Galatea

Grown of hickory, hewn of ivory, cast of bronze, painted and decorated in lavish silks and minerals.  Maybe just slapped together of mud and vine, made of straw and ash and water. It mattered not — all that mattered was the quicksilver in her throat, the breath in her lungs, the fire kindled in her breast.

Clockworks spiraled in her, click-ticking away moments and eons, and her flesh flaked off where joints grew too stiff or were made imperfectly.

And yet, the electric  life of her would not be denied.

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