Sonny stood where he pressed himself into the far corner of the loft, arms crossed, head cocked, trying to reconcile the image his eyes gave him and the vision he had begun the day with.
This morning, after dreaming, he awoke with the inspiration that is as familiar to artists as it is fleeting. So he set about sculpting. It took hours to get the rough shape, and it stood well over his head before he began the detail. It grew from a base of two lush hills. Rising up between the two was the trunk of a great tree, a world tree. Above the trunk, however, there were no limbs or branches or leaves. It was powerful but bald on top, like a patriarch’s head gone bare with worry.
Now he looked at it. Maybe he was misinterpreting what he was seeing. He tilted his head back the other way again. Maybe he had misinterpreted his dream.
The emotion of the dream was raw and powerful.
The reality was a giant phallus.
Sonny pressed himself further back into the corner to try a get a little more perspective.