The Golden King did not answer. His face was lit from below by his work. "Do you know purity, Thimblerig?"
"Something so pure, so refined, that its very touch sears that which is contaminated by dross and the commonplace. The glimpse of perfection that destroys the capacity for everything lesser. The knife at the throat of the world. Poison."
Thimblerig glanced at his hands. His knuckles were very hairy, and one split cuticle oozed slightly. "No, m'Lord. What are you making?"
"Purity." He lifted the flower from the workshop bench and held it up. The workshop dimmed. "A weapon."
DP FICTION #5: “Not a Bird” by H.E. Roulo
1 hour ago