Whistling, he worked, he whittled and drilled. Detailed, beautiful.
“Shall I carve your name?” He looked to the bed, but no response.
“Its probably too small, to be fair”.
His tongue snaked from his mouth, across already moist lips. His heavy callused hands dancing across the tiny instrument like a precision machine. Curious that hammer blows and needle touches could be sourced from the same tools.
“Finished” he smiled with joy. Raised it to his mouth and played two bars, instantly recognizable.
“It’s a finger flute” he waved it towards the prone figure.
“Now what to do with your legs?”
#FLASHFICTION101 October 2020 SHORTLISTED ENTRY
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