Wednesday, May 04, 2011

Here is My Handle, Here is My Spout

Nobody touched the teapots lined inside the cabinet.

She’s been dead for two months. At least. No heirs appeared to claim the body. No heirs claimed her small estate. Staff from the nursing home volunteered to sort her house between trash and what was appropriate for donation.

Not one had a reason not to touch the teapot.

Stacked boxes in leaned columns all over the kitchen. They were waiting to go to the truck. People thumped upstairs, and their muffled chatter drifted through the ceiling.

The cabinet was still sealed. Everyone who approached it hesitated, then stumbled a few steps backward and away.

I looked at the pretty porcelain teapots.

I approached the glossy white cabinetry. Not dusty like everything else. My fingers neared the knob.

What I saw in my head made me flinch. A groan squeezed from my stomach.

I saw the twisted reflection of my face back away in the glass.

I would not touch the teapots either.

(Photo taken at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.)


Cat said...

You can't do this to us, Jason! What does he see in his head?

Very well done. Excellent build-up of tension--you had me from the first line. Will you be continuing this or are we left to imagine?

Oddyoddyo13 said...

It sounded sweet at first, but you are MASTER of the creepy/dark twist. Brilliant.

jason evans said...

Cat, I know, I'm terrible, aren't I?? It's a motif that I could take further. Or then again, this story might be completed in the mind of each reader.

Oddyoddyo13, great to see you around! Master, you say? Thanks!!

SzélsőFa said...

oh, I loved this one. creepy.

PixieDust said...

Very Poe! Brilliant!



jason evans said...

Szelsofa, odd, I know.

PixieDust, now there's a comparison I don't mind at all!