Feb 13

The Pendant

NOTE: This is part of the Sprout1 Challenge. This piece was written by an anonymous writer during Vermont Writes Day, and we loved how it started us thinking. How about you? If you would like to extend this story, please click the SPROUT button below and continue it. If you find lots of sprouts, and we hope you will over time, and you like where someone else has taken this, sprout that post. Have fun. And we thank whoever posted this on vermontwritesday.org on Friday, Feb. 10, 2017. (We have made a few edits, by the way.)

The old iron bell jangles as I step into the familiar shop. I wave to the owner, a kindly old gentleman, who smiles at me as he always does and says hello. He seems to appreciate my visits, even though I don't often buy anything. 

I make my way through a maze of old bookshelves and chairs, paintings, vases and other miscellaneous objects. I know almost all of it by memory and can tell whenever the store has sold something. 
I finally reach the back corner of the store. It is a cozy little space with a blue velvet chair and a small wooden box on the table next to it. I always go there when I have time to spare. I sit down in the chair and hoist up the box. It is made of sandalwood and has carvings of trees, clouds and a mountain on the top. There is a pattern snaking across the sides of dots and triangles. 

The smell of the box always claims me, a combination of spices and must, sparking stories in my mind. I open it. I find the usual treasures: a few old coins, small jewelry, pins and buttons of long-lost campaigns and causes. But there is something new today. It is a rather large, green pendant strung through a piece of brown string. When I pick it up, the greent grows brighter, it seems to glow. It seems to get warm in my palm. I feel something inside me, I look up and realize ... 

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The Pendant Continued

NOTE: Please continue this!


(continued from the original)...I am in the middle of a crowded, colorful, and cacophonous market. I stand in front of a stall selling scarves of rich colors and dazzling designs. There were jam reds with ebony embroidery or spruce blues with copper trim. A rainbow of scarves and shawls. The trader was calling out to passerby and perspective buyers.

The Pendant continued

    ...that the old man is standing in front of me.  His face an unreadable mask, he turns around and beckons me to follow.  Hesitantly, I am led towards a rickety old door in the back of the shop and down a flight of stairs.  Once we are inside, the old man turns and shuts the door.  At this point I have no clue why I'm here.