the side
of his forehead added
to his “good bad boy” attitude.
The piercing blue eyes
beckoned to me,
causing me to almost get lost in the moment.
The face chiseled.
with pronounced cheekbones
I kept analyzing him further.
An impeccable six-pack.
An ideal specimen.
Could be Praxiteles’ muse.
“There’s pressure on men, too…
Not only women need to look a certain way.” –
I thought with contempt,
As I put the glossy magazine away.
Even if Flawed by Kerry E.B. Black
Michaelangelo saw the angel in marble and carved until he set it free. The world admires him. For hundreds of years, people have clamored for a mere glimpse of his work.
I’ve studied, learned every technique.
My teachers whisper appreciation of my creations, yet I’m poised with a chisel, too pertrified to begin. I touch smooth, unblemished stone so flawless it glows.
Yet I imagine my inadequacies disrupting its natural perfection.
The master’s words return then, and an angel’s wings pound beneath the placid surface.
Art must be freed, and even if flawed.
I place the chisel and swing.
The Fisherman by TN Kerr
My father was an artist; a sculptor, usually working in clay or stone. One day he, and six of his drinking buddies, brought a large stone and sat it in the centre of his studio.
“What are you going to make from that, Papa?” I asked.
“I won’t make anything from it,” he said, “I think I can find something.”
He told me that he believed a fisherman was hiding in the stone. That he would find the fisherman by knocking off small bits and pieces. He promised he’d take care not to cut the fisherman with his chisel.
Laurie’s Nature Journals by Saifun Hassam
Laurie often visited Mira and Jade at the Farmers Four Market. Their intricate designs in jewelry of metal and precious stones fascinated her. How had Jade captured bluebirds and wispy clouds in that silver filigree pendant?
She remembered her grandfather. With his keen eyes, a deft hand and a fine blade chisel, his oak and butternut wood carvings captured rich details of woodland deer, fox, owls and eagles. His chisel weaved along the grain of fallen logs, vividly portraying backyard visitors: sparrows, woodpeckers, hawks, mice and squirrels.
That had sparked Laurie’s own passion as a nature observer and writer.
Rain Pending by calmkate
An eerie stillness pervades
following some super hot days
a clear warning to one and all
that calm before a big storm
as I reel off some mantras [sacred sounds]
awareness arises fully aroused
heavy clouds drift swiftly over
as swallows dart and glide
eagerly catching erratic currents
to glide and play up high
as more dense clouds
skid across the sky
the birds call out warnings
each species on high alert
to the pending deluge
do they tuck each other in
sounds and visions gently collide
emotions deeply chiselled inside
all creatures weather together
whatever nature does provide
PART II (10-minute read)
The Master’s Hands by Jo Hawk
Turner’s left hand skimmed the tools on the workbench, each tool in its assigned space. To his right, the lathe hummed, a familiar cadence to the master’s tune. His ear told him his piece was unbalanced. Spinning at twelve hundred RPM, the music didn’t sing.
He found the required chisel and returned to his work. Touching his chisel to the spinning form, the tool bounced, and the wood chirped. Firm against the guide, severed wood spiraled in curls, deflected by his visor, the continuous curls covered his hands. He worked meticulously, immersed in the rhythm of his spinning reality.
The Attic by Anita Dawes
Clearing out the attic
I found Grandads chisels
carefully wrapped in cloth.
He is no longer with us
But I remember him telling me
Always look after your tools.
He was the same with all his tools
Paintbrushes must be thoroughly cleaned.
Unwrapping the cloth, five chisels
as good as the day he bought them
Rosewood handles, each blade sharp
as the last time he held them.
I could feel him beside me
nudging me to find the wooden train set
he made for my twelfth birthday.
I found so much more, I rediscovered
My grandfather, his lost wisdom…
Seeing by Nascent Ederren
It is that secret joy, which none may ever notice, those things stolen in a moment yet still left behind.
It is not loneliness which drives the urge to see. But a pause, a thought, a reason to remember why the silence is so blessed.
To come and go unnoticed, to spend time with and without. To stare at all around, and chisel into memory, the thoughts and faces all left behind.
It is time to retreat again and listen to the silence. Where words echo so loudly though spoken long ago, and flame alone will light the world.
My Grandfather’s Chisel by K. J. Watson
I never met my paternal grandfather. I have two mementos of his life, though: a photograph of him in his silversmith’s workshop, circa 1947, and a chisel with a split handle. In the photograph, my grandfather leans over a clamped silver dish, a chisel in his hands. The chisel is possibly the one I now possess. Family lore says that the V&A Museum in London has a silver cup with a design my grandfather conceived and engraved. I did go to the museum, but I could not find the cup. No matter. I have the photograph. And the chisel.
A Light in Dark Places (A true story from the Curious Archaeologist) by Gordon Le Pard
He struck the chisel with the wooden mallet, carefully. There was hardly any light as there was firedamp in the mine. Any flame or spark and the explosion would be devastating.
Then he saw it – a flame. It was approaching, he had nowhere to run, he shouted.
“Stop! there’s firedamp, stop!”
The flame approached, he continued to scream, the man was trying to shout something but the miner didn’t hear, as he fainted in terror.
He came too to see his vicar looking down, by the light of an impossible flame burning in – the world’s first safety lamp.
Dumbfounded Duplication by Papershots
“It’s in that drawer.” He marched to it confidently. “Found it?” He opened the drawer but found various types of tools, of which, let’s see… pliers, a kind of screwdriver… this looks like a hammer with a double blade at one end, it has to have a name, and, hold on, two more. So one is a chisel, the other is not. They do look similar, though. Small chisel and big chisel? “I didn’t know which size you preferred.” She grabbed the small one. “You do know that’s not really a chisel?” “You mean the big one?” “Yes.” “Yes.”
Technology: Chisel by Frank Hubeny
Brad knew he didn’t have the proper tools to do the job right, but he rarely did. The door and opener cost under $50. He’d reuse the old hinges.
He did have to buy a chisel. They told him he couldn’t return it when he was done. He could live with that.
After sort of measuring everything, he realized it wasn’t as easy as he thought to carve out where the hinges should go.
Eventually in spite of everything he hung the door.
Happy wife happy life: she was happy. For the most part the new door even closed.
Businessmen by Macy Brown
My stomach did back flips in my body as I mentally prepared myself for what was about to happen. My whole life, everything that I built, was on the line here. One wrong move and it could all be over; all of my hard work and late nights all for nothing. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I force my feet to move into the room as I repeat the same words to myself over and over again, “I will not let them take control over my company. I will not let them chisel into my hard earned profits.”
Repeat Offenders? (subtitle: For those ‘Groupies’ who need to get a different grip!) by JulesPaige
I want to chisel off the barnacles.
Those leeches, those hanger on’ers
That have no connection to my creativity.
I’ve just got a simple sailboat
I do not run with the ‘big dogs’
Yachts, cruise ships; not for me
I’ll get my news from where I choose
Not from another’s opinionated feed.
I don’t do greed…
I have chiseled out my own niche
Letting the wind blow through my hair
I set my own course, by my own rules
I use my eyes to see, ears to listen
If you’ve been asked to leave;
Then please, just go away…
Charli the Chiseler by CG Brik
Charlie wandered the streets of Dublin chiseling everything he could.
Bread from the baker, pills from the apothecary, meat from the butcher, shoes from the cobbler, kisses from women, dosh from men.
Sauntering and swaggering, smiling to all who passed by, fingers too quick to catch, hands seemingly perpetually in pockets.
One day a bobby had enough, knocked him upside the skull with a billy club.
Charlie had no business being in prison, but he never stopped chiseling.
Cutlery from the kitchen, brushes from the bathroom, and he’d bring his booty to his secret corner, every day, always chiseling.
The Dancer by Sally Cronin
His chiseled good looks and toned body set the dance floor alight as he twirled one girl after another around to the music. But he was performing for one particular beauty, sat in a booth with her friends in the corner. Finally, having discarded his latest partner to return desolate to her table alone, he sauntered over to his quarry.
‘Wanna dance babe?’
Without replying, the stunning blonde stood and brushed passed him. She gathered all the girls he had danced with before, and led them onto the floor, where they boogied for the rest of the night together.
Drop Dead Gorgeous by Ritu Bhathal
All the ladies stopped what they were doing and stared.
Zeus sighed. He was used to it.
No matter where he went, the first sight of his chiselled features always rendered the opposite sex speechless.
His mates would often comment jealously about his ability to have any woman he wanted, falling at his feet.
But it’s not all it’s made out to be, being drop dead gorgeous.
A mute partner, who is always staring at him gormlessly, falling at the sight of him, or even dropping dead on occasion…
Not quite the kind of relationship he was looking for.
Chinese Whispers by Geoff Le Pard
‘What’s made you look so smug?’
‘Sure. I know you, Morgan. Spill.’
‘That woman over there? The one with the purple hair…’
‘A fine arbiter of good taste…’
‘She told her friend I look chiselled.’
‘Is that so strange?’
‘Oh come on. Your Mum might call your features angular but even Lego people have more curves.’
‘Sure. Have I chiselled you out of a compliment? I’ll check. Miss…’
‘You don’t… Bum.’
‘They said you look frazzled, not chiselled.’
‘That comes from knowing you.’
‘I love you, Morgan, just the way you are.’
‘Bog off, Logan.”
A Corrosion of The Heart by Bill Engleson
I see them there, burning the proverbial midnight oil, hunched over their devices, adding wealth where it likely isn’t needed, chiseling away at social programs.
Out in the hinterland, their minions, the simmering feudalists of hate, wind up their scabrous hearts, seek out their weaponry, plot heinous acts, all in the name of their purity, their virtue.
They meld, these separate trajectories, the political, the wastrel, the fanatic, the idol.
They serve each others darkest desires.
And where am I in this collision of hateful terrorist evil?
What part do I play?
Am I simply a shaving?
A Classic Swindle by John Rieber
“He chiseled me out of my savings!” Perhaps I shouted louder than I needed to, but he was walking away.
“Come back!” No one was really paying attention. Perhaps this scene was normal to them, but if they had been cheated the way I had, they’d be screaming too.
As I turned to leave the “Chiseler” returned.
“Mr. Turner,” he said quietly, “we warned you about volatile investments.” He leaned in closely. “But I do have a tip for you…”
He winked at me and I reached for my wallet – we both knew it was time for a comeback.
Sunday Morning by Michael B. Fishman
“Hey,” she says. “Trick or cheat.”
“Trick or cheat.”
“You mean ‘trick or treat’?”
“No, trick or cheat.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The crossword puzzle, doofus.”
“How many letters?”
“Sure I’m sure. Don’t you trust me?”
“When I’m using a pen I don’t even trust Will Shortz. Wait… Fits, OK, I trust you.”
“As you should.”
“What’d you say?”
She gives me a sidelong glance. “You said something.”
“Your ears OK? I said I love you.”
She leaned over, kissed the top of my head. “That’s what I thought you said.”
Necessity by D. Avery
“Jeez, Marge, you’re turning the trailer upside down these days.”
“It’s needing a good spring cleaning, Ernest.”
“Now with a hammer and chisel?”
“Ending the ice age in your freezer.”
“That’s a brilliant solution, Marge.”
With a sculptor’s eye Marge placed the chisel and hammered out great chunks of hoary frozen food while Ernest looked on.
“We should name our kid Invention. Get it?”
Marge told Ilene about it on their walk.
“Ha! Good one. You, the mother of Invention.”
“Ilene! I don’t want to be a mother! Damn it. Things were so good.”
“Go talk with Ernest, Marge.”
First Day Volunteers (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
“I found something, Dr. Gordon.” Danni followed the volunteer who grinned.
She noted the group was digging near the mystery foundation. She expected these greenhorn volunteers to soon lose interest. Ruby City held no treasure. Danni confirmed the woman had found the edge of a tool. She instructed the group to continue peeling back layers centimeters at a time.
To her surprise, they did. At the end of the day, the volunteers left what looked like a chisel in situ. Two days later they cheered its liberation. Danni realized her first day fear of volunteers was unfounded. She grinned.
Tea with Mr Windsor by Anne Goodwin
A street so grand the houses had names chiselled on the gateposts. Like gravestones. As at the cemetery, trees lined our route, pushing through the pavement at intervals, as if Briarwood was so healthy, vegetation reigned over stone.
I did not slurp from the saucer or forget to extend my pinkie on raising my cup. I did not drop jam on the Chesterfield or gobble up the dainty sandwiches in one bite. But I thanked the lady who offered me the plate as our host’s wife. How could I know she was the daily woman if she wasn’t introduced?
Like Michelangelo by Kelley Farrell
Why couldn’t my parents be dream crushers? My proclamation of wanting to become a marble sculptor should have scared them.
Perhaps the pieces which are grand are worth it but starving artist isn’t just an expression, and who buys marble sculpture anymore?
Men who spend on everything and still afford sculptures of themselves. Naked.
“Make sure it’s a testament to my … manhood. Like Michelangelo.” The man, overweight and sweating, purs.
“Michelangelo was the …” Not worth it. “If you insist on staying you’ll have to be quiet. I’d hate for my chisel to slip and … reduce your manhood in anyway.”
My son is a woodworker. He does chip carving.
The tools he uses for this type of woodworking are a knife and a gouge rather than a chisel. However, one day he would like to try different types of woodworking, some of which involve the use a chisel.
People worry about him working with sharp tools. They say that he should beware when working with gouges and knives. It is true that he must be prudent when using imprudent (or perhaps impudent) tools. However:
The cuts that hurt worst
Come not from the sharpest knife
But from jagged edge
No Means No by Annette Rochelle Aben
She hated their Michigan Basement; cement brick walls and a dirt floor. If not for the washing machine being down there, she had no reason to be down there. She started her laundry and turned to run back upstairs, when the sight of her father’s work bench caught her eye.
Hammers, hand saws, baby food jars of nails, all lined up neat and tidy. She noticed, but wondered why he didn’t, that something was missing. A shudder ran through her body to think what would happen if he found that she stashed his chisel under her mattress and why.
PART III (5-minute read)
Some Things Are Not Chiseled in Stone by Sascha Darlington
Conversations weren’t easy with Dad after Mom left. What he said, went. Case closed.
The case for my art didn’t close, not for me. I spent hours at Megan’s in her father’s workshop chiseling aspen, Foo Fighters pounding through my head. When I qualified for the art competition, I lied to Dad about where I’d be and forged his name on the permission slip.
At the show, Dad stood by my carving of our dog, Dali. My stomach dropped.
“I’m not a monster,” he said. “You lied.”
His finger drifted across the first-place ribbon. “We should talk.”
Chisel by Eluminora
Her mouth is the last thing to chisel into existence. He does not know why he left it until the end, when all the rest of her is already finished. Perhaps she does not need a mouth. The smooth plain where it should be intrigues him. But she is his companion, the fulfillment of a promise to himself: he will no longer be alone. Damp with effort, he lowers his chisel yet again until its tip barely touches the stone. Sweat beads on his temple as he strikes the first mark. Then his hand slips and gashes her cheek.
Poured Out by Alexander De (Zander)
“Chisel me this, Batman!” she said, laughing.
“Riddle,” I corrected her. “It’s riddle me this.”
She silently shuffled the salt and pepper shakers. I drank my coffee; stared out the window. Cars passed.
She always says the wrong thing, like she doesn’t quite get the punchline and I feel this stupid need to correct her. Me, and everyone else.
“I don’t really fit in the world,” Her sadness slipped into a smile.
I smiled back, took her hand. Held it, as it turned out, for the last time over pancakes.
She poured out the entire syrup jug, slowly, deliberately.
Ruth Signs Up for a Woodworking Class by Molly Stevens
“What in blazes are you gonna do with a chisel?” asked Chester.
“It’s for my woodworking class. I signed up for a two-day session in Rockport,” said Ruth.
“Dadblast it, woman! I suppose you think because you’re goin’ outta town, you’ll learn more. That class is likely run by some hippie who moved here from California who doesn’t know his dovetail from his biscuit joint. And I bet he learned it all by watchin’ YouTube. You’re wastin’ money! Why didn’t you ask me to teach you?”
“Because for all your experience, there’s something you don’t have.”
She Knew Him So Well by Di @ pensitivity101
The smile brought out the dimples in his cheeks, creating a path to the laughter lines around the eyes perfected to capture their charm, sparkle and warmth.
His chin showed strength of character. She had even managed to reproduce the scar he got from horse riding as a child.
It was her best work, but there was something not quite right.
She studied the photograph again, tracing the lines on the image and comparing them to her art.
Taking her narrowest chisel, she gently scooped away the blemish.
Not on her beloved’s face, but a blot on the photograph.
Chiseled Beauty by Nancy Brady
Julie and her friends had gone to the art gallery. She saw him first across a crowded room. He was tall, lean, and his face was chiseled, the penultimate male. He was the man she had seen in her dreams so many times even though he was turned away from her. She would have recognized him anywhere, but he was surrounded by many admirers.
She just had to get closer and hope that a few of those hangers-on would have left. She would be patient. She slowly made her way towards him, waiting to see Michelangelo’s David up close.
Three Spirits by Sarah Whiley
The djembe is West Africa’s best known instrument. This goblet-shaped drum is traditionally carved from a single piece of African hardwood and topped with animal skin. Its name is derived from “Dje” (gather) and “be” (everyone).
It is said, each drum contains three spirits – that of the tree, the animal whose skin is played, and the carver who chiseled and shaped the wood.
The djembe is a vessel for these spirits to come through. The sound is past, present and future; that which is not in us until it comes into consciousness through our hands and into the world.
Wood Be Artist by D. Avery
“What’re ya doin’ Pal?”
“Bless you. Looks like yer carvin’. When’d ya learn ta carve?”
“I’m a learnin’ jist now as I’m a doin’, Kid. Try it.”
“Oh, I cain’t carve, Pal, not even a whittle bit.”
“You could if you’d wood, and a knife. Jist try.”
“I don’t know how. It won’t turn out.”
“Won’t if ya don’t start ever. Here. Cedar wood.”
“Yeah, I see da wood Pal. An’ cain’tcha see I cain’t carve?”
“Jist shush. I’ll teach ya.”
“There a charge?”
“Yeah, sure Kid, pay me in bacon.”
“You chiselin’ me?”
“Maybe a whittle.”