The Glassblower

The last piece of art

The Glassblower

Image is generated with AI.

My joints are too old to keep up the delicate work I loved doing throughout my life. My sense of touch isn’t the same. The last time, my hand slipped and I cut myself. Badly. From that moment, I knew my days were numbered. It’s just a matter of time before it all ends.

The TV is on with the morning news in the background, but I’m only vaguely aware of what they are saying. A series of murders, a baby pony, death on the highway, a pregnant panda, rape. That’s how it is. They train people with shock.

As I prepare for my final interview, I place a fragile piece of art on the counter for display. My trophies. The ones I couldn’t sell, no matter what. I still remember the first. How my fingers were sweaty as I rolled the tweezers, pulling, shaping, twisting. The glass, once hot, now cold under my finger as I caress the golden stripes on red. My first. You never forget your first. Even if it’s a little wonky and you make a huge mess. The first always stays with you.

I lay them all out for the reporter to see. My most prized possessions. A bowl. Number eleven. So delicate, so perfect. Even now, decades later, it still looks like the northern lights are playing in it.

A smile stretches on my face as I reach for number three, the dove. It’s white, pure, and radiates freedom. But just like all the others, it was forged in blood and sweat.

My beautiful collection—all twenty-seven of them—are now sparkling on the counter for the world to see them.

The doorbell rings, and I open the door to greet my last interviewer. Helena Troy. Her beauty awakens the artist in me. I could use her as an inspiration. As I take in her hourglass shape, wheat blonde hair, and chestnut eyes, I can imagine my furnace coming to life one last time as I once again shape the glass to perfection. A single drop with all the shades of gold in it. Maybe with a sprinkle of red. Not scarlet. That would be too harsh for her. Something deeper, but still vibrant, that stands against the gold.

“Mr. Browning.” She extends her hand and smiles at me.

“Miss Troy.” I shake her hand. Her skin is soft under my callused fingers. “Please, come in.”

I gesture for her and lead her towards the kitchen where my private collection is displayed.

“Tea?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

A gasp escapes her when she spots my art. Without asking, she’s standing at the counter, running her long finger on the purple seahorse. Number six. My pride. Oh, I loved making that one. Every moment of struggle, every cut and bruise was worth it. I hate that old age took it all away from me. My joy, my life’s purpose.

“I was twenty-nine when I made that.” I put on water for the tea.

“These items were never seen before by the public.” She turns to me. “Why show them now?”

I look at her, imagining that single drop, like a tear of silent agony wrapped in gold and red, but I keep my focus on the conversation. “I’m seventy-two, Miss Troy. It’s time the world knew about my hidden treasures.”

She nods and pulls a recorder and a notebook from her purse. For someone so young, she’s old-fashioned. I like it. I expected a tablet to record and type on but this is better. More familiar.

“Please, tell me about these pieces.” Her gaze travels to number sixteen. A twelve inch tall phoenix.

“That one almost got me.” I sigh and take out mugs for the hot water. “It was a tough one. Fought my will like no other.” I chuckle. “But in the end, it was worth it.”

All the yellows, oranges, and reds playing in the glass bring up so many memories. That night. I miss my youth. Sure, I was forty when the phoenix was born from the ashes, but I was still fit. I could do what no one else could. I made art. Beautiful, heart crushing art.

But the phoenix was truly a fight with the elements. I didn’t think it would take so much out of me. I was proficient by then. Still, it fought me.

Absently, I run my finger on my left forearm where I wear the scar of that encounter. Beautiful.

“What about that tree?” she asks.

“Oh, number five.” I pick it up. “This one was quite easy. Melted and molded under my fingers just the way I wanted it. If you look closer, there is a tiny squirrel on the branch, right there.”

She takes it from me and my heart skips. Sure, number five was easy, but it still was early on in my career. Oh, the good old days.

We go through them all. Number twenty-five, a pink heron. That was the one when I realized that I’m losing my edge. Petite, delicate, yet it took me twice as long as it should’ve. My hand shook, my eyes burned from the effort, but I won. Because I always win.

Except last night. Last night was a bitch. The end of my career. Number twenty-eight, still cooling in my workshop. But it’s beautiful, nonetheless, even if it ends everything.

“So tell me, Mr. Browning, why glass blowing?”

“It was my calling. I knew it since I was five and I looked through the stained glass of the church. What I saw in those colors, what played in front of my eyes.” I smile at her, even though I am talking about my mother’s funeral. It was a freeing day. “I just knew it had to be this.”

We talk about my journey. How I made my first sale, a week after number one was created, how I sold hundreds of glass blown objects for thousands of dollars, and how I built a name for myself.

It’s nice to recall all those memories, even though I’ll be forever famous for the twenty-eighth I keep closest to my heart. Because these are my trophies, my glory.

After two hours, she bores me, and my thoughts go back to that single drop she inspired in me. Maybe I could make one more. Twenty-nine is a nice number to go out with. The furnace is still hot. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours to heat up.

“Why don’t I show you how I make my art?” I smile warmly as I stand. “Come, you’ll be the first reporter to see my sanctuary.”

She follows me with an innocent and trusting smile. Yes, that drop will be the best piece to go out with.

And she’s so willing. So eager to support me. She doesn’t see it coming. That first blow, that first drop of red.

A cut, fire sizzling, glass melting, heavy breathing. A kaleidoscope of noises and colors. A symphony to my heart. My very last.

I work for hours and she’s there with me every step of the way. Drop by drop, the glass is formed. I watch it cool. The colors, once bright and lively, now faded away. Pale. But I can’t stop now. It’s not finished. I reach for the gold, add it, twist, cut, and pull.

It’s reaching its final shape. One last breath, one last drop of red, and it’s done. Cold as ice. But the drop is filled with life. All twenty-nine are. I created them from life.

The door to my workshop slams open and the noise of the sirens hits me just as I place the drop into the cooler right next to the glass tiger. My final work is done.

“Adam Browning, you’re under arrest.” A police officer says, pointing his gun at me while his partner rushes to Helena.

I lift my hands in surrender, my smile wide. They’re too late. It’s done. My twenty-ninth.

The officer shakes his head as he steps away from Helena.

“You son of a bitch.”

The young officer handcuffs me, handling me with more force than a man my age should be dealt with, but I get it. He’s angry. He doesn’t appreciate art.

As he says the boring words everyone knows from crime movies and leads me to the car, I watch as crime scene investigators bring out my trophies. Twenty-seven of them.

The officer says something about eighteen murder and rape charges, but I chuckle. Make that twenty-nine.

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