IN Which I FreeWrite so I DoWrite
This is the story of the bowl with a crack in it. How was it made? It was made thus:
By hands that thrust deeply into the clay of the bog, hoisted by the pound into the wicker to be processed in a sluice, in a barrel, to find the pure clay. The clay used for the bowl. The wheel turned, the hands smoothed, shaped, spread the top into space.
The potter knew his craft, knew the pressure to use, knew the glaze to apply. The kiln was hot – this order special. Special for him. He laid it on the shelf and went out.
It was too late.
There was no safety on the kiln, no way to lower the heat. The flames were high in the oven and the hot air filled the space. But the jewel, the jewel he’d promised was not in the clay. There was time, yes, to press it into the bowl, right in the bottom.
But not time enough.
He snuck in, the heat climbing, and pushed the jewel in. Behind him, the door prop gave way. The door slammed to a close.
He pounded – but could not break through. When he collapsed, it was against the shelf. The vibration shook the bowl.
Leaving a crack inside it.