The clear glass jar sits on the shiny wooden desk. As the breeze blows gently through the window, the clean, cool water inside dances and sparkles in the sun. The ridges on the neck of the jar are polished and smooth, perfectly parallel with the next. How satisfying it would be to slide a lid down those perfect tracks. The left side of the jar is adorned with the word "Ball," casually written in flowing cursive. Underneath, a neatly printed "Mason." Although this jar has been sitting on various platforms for years, it looks no worse for wear. The reflection of a candle in the shimmering glass is still just as bright as it used to be. The rounded edges bring a comforting feeling to the atmosphere, and it is empirical that one could not get hurt drinking from a jar like this. This jar holds memories― and not just the memories kept within water. This clear glass jar holds nostalgia for better days.
The faded jar sits on a dented wooden desk. Its edges are caked with stains resulting from years of being left forgotten filled with orange juice or days without washing. The water inside looks jaded― sitting still unless the jar is bumped; in that case, it moves with an almost gelatinous jerking motion and a manic urgency before falling ominously still once more. The front of the jar displays the word "Ball" in scrawling, nearly illegible writing, which clashes horribly with the large, all-capital "MASON" stuck underneath. The foggy surface of the jar is crudely finished and, despite its efforts to hide them, is covered in small scratches and imperfections. A weak blot of sunlight fades in and out briefly, representing the long-withheld contempt of the sad, neglected broken glass jar.
