*Featured image courtesy of FenesiKinga on Pixabay.com*
Heroes can come in all shapes and sizes, and Andrew Newall proves that in his wonderful piece, “Wire Man”. This is a very unique story that I’m sure all of you will enjoy, and I look forward to seeing more stories from Andrew in the future.
A little man made from one rod of wire, no more than eight inches tall, shrugged off his motionless pose and walked to the edge of his high shelf to look across the studio. Strewn with drawing and painting utensils, it was standard chaotic clutter uplifted by striking watercolours, pastels and models lying here and there.
The artist had left for lunch. That familiar sound of the door locking signalled play time for the wire man and his colleagues. Papier mâché figures sprung to life on the worktop, two of them sword fencing with paint brushes while the other three played tag. A dog made entirely of paperclips, snatched a nearby glove puppet in its jaws and shook its head wildly, paper clips rattling while the glove puppet wriggled, annoyed and dizzy . . . again. The four-foot clay thinker sat, thinking. Being the first model made, the wire man had known each one since they were first constructed.
His gaze finally rested upon Anne of Green Gables. The hand-made doll shuffled to the crafted wooden bicycle she always rode. Clambering aboard, she pedalled around as hard as her stuffed legs allowed. She looked up at the little wire man with her permanent smile, giving a wave like she always did. He rather sheepishly waved back as he always did. His wire heart belonged to Anne ever since she was sewn together, even though she had to tower over him by at least ten inches. He loved all his friends, but everything would still be complete in his own little wire world had it just been her. She would coax him to come down to play and he yearned to join her, but his shelf was too high. He couldn’t even make it to the worktop. The drop was deceptively wide, causing several previous failed attempts. Only a boring plasticine dinosaur waddling around, flashing its toothy grin, accompanied him.
Later, the models resumed their positions before the artist returned. Normally, he continued working but instead, the artist spent the rest of this day tidying. He laid out a table with jars of coffee, cups and a machine that heated water. Painting materials were cleared away, the easel was pushed to the side, the top of it almost reaching the wire man’s shelf which didn’t go unnoticed by the observant little one. Paintings were gathered and hung carefully on the wall. From his high point, the wire man watched closely. Price tags were placed on the paintings and, more disturbingly, alongside the models, including himself – all the models except Anne. The artist picked her up and put her in a cupboard. What was happening?
When the artist left that night, the models stirred. They looked around and at each other, but the atmosphere was different. There was no play, all of them aware something was wrong.
The following day, the studio was visited by people looking at the artist’s work. They talked to him, bought some of his paintings as well as a few models. The wire man sadly saw two of his papier mâché friends go, along with a knitted kitten and a glove puppet. When everyone had left, he went limp with relief. He hadn’t been taken. More importantly, Anne was still safely with him.
A lady with a small girl then entered the studio. The artist seemed to know them. He picked the girl up and the three chatted happily. The wire man watched them, straining his wire rod neck as much as possible. The artist unlocked his cupboard and brought out Anne. He gave her to the small girl who hugged the doll tight. Anne’s head was facing away from the wire man but slowly, too slowly for anyone to notice, she turned to look directly at him and he saw, just below her embroidered eye, a droplet of water dampen the fabric of her face as the three left the studio, taking Anne away from him.
His wire body surged with rage, burning like a piece of lit magnesium. Anne wanted to stay and that was all the little wire man needed to know. He leapt into action. The top of the easel was now only a foot beneath him. The bottom hung a few inches above the worktop. He beckoned his plasticine dinosaur neighbour to the edge, then signalled the three remaining papier mâché friends on the worktop to push a pile of cleaning sponges toward the bottom of the easel.
Sliding down the dinosaur’s tail, he reached the top of the easel. Next, he edged along and looked down, spotting a loose fibre sticking out from the canvas. Lying across the top of the easel, he reached down and wrapped it around his wire hand. All eyes were fixed on the adrenaline-charged escapade. He leapt from the top of the easel, the fiber tearing from the canvas, allowing him to abseil, landing safely on the sponges.
The thinker had been moved close to the worktop. Sounds of crumbling and scraping were heard as his arm shifted his arm from its rigid thinking position, clay dust dwindling from his imposing mass. He held his hand out to the wire man who hopped on and was lowered gently to the floor. His wire legs ran like tiny stilts to the door which the artist had left slightly open. He knew what lay outside was uncertain and he would undoubtedly face serious danger, but this was the way Anne went and the way he would follow.
He looked back at the studio to give a wave of thanks to his comrades – this curious mix of sculptures and crafts who had been a comfort blanket to him for so long. The paper clip dog’s tail wagged and rattled, the clay thinker winked and the papier mâché figures raised tubs of acrylic in a toast as the little wire man set off to bring back his loved one.
Andrew Newall’s work has appeared both in print and online. Most recently, he has had fiction broadcast on the short story podcasts Scare You to Sleep and Tall Tale TV. In addition, he is a keen comic artist with some comic strips published in Oddball Magazine. He lives near Falkirk in Scotland and can be found on Facebook and Linkedin.
