The Rusted Tomb

I was about to draft up a post about how I think I have zero real people following my blog and you’re all robots out to destroy me when I noticed a small blue set of words, stating quite clearly “inspire me.”  What an odd link I thought, I must see what it does.  So after clicking it, it brought up an image with the  phrase a picture is worth a thousand words.  Naturally I had no choice but to follow the binding contract I signed and write about image instead, sorry robots, we’ll talk about this later.

A picture is worth 1000 words. This safe has been through a lot. Tell its story.

Image credit: “safe” – © 2007 Paul Keller – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic


He crafted art from what others labeled junk, it was a labor of love.  He never received payments for his work though large sums had been offered in the past, he even tried to remain anonymous at first though eventually they found him carting a freshly crafted crane (the bird) made from parts of a broken crane (the machine).  Naturally he continued this passion for years, he was well respected and would often be seen heading towards the abandoned district.  No one quite remembered why an entire section of the city had been vacated for so long but he was one of the few brave enough to enter, it was mostly him and foolish high-school students dared to spend a night in one allegedly haunted house or another.  On a dark cold night practically danced across the cracked street filled with the emptiness of potholes and abandoned cars, being around such destruction made him yearn for creation something fierce.  So he set to work welding bits of metal and cutting bits of wood to any passer by (of which there were none) he would look like a mad scientist in his refined insanity.   And then he saw it out of the  corner of his eyes, an old box, some sort of cupboard perhaps, maybe someone kept important things in a  tiny box in the back corner of it, either way it was now his, and he would use it in the name of art.  He went over to inspect this new discovery, and discovered himself locked inside.  How did this happen, he pondered as he banged on the door with all his might, causing it to fall over sealing him in even more.   He screamed for help which merely depleted his oxygen supply faster.

In the eyes of the public, there once was a man who made the ugly and useless into a thing of beauty, and then one day he vanished, and he did so without warning, his works left to collect dust in an art exhibit, his life was ended but his art lived on, no longer rubbish at the side of the road, but a source of inspiration for others, just as it once inspired him.  They didn’t know how he died in pain and suffering, but in the end it matters not, he gave his life for art, and his art lives on for him.


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