She could not say no to the pastor.

They had given her more affection than a blind orphan could have ever hoped for. Until the day the lumberjack came looking for a wife.

‘O dear, he’s a giant of a man,’ lamented her friends, ‘and ugly with deep scars all over his sun burnt face.’

‘He is an honest man with a good heart,’ the pastor assured. ‘He may be a lumberjack, but was not the earthly father of Our Lord a carpenter.’

Yet it was with much dread that she accepted the proposal.

‘I have a gift for you,’ a thick gruff voice approached, handing over a piece of wood with a subtle tremble of hands. It was a figurine of a maiden with flowers for hair and vines as skirt and a face smooth as marble.

‘Did you make this?’

‘Yes, I whittle in my free time.’

She smiled then, full of hope, joy and perhaps even love, at the man who had such beauty within.


In Response to: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, 113th Challenge
Photo Prompt by: Loretta Notto

9 thoughts on “The Whittler

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