This is a piece I wrote for an English task today, and I thought I'd share it with you
Warmth.
That’s the first thing I noticed. A wave of warmth smacking me right in the face. Upon further inspection, I realised the heat was coming from one of the market stalls to my left- the woman running it had opened the small oven to check on the fresh loaves she was baking. It was mid-afternoon in early September, so the air had a crisp bite; inviting butchers to display large cuts of meat at their stalls without having to worry about heat turning them rancid. I was amongst the food stalls- some selling home-grown vegetables and others selling eggs and fish. While this wasn’t my desired destination, I did find myself stopping to buy a couple of cheese pastries for myself and my mother to have for lunch when I got home.
After a few more minutes of weaving through the dense crowds, I noticed the smells in the air changing from odours released by meats and baked goods to those from spices and herbs. I picked up a pot of fresh rose petals (while usually I would avoid something so expensive, I knew I could make profit from them), and then didn’t stop until I reached Aunt Arin’s stall. She was selling a variety of herbs, mainly sage, and some bottles of essential oils. The oils and tinctures were handmade by myself and my mother, and I had come to take our cut of the money earned.
Once I had got the coins from my very reluctant Aunt, I headed right for the fabric stalls. This was a guilty pleasure of mine; I would sneak down here whenever I got the chance to, just to gaze longingly at the gorgeous patterns and inhale the scent of clean linens and cottons. My pace slowed so that I could take in the goods of each market stall; eventually stopping completely when I arrived at Mr Douglas’s rows upon rows of material. Each roll of fabric was hand painted silk, all the epitome of decadence. If only I could just have some for myself-
But no. I was the son of the town perfumer, and my job was to create essential oils and give them to my Aunt to sell. My mother was ill with the same ailment that killed my father and soon it would be my turn to take on my mother’s role and supply scents and oils and tinctures to the town, no matter how much I loved the fabrics down by Spinsells’ Alley.
Sylvia, the seamstress’s daughter, then nudged me out of the way so she could buy a roll of silk for her mother’s shop. I envied her more than anything- and despite not being the jealous type, I couldn’t help but to wish she would trade places with me so I could finally work with some of the beautiful fabric. I began to feel anger, the twisted envy and disappointment at my own situation manifesting itself as spiteful hatred for Sylvia.
In my irrational rage I couldn’t resist giving in to my impulses, and without thinking it through I used the money from today’s oil profits to buy a metre of the deepest blue silk, with tiny, delicate hand-painted flowers and leaves dancing on its shimmery surface. It was all I could afford, but the consequences of buying such a luxurious item still didn’t cross my mind, as I was distracted by the texture of fine silk in my hands. I had imagined a moment like this many times before, but none of those little daydreams had ever done the feeling of this fabric any justice. The weight of it was powerful to me, and the smooth swoops of material slid over my hands and arms. I couldn’t help but to imagine myself as one of the rich men who could wear jackets made of such stunning fabric.
It was a moment of pure bliss, devoid of any of my previous jealousy and hatred and anger. Finally, I felt content.
Warmth.
That’s the first thing I noticed. A wave of warmth smacking me right in the face. Upon further inspection, I realised the heat was coming from one of the market stalls to my left- the woman running it had opened the small oven to check on the fresh loaves she was baking. It was mid-afternoon in early September, so the air had a crisp bite; inviting butchers to display large cuts of meat at their stalls without having to worry about heat turning them rancid. I was amongst the food stalls- some selling home-grown vegetables and others selling eggs and fish. While this wasn’t my desired destination, I did find myself stopping to buy a couple of cheese pastries for myself and my mother to have for lunch when I got home.
After a few more minutes of weaving through the dense crowds, I noticed the smells in the air changing from odours released by meats and baked goods to those from spices and herbs. I picked up a pot of fresh rose petals (while usually I would avoid something so expensive, I knew I could make profit from them), and then didn’t stop until I reached Aunt Arin’s stall. She was selling a variety of herbs, mainly sage, and some bottles of essential oils. The oils and tinctures were handmade by myself and my mother, and I had come to take our cut of the money earned.
Once I had got the coins from my very reluctant Aunt, I headed right for the fabric stalls. This was a guilty pleasure of mine; I would sneak down here whenever I got the chance to, just to gaze longingly at the gorgeous patterns and inhale the scent of clean linens and cottons. My pace slowed so that I could take in the goods of each market stall; eventually stopping completely when I arrived at Mr Douglas’s rows upon rows of material. Each roll of fabric was hand painted silk, all the epitome of decadence. If only I could just have some for myself-
But no. I was the son of the town perfumer, and my job was to create essential oils and give them to my Aunt to sell. My mother was ill with the same ailment that killed my father and soon it would be my turn to take on my mother’s role and supply scents and oils and tinctures to the town, no matter how much I loved the fabrics down by Spinsells’ Alley.
Sylvia, the seamstress’s daughter, then nudged me out of the way so she could buy a roll of silk for her mother’s shop. I envied her more than anything- and despite not being the jealous type, I couldn’t help but to wish she would trade places with me so I could finally work with some of the beautiful fabric. I began to feel anger, the twisted envy and disappointment at my own situation manifesting itself as spiteful hatred for Sylvia.
In my irrational rage I couldn’t resist giving in to my impulses, and without thinking it through I used the money from today’s oil profits to buy a metre of the deepest blue silk, with tiny, delicate hand-painted flowers and leaves dancing on its shimmery surface. It was all I could afford, but the consequences of buying such a luxurious item still didn’t cross my mind, as I was distracted by the texture of fine silk in my hands. I had imagined a moment like this many times before, but none of those little daydreams had ever done the feeling of this fabric any justice. The weight of it was powerful to me, and the smooth swoops of material slid over my hands and arms. I couldn’t help but to imagine myself as one of the rich men who could wear jackets made of such stunning fabric.
It was a moment of pure bliss, devoid of any of my previous jealousy and hatred and anger. Finally, I felt content.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.