All Writing Sprints Written Prior to The Christian Indie Writers’ Podcast and authored by J. R. Nichols. Click Here To Read A Random Post!
Author’s Note: If you watched me writing LIVE on my facebook page, you can click on the corresponding date to see the text in full. I am not going to edit these, just copy/paste from my working document onto this page. -J.R. Nichols
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PROMPT: Use the following five words in your story: Laboratory Wheel Policy Edition Appearance
I wasn’t sure why my wheel had to be kept out in the laboratory. I could understand the kiln – being as it needed to be heated up to something like a thousand degrees in order to turn what I had on the spinner into somethin someone could eventually put a flower and a bunch of water into.
Had to get the glaze on before it was fired though.
Another step to take.
One at a time.
Each in its time.
I didn’t like my technique with the glaze. I knew it would be streaky. I decided it would become a statement piece in that moment, the streaks reminiscent of the tears that fell onto my pillow and hte water that slid down the panes of windows in all those sad sad songs, only this was my pain, this running of glaze down the side of a pot, in all its jagged rivulets and runs.
Later, my mother would wonder why i decided i’d never sell that pot.
The light flipped on and michael slipped in behind me. “How can you see in the dark?”
“Turn it off,” I muttered, my eyes slammed shut against the intrusion. He persisted with his hands but I elbowed him away. Lights off! I demanded.
Of course, my wish was my commands but the hands did not return. Of course they did not return. I had chosen the work over him at a sensitive moment. We both knew.
“You want to talk about it?” he said, as I cleaned and tidied. Again wondering why I was forced to share the lab I slammed th zipper to hard and it snagged on my case.
“Not really.” I said. I eyed the pot. Couldn’t he look at the pot and see how I was feeling? I had made that pot over the course of our relationship. It listed to one side and would barely stay aright. Now it was smeared and crying.
I wasn’t crying anymore, though.
“Look,” I said, slinging my satchel over my shoulder. “I’m having my wheel moved out to the barn, next to beauty, where it should have been put in the first place.”
“Pottery and hay don’t mx-”
“Cut it with that crap,” I said. “It’s the kiln that’s the issue and we both know it.”
He crossed his arms – ever the petulant child.
“Tell me there’s a reason I can’t have my way?” I dared him.
He could not answer.
“Very well then. I said. Talk to you soon.”
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