Feet Of Clay

"What can I tell you, Carson," I had to say aloud, "that you don't already know?" The pottery wheel slowed to a full stop. I set both feet squarely on the floor. Before me, the clay glistened, a wet lump.  I spoke again to the shadows, to the clay masks I’d hung on every wall. Empty eyeholes stared back at me.  I had to raise my voice. "Omniscience, you know, being the purview of the dead?"

--draft sentences, stepping into a new story