In the pottery studio he was not the lonely man who couldn’t keep a promise to his woman, who ended up losing everything in a late-spring Missouri flood.  In the pottery studio he reached out of his cracked mold and became amorphous and yielding.

He taught beginner pottery on Wednesdays because he worked late on Monday nights, catching from the work that piled up over the weekend, and he was busy on Tuesday nights at band practice.  Teaching was a must at the studio; if he didn’t teach, he’d have to skip lunch a couple of times a week.  It wasn’t a source of contention; pottery was more important than eating.  The membership was expensive but there were plenty young kids who could afford it.  After the banking crisis in the naughts every parent wanted their kid to become an artist.


Leave a comment

Filed under Flash Fiction

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s