A Perfect Face

A Perfect Face
By Candace Kubinec

Jude had been a sculptor for as long as he could remember. It was all he’d ever wanted to be. He had devoted most of his life to forming beautiful shapes from clay. Now it felt like his dreams were about to be dashed by his own hubris.

It started when he was three and his grandmother surprised him with a package of Kids Klay for his birthday. His first attempt at a making a ball was met with clapping and hugs from his mother so he continued to create. He went from forming balls, to bears. By the time he was five he had graduated to dinosaurs.

 

Six years of summer art camp led to acceptance into to the prestigious Arts High School in New York. As he began winning competitions his superstitious quirks increased – he began wearing the same unwashed shirt when he was sculpting, listening to the same Beatles CD non-stop, and eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich before he started a project.

 

After graduation, Jude wandered around the country living in various artists’ colonies and teaching kids’ art classes to make some money. His teachers and parents insisted he should go on to college. He had even been offered a scholarship to School of the Art Institute of Chicago. His goal was to become famous, a sought-after sculptor and Jude thought four more years of school would just delay this fame.

 

It was in a small town in New Mexico that he stumbled onto a possible source of the recognition his sought, doll sculpting. His mentor at the Yucca Artist’s Colony, Helen Irene, brought this to his attention.

 

“Jude.” She spoke quietly so the other artists sharing the studio wouldn’t overhear. “ I ‘ve been hearing about a contest for doll sculptors and immediately thought of you. Your sculptures of the human form are so realistic, I’m sure you would be accepted into this juried show. There is a rather mysterious old woman who lives in the desert, a few miles from here. She could show you some unique techniques. Here name is Zelina.”

In his imagination, Jude began seeing visions of crowds of people admiring his astounding first place winning doll. If he could win that contest, he would have it made in the world of doll sculpting – maybe even open his own studio and produce his own line of collectible dolls. He worked for two weeks on his entry, pinching clay, smoothing rough spots, until he felt sure he had created the perfect doll. He was devastated when his doll was not even accepted into the show.

 

He tried. Every night Jude sat in the workshop of the artists’ colony sculpting, trying to make the perfect doll face. For five years, he had been entering his best effort in the International Doll Sculpting Challenge. Last year he came in second, for the second time. It was always the face that kept him from winning even when his work was shown, lips too thin, nose too broad, eyes too close together or far apart.

 

Desperation drove Jude the old woman’s cabin on the outskirts of town. He knocked loudly on the rough wooden door. Purple paint flecks dropped to the ground at his feet. His breath came quickly when a short, wizened old woman flung open the door.

“Are you Zelina?” he asked hesitantly.

“Ahh, I’ve been waiting for you, Jude. Come in, come in.”

He stepped into a small room with beautiful sculptures covering every flat surface.
Jude sat across a scarf draped table from the wrinkled woman wrapped in a fringed shawl.

 

“I want the gift, the power, the skill, to be able to sculpt the perfect face.”

 

The old woman looked at Jude with deep green eyes that seemed to see straight into his soul and spoke some words that Jude did not understand. Then she smiled and touched his forehead. She handed him a blue paisley roll of material. As he slowly unrolled it he saw it was a set of antique sculpting tools.

“You may go now”, she whispered. “But you must use these tools on all your creations.”

 

Jude took the long way home, slowly strolling back to his rented room, the strange words spoken by the woman echoing in his head.

 

The next morning, he started working on a new doll. His hands were sure and swift. Lips, eyes, nose forming as if by magic. His hands seemingly guided by an unseen force. It was a perfect face. Last of all, he carved the name, Zelina, on the back of the dolls neck in honor of the old woman and her gift to him.

 

The doll won the competition and launched Jude into prominence as a premier doll sculptor. He had finally made it.

 

Three years passed and Jude’s perfect dolls were more popular than ever. His youthful dreams were becoming a reality. He was rich, famous, sought after in the doll world. He even had a gallery showing of his work.

He decided to start a new line of dolls that he would name Helena, after his former mentor. He ordered a custom-made set of tools to use for this new doll. the old woman’s tools abandoned in a corner of his studio. He worked feverishly to complete this new doll before the International competition. Night after night he worked, barely stopping to eat or sleep. Something was very wrong. No matter how many times he started over the dolls turned out the same. Now, with only one week left until the competition deadline, the shelves in his workshop were filled with dolls – each one with the wrinkled face of the old wrinkled old woman.

Fresh Produce

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photo credit: Sara Joy

I told him to leave a note on the door so I would know where he’d gone. I’d forgotten how specific you had to be when giving Jimmy instructions, so here I stand looking the fading yellow post-it note on the back door.
“Pick up your socks.”
“But honey, I did.”
“Why are they still on the floor?”
“That’s where they landed when I let go of them.”
It’s been three weeks since I sent him to buy avocados.
“Make sure they’re fresh.” I said as I shut the car door and left for work.
Maybe he went to Mexico.

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100 word story photo promt for February

Passion Fromage

William, not Bill, may have been her current lover but cheese was her passion. She belonged to the Cheese of the Month Club International, went to cheese tasting events around the country, and subscribed to Cheese Lover’s Almanac. She and William met in the cheese aisle at Whole Foods and for two months they rendezvoused there every Sunday afternoon. Finally, one Sunday last month, they checked out together, went to her apartment, and made mad, frenzied love on her swiss cheese colored carpet.

Now, here they were on a cheese cruise, a dream come true! Every meal featured several cheese dishes in every course, the afternoon activities included cheese and wine paring sessions, and lectures on cheese making and history, every evening there was entertainment in the lounge – her favorite was a barbershop quartet from Wisconsin.

William kept repeating, “What a cheesy cruise this is.”
He said it over and over again, thinking that he was being clever. She’d told him he didn’t have to come with her but he’d insisted.

Last night he slipped on a piece of Camembert on the deck and tumbled overboard. Too bad he will miss the crowning of the Cheese King and Queen.

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All That Remains

The bear was all that remained. Elaine died two weeks ago and her daughters had been busy cleaning out her cottage. I wanted to see if they found the secret.

Elaine and I had been friends since her family moved into the house next door when we were both six. We became inseparable and the bond grew stronger as we aged. We liked the same music, books, food, style of clothing. We could talk forever about nothing or debate important issues without anger.

At first Elaine didn’t know my secret, six year olds are very trusting. But by the time we were twelve she suspected the truth. She never told and I loved her for her faithfulness. We didn’t speak of it aloud but she wrote it all in a small journal and stitched it into the belly of her favorite teddy bear. No one would have believed her anyway.

She kept my secret. I was the ghost of a little girl who died in the house next door to hers. The little girl who had disappeared when she was five and whose body had never been found. The little girl buried in the garden.

Now only the bear knew.

Blocked Acquaintance

Is a person obligated to answer every text she receives? The message read, Plz help me.

I only added Marilyn to my contacts so I would know when it was her calling and not answer. She was a drama queen, a gossip, and impossible to get away from once she cornered you. She had more causes” than anyone I knew.

She was barely an acquaintance. A friend of a friend who just happened to live at the end of my street. I tried ignoring her text but they just kept coming, the same message. I tried reading, doing laundry, just so I could avoid responding to those texts. But my conscious got the best of me. It had been hours since I heard the ping of that first text. If she was really in trouble I wouldn’t be able to live with the burden of guilt. I grabbed my keys and ran out the door. By the time I reached her front door I was panting, painfully out of shape. I pounded on the door. Marilyn smiled as she opened the door.

“You got my message! Do you have any parsley in your garden?”

Walking home, I blocked her number.

Retirement

They gave her a watch at her retirement dinner. A watch! What was she supposed to do with it? She had no where to be anymore.

Lillian had worked at GenEd for 45 years, most of her adult life. Starting as a secretary, she gave up everything to advance up the proverbial ladder and smash through the glass ceiling until she became CEO. Now here she was, no family, no hobbies, no pets, no friends, and no job. Ah, but she did have a shiny gold Rolex.

The next morning she slept in for the first time in her life. She checked the time on her new watch – 7:00 a.m. Then she looked at her day planner. Nothing, no meetings, no appointments, no phone conferences. She had all day to do as she pleased.

After breakfast, after reading the paper, after checking email (there was none), after getting dressed, after checking for phone messages (none), she checked that shiny watch. It seemed to move very slowly, if at all.

Day one of retirement was not going well. She sat down at her desk, utterly confused.

How would she ever fill all the hours of the rest of her life?