It's Still Life

The Jar-Keeper (A Six Sentence Story)

She keeps them in mason jars — not the whole eyes, mais non, just their colours.

Jar #1: hazel flecked with gold, stolen from a baker who smiled too wide.
Jar #2: a pale blue like a winter promise, taken from the gaze of a woman who never blinked at fate.

No one asks how she gets the colours — only what stake was made, or choice laid, to keep them from fading into dust.

Tonight, she unscrews another lid: a brown that drifts like stale tea leaves, “Yours,” she murmurs at the night sky, “taken from your taste for thunder.”

The empty jars wait, glass throats open, hungry for the next glance mistaken for something else.