“I am most vexed,” I say.

“Indeed, I am most vexed as well,” she says.

My friend and I are like-mindedness is matched only by our outstanding curiosity. We stare at this recently unearthed meticulous piece of machinery. A varnished wooden box with iron locks coated in gold and strapped in the richest chocolate leathers. The gilding is extraordinary.

“The gilding is extraordinary,” I say.

“Indeed, I find it extraordinary as well,” she says.

We are guilders, of course, we weave wondrous webs of metal and cloth bolts across wrought iron and steel and meshed fences, across covers of ancient tomes. Through these simple studies and applications of artistry, we learn so many things. For if we do not learn of artifice how will we learn to strip it away? How can we know the truth of the universe the heaven, the movements, the stars colliding forming countless eras and time all swirling together in an unending symphony of history all collapsing it on itself in a cavalcade of comedy and tragedy? How can we know our own cores, our own souls if we cannot but strip away the gold seal of a box?

The question, of course, is what’s inside? We need to know you see because a box this extensively dressed must contain even shinier gilding inside. What velvet lined treasures await us, what corner cuts trimmings and tightly woven trappings lie in wait inside the artifice box of wonders. What decoration houses the contents within, and YES what of the contents!? What lies in wait inside housed by the artifice housed within the decorative box itself?

“We must open it,” I say.

“Indeed, I feel that we must open it too,” she replies.

Fist we will try picking the lock, that most odorous pastime of purloining pickpockets and nefarious ne'er do wells. Still one can hardly blame artificers such as ourselves for trying our hand at the craft, especially is such a way could lead us to more righteous paths of fortune. So she leverages her picks at the lock, and one snap, then another, then another, then another, then, another, then another, then another,

“Indeed, I don’t think this is working,” she says.

“I would agree,” I reply. “Oh vile box I, I mean we, yes WE shall be vindicated!”

Now we will try and see if modern technology has the answer to unlocking the box. We will run chemical tests on the leather bindings, on the gilded iron lock and plate. We’ll see just how strong they are when concentrated acid kisses each nail, bolt, and rivet hold. We’ll see how much strength lies in artifice and we’ll hear those doubters drown in their own folly for daring to doubt the importance of my work. In fact, I can imagine them. Yes, yes I can imagine that I am dripping this acid on their exposed eyes. I can imagine their burning corneas smelling like burning leather. Imagine their skin peeling around their lids like dissolving gold on iron. They all laughed at me they did. For years they said I would never find anything of value under it all, that I should be searching for the core, not the context.

And they call themselves MY intellectual peers. Bah, I say. If they could see me now about to crack open this, the most beautiful box ever found they would fall to their knees, debasing themselves in gratitude for even glimpsing it.

“Indeed, the straps have melted away but the iron and wood remain,” she says.

“Ah, so they do,” I reply.

The wood remains a varnish, a splinter of what it once was. More than likely some moisture crept under the gold and spoiled the wood from within. Pity but inside lies the true artificial beauty so it doesn’t matter. Especially since the outside of the box is still the most wondrous sight in the cosmos. Why if anything the chemical burns give it character. Still, the wood presents a problem. One that needs solving.

Aha, I know! My partner and I can drop the box, from the tallest place in the warehouse, I mean laboratory, yes laboratory has a far better ring to it. I digress though for the fact still remains that nothing shatters wood quite like direct physical force. All we have to do is make sure the point of impact doesn’t damage the contents within. Rubber bands will supply this protection of course. Two on each end will prevent complete interior destruction and ensure that there is no snap back whatsoever. But as I snap the rubber bands into place I can hear my partner muttering something under her breath.

“Indeed, are you mad?” she asks. “We cannot ensure this will work.”

“I see your point,” I say. “Now allow me to retort.”

I drop the box from the highest point in our loft scaffolding laboratory.

“Indeed, WHAT?” She asks.

She leaves as I go to pick it up. Just as well though, she can join the doubters as I collect the inner beauty of the box in the sea of freshly formed splinters. Stepping down from the final makeshift step on to the crippled and cracked concrete floor I see the boxes sides have indeed shattered. Ah so beautiful. The concave destruction framed perfectly by the rubber bands that snapped off as soon as the box kissed the floor, so beautiful. The interior remains intact as I knew it would. I hold it in my hands the peeled beige paper lining the inside pops and gurgles under the weight of acid and water and the scent of mildew hangs in the air and inside all I see is a Faberge egg or some such trite treasure but who cares let the concrete have it as I fall to my knees. The interior, it was supposed to be gilded. Beautifully gilded.

“Oh well,” I say, “On to the next I say, on to the next!"

© 2016 Jared “I.J” Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#fiction