Adult Short Story - Adult Short Story - First Place - Betty Tomlinson Anderson Award for Literary Excellence

Her knuckle sank deeper into the soft, wet crevice. She worked it around, pushing,
rubbing her hands down the moist clay. A droplet of sweat rolled down her back. She shivered,
then leaned back in, caressing, manipulating the material.

Wiping her brow with her arm, she took a deep breath and stood up from the stool where
she'd been for the last two hours. Her back cracked as she eased her body upwards, moaning
slightly with the effort. Picking up a dirty towel, rubbing the brown off her hands, she stood back
to admire her creation.

Dusky shadows projected through the arched attic window played upon her back. This
silent film replayed evening after evening as she worked to mould some life out of her dark
materials. The figure was coming along. She could see where it might go, finally. For a while it
had just been a blank lump of clay, wrapped in plastic. She had stared at it for weeks before the
inspiration came. The smooth lines and ample curves. Putting down the towel, she turnedaround and looked outside.

Peering up and down the street, she saw a boy walk up the sidewalk. Broad shoulders,
prominent Adam's apple, he walked with a sure stride. The chiseled cheeks and hank of hair
over one eye gave him a confident handsomeness that other boys his age didn't seem to have.
Her young neighbour Marjorie Jean came out the front door of number 25, looking nothing like
her old-fashioned name. She grinned and took the man-boy by the hand, giving him a quick
peck on the cheek. They casually linked arms. Marjorie Jean leaned in a bit towards him as they
walked down the sidewalk, slower than his previous stride, as if they had no need to rush.

Something about their smooth skin, their lack of guile stirred up an anger inside her. She
tried to push it down, but it was not to be so easily quelled. Searching for shame, for remorse of
her reaction, she couldn't find any and that made her nervous. Turning her back to the window,
facing her creation, she tried to focus. The clay, although still cool and malleable to the touch,
had lost its soothing sensuality. This time she attacked it intently, her ribbon tool stripping away
strings of terra cotta that unravelled upon the floor, spent, while the metal spatula sliced into
previously fashioned flesh.

As she worked, she felt her husband's presence in the house somewhere on the main
floor and it kept her up here working, to no resolution. There was always a lump in her chest.
Especially anytime she had to leave the comfort of this room. She stepped back to the window.
Now Marjorie Jean and the boy were almost out of sight — their deceptively casual walk was so
much quicker than her pace that they were already near where the street bent, 3 blocks down
— and she watched until she could see them no more.

She stared back at her sculpture in disappointment. With a flick of her wrist, she tried to
allay her frustration by adding a wavy line, reminiscent of the wind. She let out a sort of whistle
from between her pursed lips. Ruined. She'd ruined it.

Plunging her hand into the shapely shoulder, she grabbed a handful of clay and threw it
to the floor. It made a satisfying "splat" and seemed to shake the floorboards. She grabbed
another, and another, throwing them down to the ground, every hurled mass pounding on the
painted floor. "No good," she said aloud. "No good, no good, no good. No good."

Although she had drummed the clay on the ground, she was still surprised when his
head peeked up from the stairwell. "What is all the noise up here...and why aren't you wearing a
shirt?" he asked, confused. There was something, a sort of tingle she despised that ran through
her, seeing his face appear. "I'll put on a shirt when I goddamn feel like it," she said, but then
she pulled the sleeves up over her shoulders. His face soured immediately and his head turned
and quickly disappeared, the interruption fading in a trail of grey — grey hair, grey mood —
leaving behind the pristine white of the wall. Her anger quickly dimmed into embarrassment and
resentment at his retreating presence.

Darkness began to creep in her window, and she switched on the stark bulbs that hung
above her head. She scraped the clay off the floor, forming it into large balls, which she
pounded down and covered in plastic wrap. Perhaps they could be salvaged. They had specks
of dust and dirt kneaded within, but were mostly smooth. Another day. She would try again. Sheturned the lights back out and scraped the stool along the floor, over to the window. Sagging
down upon the seat, she set her elbow upon the window frame and leaned towards the pane,
her chin in her hand. She sat there for almost an hour, watching. A couple of wandering cats, a
skittering raccoon spotlighted by a streetlamp. Besides that, nothing. Just the quiet of the homes
facing their sidewalks.

Using both hands, she pushed herself off the windowsill to standing, the ache in her
back so pronounced it made her catch her breath to the twinge of each vertebrae realign .
Turning the lights off, she felt her way to the staircase and slowly walked down towards the
door. Muffled movements on the other side meant she hadn't timed it quite right. He was still
awake, occupying the space out there. Inhaling raggedly, she put her hand upon the doorknob,
slowly turned it, and walked out on the exhale with what she hoped was a supplicating, serene
look—a look that would carry her smoothly through the evening, through tomorrow, until she
could climb those stairs again.