Prose Challenge of the Week #37: Write a piece of poetry or prose inspired by or using the following word: Manifest. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge

Pygmalion

The voice: make me, make me.

His hands sculpt the clay, round it. The grit of his lover digs under his ragged nails. Curves and breasts perfect for having been created by him, for her. His lover, who possesses him.

Make me, make me.

He forms each hair. He slips away cold flesh to shape the eyelids and the eyes behind them. No woman could ever be so beautiful to him; no other woman wears a body made of his fantasies. He now knows why Prometheus stole the fire from the gods and gave it to the grimy, naked, shivering humans he made. A creator will do anything for his creation, will even die.

Sculpting her is like making love. The clay is soft and yielding as flesh. He imagines her entering the body, warming the cold clay, moving those lips to speak to him.