Hiya, this is an idea that follows on from a thread I made on the discussion forum, as I thought it might be fun to have some writing prompts!

The prompt is a one-word one, as I find those to be the most versatile and interesting.

The word I picked for this thread is 'vessel'.

I'm going to post my interpretation of the prompt below this as a 'chapter 2', so that my submission doesn't sway anyone's ideas on what to write, and hope you guys will get involved with your own takes on the prompt by adding new chapters/story paths below! Credit to SepiandDust for the general idea of how this is all set out :)

• Riot45

The clay moves beneath his hands softly, smoothly, as he sculpts grooves and texture into its surface. The potter's wheel spins with a whirr, the sound of hours of work and love coming together to create one simple lidded jar.

He dug this clay himself from the creek behind Casey's farmstead field, where it gets muddy and mucky in the spring. There's usually flowers that grow there, daffodils and violets up high on the bank, far from the red slimy bottom of the water. There's also buzzing, bloodsucking flies that spawn in the shallows. The time he took his sweetheart there, early in their courtship, he'd been expecting to see a beautiful sunset, perhaps pick her some of those violets (her favorites), but the flies had swarmed them by the thousands as they walked down that trail. He used the flame of his lantern to drive them away, somewhat ineffectively, as the two of them fled together to Casey's barn for safety. She said afterward that any man who would fight an army for her was going to be the man she married, even if it were an army of insects.

It's autumn now, and the flies died in an unseasonably early first frost last Sunday. But the clay remains, as red as her rosy cheeks reflected in the lantern's light.

He stops the wheel with his feet, letting it spin slower and slower until, at last, his creation sits still. He examines every side of it, from top to bottom, every chiseled line and hand-shaped curve. Then he sculpts more detail into it, the finer floral patterns that can't be done on a wheel. Once he's satisfied, he allows the clay to dry for a while before placing it in the kiln to fire.

As it dries, he takes time to watch the woods outside. Trees hold on to their red-gold leaves despite their silver crystal coating, unsure what season it is. Somewhere on the threshold, halfway between life and death, they creak and sway in the breeze. Clay is pliable, able to mold into any shape you choose. Wood can bend in the wind, but eventually it will snap when the life leaves it. Both grow weaker in the bitter cold.

The first firing is to prepare the clay for glaze. The kiln flame crackles, like a hearth to huddle by on a stormy summer night as you watch lightning flash outside. One year it rained for three days straight, him and his sweetheart stuck inside their little log house as she embroidered and he worked on a clay vessel for gravy. She kept the fire going using logs he'd meant for the kiln, but he didn't much mind. He got cold easily, even in summer. It was good to have somebody making sure he stayed warm.

The second firing melts the glaze, fixing it to the clay and completing the piece. It is the most delicate part, and it has to be much hotter than an ordinary cooking fire. He stokes the flame constantly, fussing and feeding it like a mother robin with her babies. Ashes from the burning wood mix with the glaze, forming striking red and black swirls on the jar's surface. At last the firing finishes.

He takes the jar once it cools, then picks up a brush and paints the flowers purple. For a moment, he admires its beautiful form.

His sweetheart always hated the cold. She said it made her sad to see the world turn dead and lonely, as the trees shed their lovely leaves and the animals fled or cached themselves away. That's the silver lining he holds on to as he fills the jar and closes its lid for the first and only time. She never saw this frost arrive.