Unlocking the front door of her very own beloved shop, Judith smelled something that made her think her ex-husband had played one of his nasty tricks. Had broken in and left her a rotting dead rat, perhaps. Stepping inside, she glanced at crisp white bisque arranged on shiny black shelving; except for the stink, all seemed well. Out of habit, she flipped the ceramic door sign that declared “Personal Pottery is OPEN!” before she headed past the plastic-covered studio tables into the back room to hang up her jacket— “Oh my God!” She froze by the coat rack, gawking at shards of glazed bisque piled around the kiln like cyanotic casualties of war: shattered butterfly plaques, smashed fish platters, beheaded bunnies and puppies and kittens, pony figurines in pieces, decorator plates and miniature teapots and fallen knickknacks of all kinds strewn amid the insect-like multi-legged stilts that had supported them—an entire kiln load of crafts lay in dismembered ruins on the linoleum.
