Member-only story
The Shape of Now
Connect to What Is Nearest to You
The studio of Master Hideo was a place of silence and dust. Shafts of afternoon light cut through the air, illuminating the millions of floating motes of dried clay that coated every surface.
Kael, the youngest apprentice, stood before his spinning wheel, his face twisted in frustration. For the third time that hour, the vase he was attempting to throw had wobbled, buckled, and collapsed into a wet, shapeless gray lump.
With a growl of impatience, Kael scraped the ruined mess off the wheel and slammed a fresh ball of clay onto the center.
“It is clay,” Kael muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead with a mud-caked arm. “It is too coarse. It fights me. How can I make the vessel of the gods, the one I see in my dreams, with this mud?”
He looked up at the shelf where Master Hideo’s work sat. They were perfection teapots that seemed to float, bowls that held shadows like water. Kael wanted that. He wanted the acclaim, the mastery, the finished result. His mind was always ten steps ahead, imagining the glaze, the kiln fire, and the praise of the Emperor.
“You are fighting a war you cannot win, Kael.”
Master Hideo stepped out from the shadows. He was an old man, his hands gnarled like the roots of an ancient oak…
