Writing Again, Finally, Kind Of

May 08, 2010 16:12


I've always wanted to write, write fiction that is. I took a class last fall to get me back into the groove. The class did succeed in forcing me to write but I've fallen back on the empty page again, now that the class is over. Here's the first piece I wrote for the class...

Mother's Beloved Shop

Elliot’s mother's old pastry shop occupied a small lot on the corner of Clive & Barrow. It was an elegant French shop. Its window panes were shaded in a light blue color while the top half of the glass was covered with stylish cursive lettering that spelled out its name in red. Small triangular-shaped chimes hung from the front doors, belting out a cheery melody whenever a patron walked through them.

Once inside, you were immersed in the many odors that made up his mother’s creations. First, you could all but taste the freshly-baked croissants with your nose. As you turned in search of them, you would pick up the scent of strawberries and bananas emanating from the cream pies that were carefully placed on the only window sill facing the busy thoroughfare that was Barrow Street. Just as you were about to head towards the window for a better look, you would be pulled away by fragrances coming from behind the glass counter that housed the most sought-after items: danishes, miniature cakes, fruit-filled rolls of all kinds.

Three wooden rectangular plates used to cover the leftmost edge of the glass counter. Each plate contained an item that Elliot’s mother wanted to highlight on a particular day. If you were lucky enough to enter the shop on Tuesdays just after a fresh batch was made, you would have been able to savor a scoop of mousse au chocolat. Once in contact with your tongue, the mousse would refuse to melt but surround it instead, allowing you to taste chocolate from every direction. To cleanse your palette, you could then gulp down one of his mother’s signature drinks, which were always poured into small glass cups.

If you had stepped behind the counter, you would have noticed how spotless everything was, how no crumbs made their way beyond the dishes on which the pastries rested. On the counter top behind the display case, rolls of white wrapping paper took their place next to knives of all sizes, from small ones used to split a warm croissant to larger ones that cut the many pies on display right down the middle. Boxes of different sizes and colors, some half-opened, others flattened, used to line the back of the counter top.

It was on one particularly clear night that Elliot found himself again in his mother's pastry shop, several years after she had sold it off in order to avoid financial ruin. He broke in by picking the lock, took in the scents, and sat down on the window sill, indifferent to the fact that he was in plain view of passersby. It had changed somewhat but the new owners had managed to preserve the essentials. He reminisced about how he toiled in the shop on each and every Sunday and how much he loved the work. He remembered how that girl in the blue dress, the one who would come in by herself every so often but would leave empty-handed, gave him his first kiss. Most of all, though, he cherished the memories of his mother, of how this was her labor of love and how much it pained her to have to part from it.

Then, just as assuredly as he broke in, he lit a match and set fire to his mother's beloved shop.

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