By Nasty Quasimodo


All the completed little figurines stood proudly to their creator, their painted faces granting him with the only smiles that weren't shadowed by doubt or pity. No false representations to name as they stared back at him through sightless eyes, the little black dots devoid of any animation. Forever caught in the same lax, jovial expressions. Their little wooden hands might have waved at him, had they not been trapped by the vise grip that was death for nothing borne of flesh-and-blood parents.

They were his little masterpieces. He had spend hours laboring over them. And now they sat, beautiful and rosy-cheeked as he had painted them. Days on end on this little project had vanquished little to no time for anything besides ringing the bells or his daily lesson and luncheon with the master. Time had been a necessity all but forgotten as he forged on into the wee hours of the morning, wiping the backs of his callused hands on his dirtied hose and squinting at the dawn with red-rimmed eyes when the time came for him to perform his appointed duties.

Their picturesque little faces rocked the very foundations of his soul, his heart. He felt as though he were their god, the creator they looked up to for love and supreme guidance. But each time he looked at his miniature villagers, there was no reverence reflected in their tiny black eyes. No real warmth or love manifested in their impish little smiles with blushing cheeks.

But there was the one figure, the facsimile of the creator perched in the bell tower, peering down at all those crowding the busy streets of the minuscule Paris. A misery schooled onto his misshapen features deeper than the lowest trench in the ocean. Yes, the creator was able to commiserate with the dull figure roosted in a dank, desolate tower at the peaks of the imposing cathedral. And as the little carved wooden bells would have let out great wails of echoing emptiness, the replica would have let out a superhuman cry of grief along with them.

All of the figurines were whittled into virtually all the same shapes and sizes, not one differentiated from the others in base form. Some had yellow hair while others had gray or black, but none had the same shock of red hair as the poor, unfortunate cripple with the bowed legs and the hunched back. Had his creator no shame? Why was he not the same as the others? Why not whittled from the same block of wood? Was he inferior to the others?

No, the creator mused soberly, he is not the same as them. He was a monster. An impediment to the human race. A stain to what near perfect had been accomplished. He was but a mockery of what God intended for his children to be. He was naught but a contrition to those who did not hobble or limp as they tread the cobblestone under their feet.

Faintly, the creator was able to hear his own master tread up the wooden steps atop the bell tower of the Notre Dame. He glanced down at his dry and weathered hands, little scrapes and cuts where the knife had slipped. He was carved as his little figurines, by the hands of someone different than himself.

By the curl of his master's lips upper lip when he neared, Quasimodo was able to determine his level of filth. However, he had been afforded no time to dress in a fresh pair of hose and a clean tunic. The master had come quite soon this morning. The master sat the basket on the table as Quasimodo fetched the tableware, his head ducked into his chest and his eyes closed in reverence to the only one who was able to call him by a name.

"Quasimodo, remove these abhorrent creations from my sight at once," hissed a cruel voice, the dark baritone resounding throughout the bell tower.

"Yes, master."


Just to reassure you, I wasn't dissing Quasimodo. It's just that he had a really low self-esteem and I had to act on that. :P