Half the village had been erected by his handiwork. His hands had built the houses, the town hall, the shops. He drew plans like a Renaissance painter and wielded a saw like a master fencer.
But as the hair receded from his head like a wave drawing back from the shore, his skill began to fade.
This last building would be his masterpiece. He would pour his very soul into it.
His hands shook as he drew the lines. The numbers fled his memory like water dripping out of a leaky pipe.
He built it, but everything was just a little off, a few inches too short or too long. He made it work best as he could, but as he stood back to look at it, he saw that the whole structure was crooked, one side leaning in.
He said it was his masterpiece anyway, flaws and all.
Word Count: 149
This is for Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and TJ Paris for providing the prompt photo!