The Constructionist: A Short Story

The sky was an oppressively low swirling monochrome above the island, which for an undetermined length of time had been entirely deserted. Today, many crews could be found darting from place to place, with large loads of rock arranged around the various construction sites.
No modern equipment could be seen, however, and what precisely was to be built was not easily deduced by the activity or the materials present on the island.
Furthermore, despite the obvious scampering of the faceless builders, no one seemed particularly concerned by the looming storm.

The Architect had not been to the island for some time, and never to this side, though he had heard of it. Curious, he stands on a gravel path with his hands on his hips surveying the fervor of activity and

"I believe you will like this," said the woman, and he runs ahead to scamper up the sand. Reaching the summit, the Architect is filled with amazement.
At his feet are enormous troughs that cut the dark sand several stories deep, and extend all the way to the shore, as though enormous ships had been pulled from the island, their bows wrecking the beach below.
Following the deep gashes with his eyes, the Architect discovers the source of such bestial sounds.
Standing in the ocean, which rolled large and black all around them, where bulls the size of buildings, and white as mice. Beside them were buffalos, their white shaggy coats trailing in the frothing swells that surrounded them.
The Architect stood mesmerized as he realized that these beasts were yet another extension of his crew, evidently tasked with clearing the beaches, as these gorgeous monsters with brutal strength flung the fallen trees into the sea, like offerings to some ancient god.

The Architect stepped forward.
"Are you sure you know what you are doing?" asked the woman who had come to stand behind him at the summit of the