Your Story #138

Prompt: Write a drabble—a short story of exactly 100 words—based on the photo prompt below. You can be funny, poignant, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line "Your Story 138."

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address will be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured, all submissions received before the entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules.

Entry Deadline: CLOSED

Out of nearly 100 entries, WD editors chose the following seven finalists. Vote for your favorite using the comments section at the bottom of the page.

“Keep pressing. What are you, a wuss? And didn’t I tell you to use high grit clay? The more abrasive the better. Use plenty of hand lotion to keep your fingers soft. Easier to damage your prints that way. Makes them nearly impossible to match in the databases.”

“Are you sure this is what DK did?”

“Yup. Beat that carjacking rap. DA’s office couldn’t convince the jury that the prints were hers. Damage your prints this way, or I will grind them off using a combo of acid and bricklaying dust. Either way, we’re going to make you a smoothie.”

Mai worked the clay on the wheel.  First pull—create the initial cylinder.  Second pull—build up the sides to add height.  Third pull—shape the vessel to its final form.

The instructor added her hands to stabilize the spinning clay as Mai applied pressure to coax the rim to smoothness.

“Next, we’ll fashion the cover,” said the instructor, “and then we’ll fire them together.”

Mai nodded, intent on her work.

“Who did you say you were making this for?” asked the instructor.

“My grandmother.”

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

“I hope so,” said Mai.  “It’s for her ashes.”  

The day Daddy left, I cried and cried and held his bag and his knees and the door. Daddy looked at me like I was not there. 

I wish I cried for Mummy. I didn’t know she would leave too.

That she would look at me like I’m not here.

I hope she loves this bowl I made. She used to smile when she made them. When Daddy was here. 

When I give it to her, I will place my face close to hers and watch her eyes and hold her hands and pray and pray until she comes back. 

The woman leaned in.

“Hold your hands against the sides, gentle pressure. Let it slide against your skin. Feel that?”

The girl nodded, concentrated, following her guiding hands, the slick clay spin against her fingers.

“That’s it, now you decide, do you want a shallow bowl, a tall vase? What do you want? You can be as creative as you want. Sometimes the clay will tell you what it wants to be, but you can guide it.”

The girl began to form a thin-walled bowl with high sides.

The woman made note. Yes, robots could show creativity and design art.

I give my child permission to attend the second-grade field trip. (Sit her at the front of the bus. She's allergic to mean kids.)

She may throw clay with assistance. (Smocked and I'd prefer her to make a vase and not a bowl. Only dish sets in our house.)

Send her fired piece home with her. (If it breaks in transit, even better, because I won't have to pretend to like it.)

I will not be a chaperone. (Unless you’re offering water bottles discreetly filled with wine.)

Her emergency contact information is correct. (Her dad’s primary per the divorce papers.) 

Joyce came from a family of potters. The fancier term was “ceramicist.” But she hid a shameful secret: She’d never made pottery.

She was from a small town where everyone had hands in clay. It was their pride and livelihood. The skill passed between generations, a tradition sturdy as an heirloom face jug itself. She sat in back in class—a reluctant student. The workshop in the city was far enough away to avoid detection.

“Truth is, I’ve never liked the feeling of wet clay between my fingers.”

Joyce came from a family of potters, but she was a banker.

Lucy hadn’t spoken since she saw her father die. Gentle coaxing had no effect. I was worried; she’d been mute for so long. I had to find another way. I led her into my studio and placed a hunk of clay on the wheel. I guided her hands to the wet, spinning blob. Time dissolved in unhurried silence as together we formed a small, malleable vessel. Her face relaxed, softening with curiosity and wonder, head bent intently. Perhaps I could reach her. I felt a stirring of relief, so welcome, as I was the one who had killed her father.