Robert Scotellaro

The High Priest and the Big Smile Anvil

All night he hammers against it till the ends curl—smooth-curved like rocking chair runners; quarter moons of happier times.  The heat warming him through his gloves.  Then the hisss into water.  One syllable long—all that needs to be said.

Hands them out the next day to The Paper Boat Captains, The Sunshine Trimmers, The One-Armed Diamond Cutters lined up and eager to be fitted. 

His other followers returning with their old fittings for adjustment.  The ones he simply turns upside-down.