Nothing had been done to promote anything. The phone began to ring. Friends, neighbors, friends of friends, friends of neighbors all wanting the opportunity to buy, or at least see, a creation before it was sold.
Georgia didn’t like the selling part. Yes, the money was needed at first, but instinct spoke loudly that these should be gifts, gifts containing a part of her to divinely selected recipients.
The girl next door was the first employee. Next, her boyfriend. Then a little shop at the end of the street was rented. Then a warehouse. Georgia sold the business with enough to retire. The years had made her a master at her craft. Her home had become a zoo of imprisoned pieces, waiting to be chosen and imbued with her cohesive magic.
Periodically, after morning tea, she would carry two unique masterpieces to the corner of Main Street and Wyndham Rd. and wait. Wait for a sign, a word from a stranger, rain – anything which would speak to her instead of her creating thoughts.
She never knew how many baskets would make the return trip. Some days she would leave a basket unattended a half a block away from the corner and just watch who would take it and how it was taken. Other days a hidden force prompted her to give them away to busy itinerants.
She remembered giving one to a teenager who dumped the contents into a trash container across the street and kept the basket. Another who destroyed the basket right in front of her. Some she would just watch being carried away, and she would feel a part of herself dying.