Pot's Plight

Considering the available options of what pots had been used for in the past—with purposes varying from fermenting vegetables to holding excrement—this pot in particular found its purpose to be reasonable, for a time. Serving the purpose of holding dirt, plants, flowers, and other miscellaneous gardening endeavors was a simple and calm exercise. One might call it too calm, if they were in such circumstances as the ones this pot was in at the time.

You see, before it had come to this monumental occasion, this humble pot had been just that: a pot. A well-weathered gardening pot, luscious white flowers and verdant green foliage galore. This simple pot had no thoughts or intentions, no will, no wants. Just the pleasant lifespan of mulch, dirt, worms, roots, and—worst of all—cold, cold water.

Such a life, for a normal, non-sentient pot, would have been a standard joy. But one evening, when the sun was not shining and gray clouds were forming up ahead, this piece of fired clay suddenly, and quite peculiarly, had a thought: ‘Is this it?’

Is this all there is for this, the life of a terracotta pot? Soggy soil and soggier roots?

‘No. No, this could not be it,’ the pot considered while being flooded with another can of cold water. ‘There must be other purposes out there. This is not what I want.’

And through the window of the small stone house, the pot could see with its nonexistent eyes the silhouette of a human being pouring water into—oh, could that be? A pot of metal, with tapered edges and straight walls, so unlike those of the terracotta pot. The pot boiled the water in mere minutes, preparing a delicious soup.

That pot was built for cooking, not holding plants. But upon seeing this, the terracotta pot came to the decision, ‘Yes. That is what I would like to do. I want to boil water!’

The pot could only imagine what holding warm water would be like. It must have felt so much different than the same cold water it received every morning.

Unfortunately, for a lowly garden pot, finding a way to boil water is no easy feat. You see, despite how hard they try, pots do not have legs. They typically have no limbs at all, other than the occasional handle. This had become a problem almost immediately, as the pot could not reach the fire. Fortunately, after some brief contemplation, a solution was apparent: the roots.

Shoving the roots through a crack in the bottom of its weathered surface was rather difficult, but once properly positioned, they supported its weight with ease. The pot could almost feel the plants within withering from the strain, but it had little care; it was achieving a new purpose. Falling from the windowsill to the floor with a loud klunk mattered little, either. It simply scuttled its way toward the open flame.

Unfortunately, the human of the home seemed to disagree. Hearing the commotion and turning to see the contraption the pot had built for itself, the human shouted, “What the—,” dropped the ladle it was holding, and proceeded to start screaming and kicking it toward the door.

Out of the home and onto the street, the plants were knocked out as the hustle and bustle of the city shoved the pot between pedestrians and under chariots. The pot took this only as a minor setback. There had to be plenty of fires available in the streets of Rome.

A quick kicking down the street revealed another potential career for the lost and confused garden pot. The pounding of metal on metal and the crackle of fire were hushed under the hiss of cooling steel in a barrel of water, dousing the fire in one quick burst of steam.

That was a barrel, not a pot. But upon seeing this, the pot proclaimed to itself, ‘Yes! Now this is what I would like to do. I would like to quench hot metal!’

Turning cool water hot with even hotter metal must surely be a more complex, sophisticated purpose than boiling water. The pot could only imagine.

Dragging its way to the open blacksmithery, it discreetly set itself up beside the unsuspecting, non-sentient barrel. The barrel, despite having no emotions, seemed to be a happy barrel, robust and jovial; the pot could only hope to have such a fantastic experience.

The ridiculously unobservant blacksmith, muttering about plating metals and forks, walked past and grabbed a full bucket of water, tossing it into the filthy pot rather than the barrel. The water forced its way through the cracks at the bottom, dislodging the roots. The pot did mind this. ‘A wonderful feeling, to be full of water,’ the pot contemplated.

The sudden, deafening roar of bubbles boiling within filled the stone pot, straining the brittle edges of the old thing. Water bubbled and lapped as the hot metal cooled. The pot, for the first time, got to experience not only the heating of water, but also the cooling of metal.

Though in consideration, neither felt quite as euphoric as the pot had hoped. They just simply felt. The novelty of the experience slipped off like oil off of a duck. Oh, how the pot wished the feeling would stay longer.

There must be some way to find a purpose. A life of cold water and grimy dirt wearing away at its walls was not what it wanted. But what could possibly satiate that desire?

‘That’s it!’ The pot tried to cheer (but could not, for it was still but a pot), ‘I need to go even hotter!’

And thus began the next leg of the pot’s journey: finding the hottest place on planet earth.

Traveling for years at a time, rolling across roads and bumping along in chariots, handling wine and oil and grain and, unfortunately, more plants, and being carried across the country of Rome. The environments ranged from windy and cool, to warm and humid, dry and sunny. Nowhere was hot enough to fill the pot’s purpose, the water never hot enough.

The time was filled with frenzy and disappointment, and eventually, the terracotta pot made it to the port town of Pompeii. And thus, into the current circumstances.

Pompeii was a bustling town, full of trade and rich merchants. At one point the pot’s cracks were sealed over and it was used as a decorative art piece; another time, it was used to hold and wash clay. Near the end, it served as a bucket for all of the gold collected by a fabric salesman. None of it appealed to the pot’s developing sense of self. It waited impatiently for the chance to continue searching for the warmest place it could find.

As it turned out, that place was, in fact, Pompeii.

There had been rumbling for days before the mountain finally exploded. Some people had scrambled away, but many stayed. The pot had no clue what was happening, having never felt shaking ground before; it was a pot, after all.

The putrid stench of burning fabric and flesh is now filling the air, and the pot, having never felt pain before, thinks this may be it. It can feel the uneven pressures on its clay walls and the coins within, left behind in the frightening panic, melting into a thick amalgam.

Even with the horrors all around, the frying corpses and the broken structures, the only thing the pot could recall was all of the mediocre purposes it had enjoyed. Each old experience burned into its mind as the heat of the lava ripped cracks across its terracotta form. ‘Containing plants had been miserable, hadn’t it?’ the pot feebly wondered.

Yet, despite finding each and every moment of those occupations unfulfilling, the pot now only feels gratitude for having the chance to experience them at all. Each experience had been something new, something to consider and use to refine what it wanted.

‘Is this how humans feel all the time?’ The cracks are spreading, pieces crumbling into a disgusting mesh of ash as shards of volcanic glass begin to fall from the sky. The coins within are fully fluid, mixing and merging with the encompassing lava. The catastrophic damage means nothing,and the pot decides, ‘Yes. This warmth is enough.’

‘What a wonderful feeling.’