Kneaded Souls

The stench of sulfur bites at the nostrils. *Hhhccckkk...* Heavy lungs struggle against air thick with gray ash. Cold silt coils around Daniel’s ankles. It clings. It grips like the fingers of a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. He opens his eyes. Slowly. The darkness is heavy. Viscous. It drips from the ceiling of the rotting cellar like beads of black oil. *Plip. Plop.* Daniel tries to heave his arm upward. *...Where am I? This isn't home. This is a place for things that have stopped breathing...* *Screeeee.* The potter’s wheel spins in the far corner. Alone. It turns with a rhythmic, relentless hum. It does not stop. Daniel tries to stand. His body is leaden. Dense. As if his veins have been injected with molten slag. Under a flicker of light from an unknown source, he stares at his right hand. A layer of slate-gray ash coats his skin. It fissures with every twitch of his fingers. *Crack.* Flakes of gray crust shed onto the muddy floor. *...Is this my skin? Or is the earth eating me? Am I turning to stone?...* He lifts his head with agonizing effort. On the high wooden rafters, hundreds of jars sit in rows. A silent, terrifying assembly. Every vessel bears…