The Garden after the Rain
There’s something extremely sensual about fondling clay. I love going into the garden after the rain and grabbing the sodden clay; moulding it between my fingers and making shapes as I drift into tactile, youthful memories.
The other day I watched this pottery competition on the TV and one of the contestants said that pottery is almost as good as sex ; I wouldn’t go that far though. It’s just good, dirty fun.
Delving deeper I yank out some sort of cable. Probably a remnant from when the house was built.
Then I see the severed finger attached to the end.
This week my fiction clocks in at exactly 100 words but I had to work really hard to bring it down …
Edit : For cohesion I changed saw to see in the last sentence.