We'll Light Up the World /open/

      The morning had just begun to fade into the afternoon when Sampson cut her finger. Caught in the crook of the wood, the knife's blade earned more pressure from the girl's normally patient hand. It came loose so suddenly, piercing her left pointer finger that slept on the top of the carving, holding it in place. Crimson liquid began to pour over the hardly started sculpture. "Shit," the girl's single curse was as blunt as the knife was sharp. It particularly had no meaning, but simply acted as a way to express the familiar pain stinging the skin on her hands. Emerald eyes watching the blood pool out onto the surface of the wood, Sampson frowned. The sculpture was no good anymore, not with the crimson staining deep into the contours. Only a few drops slipped from the shallow cut, but it was enough to fill the small wallow in the branch that had originally been intended for an eye. Dying the pupil and cornea, Sampson's blood acted as makeshift paint. Now, staring up at her with a single red eye, the carving of the sparrow harbored an evil that the creator had never intended. The maker had given life to the craft through an involuntary donation of blood; who would have believed that would create such an ominous looking, little bird? It stared up at its master with an unblinking, vermilion eye.
      Sometimes, a craftsmen resented their creation, didn't they? If it turned out horribly, the object became a subject of shame. In a sad way, that piece of art was a manifestation of the the artist's weaknesses, of their ability to fail. No one could enjoy gazing at something like that, even those who claimed to hold affection for every work of art, no matter the outcome. Sampson had known one Carpenter like that in her lifetime, a single being in a handful of many. The man had been old, gentle with age and patient with years. This was why Sampson believed he claimed to adore everything that came forth from the wood. Even so, the redhead recalled a single chair immediately when he had explained that fact. It had been placed in the corner of the old man's home, where the sun from the windows didn't reach and the household spiders and vermin made their nests. Of rocking variety, Sampson had wondered why he didn't put it further into the interior of the room. A complete craft of a rocking chair was quite hard to complete, let alone master. Until the teen saw it up close, she couldn't understand why he didn't display it with more zeal.
     One day, while the frail man had been preparing some tree bark tea, Sampson had wandered over to the chair and observed it more closely. That was when the flaw was recognized. The rockers were uneven. One was higher than the other, making the person sitting lean to one side.
     "You can see it, can't you?" the old man's voice made her jump, body going rigid with fear (Sampson had always been a freezer). Pivoting on the heel's of her boots, she faced the man that had been a sort of mentor to her with a guilty frown.
     "It's just uneven," her voice was hesitant to answer, not wishing to hurt the poor man's feelings.
     "Is it? I hadn't noticed," the old man gave a crooked grin that wreaked of lies. She didn't believe that he had never noticed it for one second. He was far too experienced for that. With a knowing look, Sampson caused the old man to chuckle softly as he grabbed her hand, leading her away from the corner with the unstable rocking chair.

◌ ══ ◌

Don't listen to a word I say.

      Gradually escaping from the grasp of her thoughts and memories, Sampson returned to reality. She could feel the sting of the wound on her finger again and the rough texture of the wood's grain pattern against her palm. But, it wasn't until the unfinished sculpture slipped from her grasp and landed with a thud on the leaf-covered forest floor, did Sampson fully return. Her eyes sunk with the tiny, deformed bird that remained partially tree branch and partially sculpture. Now, it would never fully become that finished product as it lay alone on the ground by the base of the tree. Not like you were going to finish it, the thought struck her like a cold wind. As an artist was ashamed of a failed piece, the blood that had soiled this attempt made the craft undesirable. Like a baby bird (or in this case, a wooden one) touched by humans, its mother no longer wanted it.
      The redhead was debating scrambling down the tree to collect the evidence of her failure when she noticed another passerby. Rarely did people venture far into the trees during their free hours, so Sampson found it very strange that someone would be visiting during the hours normally spent at school or work. She leaned back against the trunk, into the shadows, leaving her abandoned carving altogether.
      The glint of the sun off the shiny coating on the violin was the only thing that drew Sampson from the darkness. She could hardly believe her eyes! In the hand of the lone girl, an instrument crafted with sheer elegance hung. It was beautiful, as lovely as the very few ones she had seen in her life. The crafting of instruments was a huge task, one that Sampson had never conjured up the courage to even attempt out of fear of failure. Not even the most skilled hands had the easiest time creating such a lovely work of art. To create an the object that produced music, oh how Sampson could admire the work all day long. They were so unique. Violins, with their demand for accuracy and precision for any carpenter, was the greatest challenge. One wrong draw of the knife and the whole piece went to hell. If you didn't get measurements right or made their holes too wide, they became useless chunks that created dead music that hurt the ears. Sampson would have killed to meet the creator of the girl's precious item.
      So caught up in observing the orchestra instrument was she, Sampson did not realize the girl's eyes upon her until she spoke.

"I was just looking for a nice quiet spot to, yes, play my violin. You can listen if you like...are you going to stay up there?"