Young Writers Society

The clay has dried my hands. I smoothen out the eyes, lips, and ears. Noses are my favourite. I can’t quite get it right, though. I reference pictures from the press, televisions, websites, and models. Looking at them from afar, with my weak eyes, I can never capture the in-depth features.

When I fail, I smash the clay into bits, starting over again. One round of clay can make many faces. But one day, I was bored. I spread clay over my hands, purposefully, letting it dry, not moving an inch. It looked perfect. The pores, creases, wrinkles, and texture were caught by the clay without my help. I started experimenting more.

Lathering my legs and arms with clay reflected wrinkles, creases, pores, and bumps onto the clay. I was satisfied with this; I have found my personal strategy. But, who would be okay with me putting clay on them for a realistic effect? It sounds bizarre. I think about it for a while. What if they were asleep? No, that wouldn’t work; most sleepers are fidgety. I’m desperate; this could change everything. I could perfect this and become an incredible sculptor.

I went on a walk to brainstorm, near the Manchester Cemetery behind my flat. My eyes glance over, and I get a shameful idea. My wife was buried here last week. I stare and walk back to my flat, returning at night when it's quiet.

Her grave has no headstone, just a flower. With the adrenaline pumping through me, I pull a hand-held shovel out of my coat pocket. I dig until I see a body bag. Tossing it over my shoulder, I carry it in the dark, the moon’s light guiding me home.

I sit the limp body onto the sculpting table, putting a plank up against its head to hold it still. Just like I expected, the clay captured the features of the skin without my help. I’m not sure what to do now; I have a body covered with dry clay in my kitchen. A sculpture.

After pondering, I signed myself up for a sculpture contest in hopes of displaying this. It looks too realistic, like days were put into it.

Afterwards, I get a call; they accepted me. I push the dried sculpture into the trunk, laying it sideways while it's in the sitting position.

They look at it strangely, even opening the windows. “It's incredible.” A critic says. People surround it, taking pictures and making side comments about its beauty and its repulsive smell.

I continue with my strategy, my skill. I read the gravestones for recent ones, not rotting. Then I sculpt. Once, I felt adventurous and sculpted an old skeleton. It turned out terrific. I displayed it in a local art gallery with my other works, receiving the same complaints of beauty. “It doesn’t smell repulsive like the last ones, Jerry.” A critic whispered to his peer.

Months later, I get a call to do a live presentation of my sculpting. People have become fascinated by my technique, curious about how I make it so lifelike and how I replicate pores and creases. I can’t say no; that's cocky behaviour, too full of myself. “They’ll find out one way or another,” I think to myself.

I called a friend. “Hey, can you come help me move my new work in a week's time? It’ll mean a lot.”

“No problem.” He says. A week is a long time; a reasonable time.

The next morning, I got the clay ready. I make sure to sculpt extra layers on the hands and feet. I spread it evenly on the smooth, shaven skin. They’ll find out eventually.

My work is finally complete. I place a note on the side of the box, telling my friend I’ll meet him at the presentation. Then I step in, my body sculpted with partially hard clay. I close the box gently; it leaves marks on the clay of my fingers. Finally, I cover my nose with clay, my mouth second. I don’t breathe in case of ruining the clay. They will see my technique and my dedication, and I will be known for this.