Liam Mulvaney

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The escaped hairs I tugged from the brush’s bristles and rolled between my palms until they formed a tight ball. Then I squashed my hairballs inside a jam jar and placed the jar on the top shelf of my bookcase. I had carelessly selected, from my mother’s marmalade-making stash, a jar which formerly contained baby onions. Almost immediately, the knitted fibres of each ball were impregnated by the scent of vinegar—of preservation and corrosion both at once.
Liam Mulvaney
I love baby onions.
A Line Made by Walking
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