Confessions from the Cracked Pot

Can someone regret the way he was born?

I do.

Let me tell you my story.


PottersHands[1]In a city far, far away lives the most skillful Potter.

The way He creates His pots is different from any other potters’ way. He never makes the same pot twice. His every creation is unique — molded from diverse materials, by varying strength of applied hand pressure and temperature.

He loves every single pot that was born from His hand — I am one.

I’d say we love him too, the way creations would love their Creator, but there was one thing about the way the Potter designed us that we are not so happy about–all of us have cracks. Some are lucky enough to have their cracks given in hidden areas, while the others, including me, have their cracks displayed for everyone to see.

I say again, we hate the cracks.

You see, people think we are beautiful because we were made by the most creative Hand, but we cracked pots knew better. Those who say so are blind enough to not see the imperfection.

Right now, I’m in a foreign city for this annual event where the Potter organizes an exhibit of all the pots He has created. The Potter would never show Himself to the public though. He says it’s because we pots are enough to make the people see Him — words I can never understand. He is perfect and we are cracked. Would He like the people to think less of Him?

“One day, you will understand.” That is what He would always say, and the discussion ends.

The purpose of this exhibit is for the guests to line up and choose among us the pot of their preference, then take the pot home for free. Another thing we pots are not happy about. We cannot comprehend why the most skilful Potter would just donate His creations to anyone, as if we don’t matter to him. Is it because He can easily make new ones that we are disposed of so unceremoniously?

So I am here, standing on a long wooden table, waiting to be chosen. The guests are circling the table, eyeing us with curious and thoughtful eyes. I was lifted from the table by countless hands, and I knew they were looking for one thing – my lovely crack. Some of them frowned, others smiled, and some even laughed like I was displayed to entertain them.

I, for one, do not like being laughed at.

Soon the time for selection commenced, making me feel self-conscious and inferior. Was I able to get someone’s attention?

For hours I was passed on the hands of a farmer to a dentist, to a scientist, to a professor, to a carpenter, and so on. It went until all the other pots were taken.

I am the only pot left, and it stings.

I am not wanted, and somehow, I know why.

I am the plainest among them and I have the biggest crack.

I am the most unattractive pot.

The Potter was not fair for creating me like this. Why make someone so plain and ugly that no one would want him?

And while I wallow in my minutes of self-pity, I hear heavy footsteps approaching the long table where I stand cold and alone. They belong to a messy reeking beggar.

He lifted me from the table and grinned, showing his rotting teeth, and took me like a thief. He ran and everything became blurry.

Next thing I know, I’m standing on a makeshift shelter under a bridge.

(To be continued)


A response to Daily Prompt: Childlike


9 thoughts on “Confessions from the Cracked Pot

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  7. Pingback: Confessions from the Cracked Pot (Part 2) | JC Bride ~

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