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| "It's crud, yet my crud." |
Lancaster found the box by the side of the potters workshop. He said he'd go there only once.
A crude misshapen mug, made with red clay coils. It laid there, red. Out of some mental resurgence, a black joyous grin had been dabbed on it, laughing at some ill-gotten fate.
"Beats on whatever happened yesterday." He mumbled. "I'll call you crudey."
An unconscious need to express his dissatisfaction for blowing it at the last meet.
Imperfect, yet better. He's decided to drink from this morning routine from now on. It felt real in his grubby mitts.
From a splodge of clay, it felt solid.
From a splodge of clay, it felt solid.