Salt Shakers

Because occasionally I do finish things, and they deserve their own category.

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There were two ceramic chickens who lived on the counter. The rooster was white, and his name was Salt. The hen was black, and her name was Pepper. The humans always called them by their names, when they called them anything at all.

The chickens never called each other anything, because they were the only ones they talked to.

Neither of them had any legs, but it didn't matter because there wasn't anywhere for them to walk to.

The white one was blind, eyes cataracted by his own paint and by years of salt dust, and the black one was his eyes. During the days which they spent together, the days which had no beginning and had no ending, the black one would sometimes whisper to the white one about what was happening that he could not hear.

They kept no secrets from each other because they were their only company and because they had no secrets to keep.

Day after day, night after night, they sat and watched and listened and talked. They talked about the things that only ceramic chickens can rightfully talk about, because only they know.

They talked about the clumsiness of humans, and the meaning of life, and why a cat was, and how they had come to be. They spoke deep, insightful philosophy which no human would ever hear, but it didn't matter because no human could have truly grasped it. They said silly, frivolous things and laughed at jokes no human would ever laugh at, but it didn't matter because no human could have understood why they were funny.

Sometimes the humans that lived there needed their help, and so they called them by their names and turned them over and shook them over food. Sometimes other humans came, humans that the chickens did not know, and they would find themselves turned in every direction imaginable for hours and hours. The chickens accepted this, because they understood their purpose.

The two ceramic chickens on the counter have their story, and they are their story. It is a story of bright, sunny mornings when the humans spend hours in the kitchen where the chickens can see them, and of long, dark nights when the kitchen is empty and silent.

It is a long story, and it has no beginning and it has no ending, and it lasts until they leave the counter for another place. And then it becomes another story, so that the story can never truly stop.

There are two ceramic chickens who live on the counter. The rooster is white, and his name is Salt. The hen is black, and her name is Pepper. They sit on the counter, as they always have, as they always will.