• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 12
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Fountain Dust Combs

The porcelain mug, painted of navy blue enamel, mustard yellow
lacquer, and pumpkin glaze, rests on the kitchen cabinet shelf, nearly
out of both reach and sight. Weighted by thick butcher block underneath
and shaded by highballs, juicers, and plastic tumblers on all sides,
the mug simultaneously struggles to breathe and longs for both sun
and sustenance. Hunger grows daily. Her belly growls as she waits,
patiently, for the living. She beckons as best she can. Tiny sprouts
of life – emerald green, blazing nectarine, canary yellow – emerge
momentarily, linger, then ultimately lapse. Condensation breeds nothing
more than an endless cycle of hope, hurt, and squeaky hinges. Elbows
brush doorways, wells recycle then feign eternal youth, as fingers forage.
Yet the mug remains off limits. Her mouth open wide, her gait ready.
She snaps as scissors snip. Porcelain shards crumble
and her soul rests, finally, awash in clouds and combs of fountain dust.