the chase// acca and serpentino

It wasn't really a pot, honestly. It was a vase with a lid. I had thrown it, fired it, applied glaze to it, applied the metal detail to it, used every technique I had learned. It was my child, really; I had worked on it for months. My father appraised it with a large smile, noting the calluses I had developed on my hands from making it. It was worth forty-two times more than the first pot I had ever thrown. I carefully placed it in the shop window, front and center, proud of my own hands. 
My Peacekeeper friend, Pyrrhus, came into the shop looking for repair for a cracked front step. He stopped in front of it. "Little Acca, did you make this?" 
"Yes." 
"It's beautiful." 
"Thank you." 
I had exchanges with customers like that all day. First they asked if I made it. Then they praised it, noting its form, its color, its detail. I even got a few bids to buy it.
All in all, not bad for little Acca.