This was my Christmas present to my parents. I hope you enjoy! The Tailor ~dedicated to our earth-born angels~ There once was a child who lay upon a bed of grass, each blade soft as any leaf yet sharp as any thorn. Each day the child reached for the flower beside him, and each night he slept in silence. When the warming sun began its rounds through the open sky, four feet pressed against the earth, and four hands laid down a basket full of water and good things to eat. Only this could the child reach. But the young one hoped for the flower every morn, stretching his little limbs a bit further, a bit longer, a bit stronger. One day, his fingers wrapped around the little flower, plucking it from the ground. The child looked down at his legs, leaned forward, and stood up. Child no longer, a boy arose to look around at the world, seeing the trees and the grass. The bushes, the rocks, the dirt, the sky, the bees, the birds, the sun. All these things he saw before, yet now other things reached his vision. The weeds, the dirt, the pits, the barren plants, the thorns, the wasps. He looked down at the basket that filled each sunrise, feeling a small ache in his stomach. He was growing too large for what was provided for him. Placing a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun, he spotted a log cabin not too far off. The boy smiled, all so proud of himself. "I don't need that basket anymore!" He called out loudly in his little voice. "I can take my food from those people over there! They have enough. I deserve it after all." And so the boy set out, leaving the basket behind. But sooner than expected, night fell upon the land, and hills rose up to block the boy's path. Stubborn, determined, the boy carried on, sleep tugging at his eyes. Soon enough, the boy fell to the ground, the starred sky flooding into his dreams. The next morning he awoke with a familiar though stronger ache in his stomach, causing him to weep in his discomfort. The boy got up only to realize that the log cabin was still a while off, causing him to cry all the more. Stumbling over root and rock, he walked, crawled, and ran in a swerving manner back to the basket. Upon arrival, he found bread, meat, carrots, and lump of chocolate laid in a neat pile within the holder of all his necessities. He fell forward, crying, weeping, laughing, so delighted to see the gifts. He ate his fill, and slowly began to calm down. The boy wiped away the tears from his cheeks, and looked up at something new as well. Something he never quite realized before. All around him grew trees with ground twisted in knots, thorns wrapped around the trunk, bare branches of leafless arms. Yet, above him stood a small tree, a humble one indeed. Small, yet strong green branches spread out above him, shielding him from the sun's life-giving burn. The boy looked down at his food once more, picked up the basket, and head out for the cabin. He was getting too large for the shade of the tree, and what food was brought to him wouldn't be enough. After twelve full days, the boy stood but a foot from the cabin's door. It was empty, he knew, like the tree that cared for him. Though he was not destined to be alone in the way he was before. Comforted by his two angels of heaven, but without another of the flesh. And so he stood there, at the door, wondering if he should go in. Once within the cabin, there would be no turning back.
It wasn't long till the grown boy learned the art of thread. Men and women came to him for things as simple as their clothes, traveling about as they always did. But the young man remained in his cabin, needles and leather lining the walls. Silk garments, solid boots, warming gloves. The young man created them all out of his skill and passion. Some customers treated him as a friend, while others scorned him, angry with the pain that they failed to endure. Yet something was amiss, and sadness encircled the young man's mind. He missed the tree, the grass, and the gifts from his angels, but most of all his old guardians themselves. After a hard day's work, as the sun sank low, he dragged himself across the open room, dropping himself into a weaved rocking chair with a silenced creek. The young man wiped away the sweat from his brow, closing his eyes to dose off into a half-welcome sleep. Then, he spotted a red glow coming from the basket itself, laying on its side so that it pointed away from him. Slowly, the young man got up from his chair, and peered over the side of the basket. There, wrapped in a blanket, was a tiny heart of crimson glass, burning with an glorious sense joy. When his hands engulfed it, the heart only shined brighter, burning himself with the very essence he alone possessed. Ignoring his want for sleep and the comfort of his home, the young man went straight for the door, taking the blanket to wrap around his own being. The white flakes of heaven fell from above, gusts of wind pushing the snow wherever each winter kite belonged. The blanket did not shield the man from the cold, but it stopped the winds that threatened the knock him away, into the dark pits where the darker unknown resided. Days the man struggled, nights he endured. Every glistening flake burned like the heart of a fire. His eyes grew teary, his body grew numb. Somewhere better he saw, up in the mountains of ice. A cave stood at the top, holding what he needed, what he yearned for all his life. Over rock large and jagged, hands bloodied from more than just needles and pocket knives. Yet the heart kept him warm, and the storm moved on to some other place. The worn man crept into the highest cave on the highest ridge. Snow and ice crunched underfoot. The man proceeded with the blinding crimson light as his guide, his own heart tampered by the flawless white angels that lived above. And so he found a needle of gold, of red, of white, of blue. The tailor took this needle, and pressed it through the lovely heart, stringing it to a tiny doll. The doll was made of silk and eyes of glass. The doll drew in a breath, lifeless no longer.
