SHORT STORY - "Emmitt Grey"

I really fell in love with this story, and I hope you all do too. A little bit of fable whimsy with just a touch of body horror. -  Jonathan Edward Durham

Emmitt Grey was a builder, and even the paupers knew his name. There was nothing he couldn’t build, and he built it all better than the rest. It was something close to a calling, but Emmitt hated that notion, because every day he chose it. Every day he looked for forgotten pieces and put them in their place, and was glad to do it, even if he was sure it would drive him mad. He was a builder, and even the paupers knew his name, so there was little to do but build.

As a young man, he built the most splendid toys, and was glad to see the children love them. And every time he heard a clamor of little voices he was tickled to know it was over some little something he had made. But well-loved toys make for fair-weather friends, and sooner or later, they all ended up in pieces, no matter how finely they were made.

But Emmitt grew, and so did his savvy. And in time, he tried his hand at time pieces, which suited him rather well. He loved the measured grace of their little mechanisms, and that they looked like magic to most. He made them better than the rest, too. Stronger and sleeker and more exact. And there wasn’t a single man about town with a waistcoat that didn’t want one tucked away in his pocket.

But watches were for show, and fashion is a fickle thing, and Emmitt Grey was but a builder. They always wanted something new, of course. Something better and something finer and something only they would have. And while it made for good business, Emmitt didn’t see the point in such games. And he hated how they made the beauty he had given them so temporary, so he left them behind too.

Emmitt turned to beds and tables and the like, but the trees in his corner of the world had turned diseased and gnarly, and there wasn’t a straight meter in the bunch. He built carriages, too, but he hated the way they clogged the streets like driftwood. He built bridges but there were only so many rivers to cross, and he built tunnels but there were only so many mountains to mine.

And when he turned his eye to shops and churches, it all seemed so empty, because there was just no room for the expense of quality. Emmitt Grey even built a castle once. It was a grand thing, and money was of no concern. And every last bit of it was just as it should have been from keep to chapel. But lovely as it was, he felt nothing for it at all, because even as he set the last stone in place, he knew there was some other lord just waiting to knock it down.

Emmitt Grey was a builder, and the world knew his name. But still, he felt unwelcome. Still, he felt misused. He often dreamed of something different. Of somewhere that fit him better. But Emmitt Grey was a builder, and he wished to do nothing else. So, there was little to do but build one.

In time, he found a ship, and traded his skills as a fixer for passage west across the sea. It took ages to find land again, but when they did, Emmitt didn’t settle by the coast with the rest. He left in the night with what tools he could carry, and walked until he could no longer count the days. He walked until the landscape turned strange and back again. Until the rivers carved great canyons in the earth, and the mountains stretched right through the very sky. He walked to the end of the endless plains, and only there, where gold turned back to green over a season’s travels… only there did Emmitt Grey find what he was looking for.

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