One Insatiable

“She didn’t have a choice either,” Penny continues. Her face turns sad. “But it wasn’t like that all her life. We shifters outlive everything except the gods and vampires.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Dylan said there aren’t any vampires.”

“What?” The old woman laughs, squeezing her eyes shut. “Why of course there are vampires. They just don’t live around this area.”

I take her hands in both of mine and face her. “What else do I not know about?”

She won’t meet my eyes. “Oh… I’m sure you’ll know about everything in time.”

Lifting her hands out of mine, she holds her palms up as if in surrender. As if I’m holding a gun on her as she backs away. “It’s time for my nap.”

Pressing my lips into a frown, I watch as she quickly leaves me alone in the vast hallway. I don’t have anything else to do here today, so I throw my hair over my shoulder and head for my room.

“That right there, Phoebe?” I say to the small grey tabby sleeping on my bed. “That is why I’m leaving. Absolutely no point in me lurking around this house like a ghost while everyone else pursues their lives.”

The small feline blinks lazily as she watches me, undisturbed. I’m slamming my drawers open and closed, pulling out an old, faded pair of jeans. They’re torn at the knees and they fall low around my hips. Another drawer jerked open, and I lift a threadbare tee out and pull it over my head, not even bothering with a bra. I grab a hair tie and twist my long, raven locks into a high ponytail.

I’m barefoot as I storm down the hall this time. Out the back door and across the manicured lawn to a small workshop hidden under a sprawling river birch. It used to be a gardener’s shed, but now it’s my pottery studio. I’m pretty sure nobody even knows it’s here.

Walking to the back, I open the metal breaker box and push the heavy black switch up, flooding the shack with light. Going to a tall cabinet, I lift out my wheel and carry it to a low table in the center of the room in front of a stool.

A few years ago — the same time I started mingling with the “townies” — I came out here and pushed all the long tables to the perimeter of the building and made space in the center for me to have a wheel.

I emptied out the metal cabinet to use for storage and bought a few bags of dry clay. I found a small kiln at a garage sale, and I slowly began building my supply closet.

I have different types of glaze, grips, and even an extender so I can make large platters. Walking to the old laptop in the corner, I sit on a tall stool and click through my favorite pottery websites until I find the designs I want to try. For a few hours, I sit and read the different techniques, noting shortcuts and tips from masters. I want to know everything before I leave here and start my new life on the coast.

After a while, I notice the sun is starting to set, not that it matters. I go to the cabinet and scoop dry clay into a large bowl. Then I walk over to the deep sink and turn on the water. Several minutes and quite a bit of stirring later, I’ve got a nice, thick ball. Going to the center of the room I drop it firmly on the bat.

My wheel is operated with my foot like a sewing machine, and I gently apply pressure to start the lump spinning. A small bowl of water is nearby, and I dip both my hands in it before placing them around the lump of clay, cupping it.

As it spins, I apply pressure with my fingertips and the heel of my palms pulling up to form a cylinder. With my thumb on the top, my arms are in a ninety-degree angle as I press downward.

Another dash of water, and I’m using the heel of my left hand to form a flat top. A light force on the sides, and it’s taking shape. Thick shavings of clay appear at the tips of my fingers. I flick them away as the lump is centered.

Using my thumb, I sink a hole right in the middle. Then I reposition my hand in the center and my thumb on the outside and pinch them together, drawing up the sides of the bowl as the lump spins quickly. I’ve always loved this part. The smooth undulating way the clay moves as I shape it.

A little more water, I keep my fingertips pressed on the inside, and the lump has grown taller with a nice center. I swab it with a sponge to refine the inside, foregoing the rim tool. I don’t necessarily want it to be perfect this time. It’s a wide-open dish with the smallest imperfections from my work.

Reaching for my wire, I slow the speed of the wheel as I pull it under the base of the bowl. A rinse of my hands, and I reach for the towel to dry them before spreading my palms flat down against the bat, and with my thumb and forefingers I gently lift it by the thick clay base. Carrying it over to the ware board, I leave it to finish drying. I’ll glaze and fire it in the kiln later, then paint it.

I’m not sure what I’ll do with it. I just wanted to sink my hands in the soft clay and pull something to life. Enough clay remains in my mixing bowl to make something different. Flipping off the wheel, I lift out the lump and begin to shape it with my hands.

First I roll it into a thick column then I slide a finger from one end, swooping deeply to the other. Resting my cheek on my knuckles, I play around with the figure, slowly molding broad

shoulders, pinching out a narrow waist. At the bottom, I start what would be a powerful, lashing tail, when I realize what I’m doing, Shaking my head, I roll the male panther figurine back into a shapeless lump.

“I’m quietly going insane around here,” I sigh to no one. A glance out the glass windows tells me it’s completely dark now and late. The moon is slightly bigger than it was last night, but it won’t be full for another week.

Carrying the supplies back to my closet, I empty the bowl of grey water down the sink and rinse it clean. My wheel is stashed, and I spend a few minutes washing my hands. Everything is stowed away, and I lock the door before strolling slowly to the house, hoping for a late supper.

Our enormous, three-story mansion blazes like a lighthouse as I walk across the sea of soft dark grass to my elegant prison. Every light seems to be on, and I ponder how inexplicably, my aunt doesn’t care for shadows at night.

It’s odd because as cat shifters, we’re nocturnal by nature. Still, Dylan supports Penny’s fears. Dylan doesn’t like us to act like “creatures of the night,” as she puts it. I can’t even remember the last time my sister shifted, and I can’t help wondering if she’s trying to erase who we are altogether.

Looking around the expansive yard, I inhale the clean night air. It’s elemental. It’s a part of us, and it gives us strength. I love what we are, our way of life, and our powers.

I stand a moment longer letting the evening wash over me, when my heart ticks a little faster. My eyes flash open, and I sense I’m not alone.