The Curiosities of Mr Stache
So I came up with this guy called Lorelai Stache, and wanted to write a story about him. And last night I did. :D It only took about three hours to write this, and I made it up as I went along, but I'm quite pleased with the result anyway. Feel free to report any typos or clunky sentences you might come across.
Lorelai Stache was tired of people pointing out that his first name was a girl’s name. He knew that it was. His mother hadn’t known, and either way it was 57 years too late to do anything about it.
Mr Stache, as he usually presented himself, owned a small shop in Old Street, a shop filled with curious antiques of unknowable purposes. Some would call it junk, some would say it was nothing but decorative gewgaws, and some still would find something they had, often without knowing it, been in search of for years.
An elderly woman with purplish hair had just walked out of he shop, carrying a stuffed blue parrot as reverently as if it had been the Holy Grail. Had you asked her, she wouldn’t have been able to say why she had purchased the moth-eaten bird, but she would have be quite offended if you had suggested she’d return it. The previous week a young man, just abandoned by the one he’d believed to be his True Love, had found solace in a rain-grey glass orb with a piece of red coral enclosed in its centre. A little girl, scarcely older than ten, had bought a leather-bound book in a language she could not read, enthralled by woodcuts of strange animals in faraway jungles.
Mr Stache did not know why people were drawn to certain objects more than others. A few times he had asked cautious questions, but never had he received any conclusive answer, so he accepted it as simply being the way things were. He had never been attracted to unnecessary fancy goods himself, his apartment above the shop held only the bare minimum of furnishings, but he had a knack of finding lost and forgotten objects, as long as they had once been very much loved by someone, and might be so once again.
So, on the days the shop was closed, Mr Stache wandered around the old city, finding things left in abandoned houses, dropped in bushes, accidentally thrown away, or given to thrift stores by well-meaning relatives who thought the original owner would do good with a bit more space. After a careful cleaning, and repair when needed, the things were put on display, eagerly awaiting the gentle touch of new, loving fingers.
There was only one thing that never seemed to find a place in someone’s heart. It was a small porcelain dog in a begging position, its head tilted to the side, its peppercorn eyes gazing longingly at the visitors of the shop. It was an exquisite thing, and when Mr Stache looked up its origins he found it was worth a pretty penny, and still no one would look twice at it, despite the very modest price tag tied around its neck. Every now and then he would point it out to his customers, and they agreed that it was a fine thing, but they did not buy it.
As time went by the begging porcelain dog became the only constant in the shop, surrounded by an ever-changing flow of bric-a-brac, much of which looked quite worthless next to it. Mr Stache moved it around the shop, placing it sometimes as a centrepiece in the window, sometimes in the lighted glass cabinet, and sometimes on a small pedestal in the middle of the big table that held most of the shop’s merchandise. He slowly began to feel that it was out of place wherever he put it, and he started moving it about even more, without finding a place where it looked the slightest bit at home. He now showed it to every person that walked through the door, but to his frustration the answer was always the same. No one would have the porcelain dog, not even when he tried to give it away.
One rainy night Mr Stache decided he’d had enough with the little dog, so he picked it up, and dropped it unceremoniously into the bin, where it shattered. Then he went upstairs, brushed his teeth, and went to bed. He slept uneasily, dreaming of shining black eyes that looked brokenheartedly into his own, and he was awakened just past midnight by the sound of the wind in the pipes. It sounded remarkably like an abandoned dog, crying for its master.
Mr Stache sighed, and got out of bed. He went down to the shop, where he carefully picked up all the porcelain fragments from the bin, then he went back upstairs and sat down by his desk. With glue and a fine brush he carefully reassembled the pieces into a begging dog, which he placed on the windowsill to dry. Having done that he returned to his bed, and slept contently for the remainder of the night.
The next morning Mr Stache went about his usual morning business, making tea and marmalade sandwiches, with a light heart and a slight smile. He even whistled a bit. Why he felt so elated he could not quite say, until his eyes fell upon the mended porcelain dog sitting in the window. It was not as exquisite as before, and after being broken and repaired it was certainly not worth anything any more. Its head had dried at a slightly different angle than before, giving the dog a look of mischievous happiness rather than submissive begging.
Much to the amazement of Mr Stache, the porcelain dog looked perfectly at home on the windowsill, and there it remains to this day.
Fin.
Also, I'm going to see Watchmen tonight, with Marie and Emilia. :D
Lorelai Stache was tired of people pointing out that his first name was a girl’s name. He knew that it was. His mother hadn’t known, and either way it was 57 years too late to do anything about it.
Mr Stache, as he usually presented himself, owned a small shop in Old Street, a shop filled with curious antiques of unknowable purposes. Some would call it junk, some would say it was nothing but decorative gewgaws, and some still would find something they had, often without knowing it, been in search of for years.
An elderly woman with purplish hair had just walked out of he shop, carrying a stuffed blue parrot as reverently as if it had been the Holy Grail. Had you asked her, she wouldn’t have been able to say why she had purchased the moth-eaten bird, but she would have be quite offended if you had suggested she’d return it. The previous week a young man, just abandoned by the one he’d believed to be his True Love, had found solace in a rain-grey glass orb with a piece of red coral enclosed in its centre. A little girl, scarcely older than ten, had bought a leather-bound book in a language she could not read, enthralled by woodcuts of strange animals in faraway jungles.
Mr Stache did not know why people were drawn to certain objects more than others. A few times he had asked cautious questions, but never had he received any conclusive answer, so he accepted it as simply being the way things were. He had never been attracted to unnecessary fancy goods himself, his apartment above the shop held only the bare minimum of furnishings, but he had a knack of finding lost and forgotten objects, as long as they had once been very much loved by someone, and might be so once again.
So, on the days the shop was closed, Mr Stache wandered around the old city, finding things left in abandoned houses, dropped in bushes, accidentally thrown away, or given to thrift stores by well-meaning relatives who thought the original owner would do good with a bit more space. After a careful cleaning, and repair when needed, the things were put on display, eagerly awaiting the gentle touch of new, loving fingers.
There was only one thing that never seemed to find a place in someone’s heart. It was a small porcelain dog in a begging position, its head tilted to the side, its peppercorn eyes gazing longingly at the visitors of the shop. It was an exquisite thing, and when Mr Stache looked up its origins he found it was worth a pretty penny, and still no one would look twice at it, despite the very modest price tag tied around its neck. Every now and then he would point it out to his customers, and they agreed that it was a fine thing, but they did not buy it.
As time went by the begging porcelain dog became the only constant in the shop, surrounded by an ever-changing flow of bric-a-brac, much of which looked quite worthless next to it. Mr Stache moved it around the shop, placing it sometimes as a centrepiece in the window, sometimes in the lighted glass cabinet, and sometimes on a small pedestal in the middle of the big table that held most of the shop’s merchandise. He slowly began to feel that it was out of place wherever he put it, and he started moving it about even more, without finding a place where it looked the slightest bit at home. He now showed it to every person that walked through the door, but to his frustration the answer was always the same. No one would have the porcelain dog, not even when he tried to give it away.
One rainy night Mr Stache decided he’d had enough with the little dog, so he picked it up, and dropped it unceremoniously into the bin, where it shattered. Then he went upstairs, brushed his teeth, and went to bed. He slept uneasily, dreaming of shining black eyes that looked brokenheartedly into his own, and he was awakened just past midnight by the sound of the wind in the pipes. It sounded remarkably like an abandoned dog, crying for its master.
Mr Stache sighed, and got out of bed. He went down to the shop, where he carefully picked up all the porcelain fragments from the bin, then he went back upstairs and sat down by his desk. With glue and a fine brush he carefully reassembled the pieces into a begging dog, which he placed on the windowsill to dry. Having done that he returned to his bed, and slept contently for the remainder of the night.
The next morning Mr Stache went about his usual morning business, making tea and marmalade sandwiches, with a light heart and a slight smile. He even whistled a bit. Why he felt so elated he could not quite say, until his eyes fell upon the mended porcelain dog sitting in the window. It was not as exquisite as before, and after being broken and repaired it was certainly not worth anything any more. Its head had dried at a slightly different angle than before, giving the dog a look of mischievous happiness rather than submissive begging.
Much to the amazement of Mr Stache, the porcelain dog looked perfectly at home on the windowsill, and there it remains to this day.
Fin.
Also, I'm going to see Watchmen tonight, with Marie and Emilia. :D