It had been years since he touched a wheel.
Nothing said ‘vacation’ like daytime drinking, and he had been on vacation a long time. No creative spark in sight.
It bothered him, and in clear moments would go to museums, hoping a muse would find him.
It bothered him, and in clear moments would go to museums, hoping a muse would find him.
Now, kneading the clay, the familiar slap on the plaster bat bringing it all back, he couldn’t wait till the first kick. He felt this might save him, for as in times almost forgot, had no doubts it would be good.
Funny what pointed the way, another artist’s work, a jeering face saying … “Loser.”
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Friday Fictioneers 100 Word Flash Fiction… This week’s photo prompt is by Joyce Johnson… Go see Rochelle… ADDICTED TO PURPLE … for info on how to join us.
To read other Fictioneers’ stories… 
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