making myself write, making you read it

I made myself do a writing practice today, inspired by a photo I took while I was out in town today. It's certainly not genius but I think I need to write more to get going again, so here goes. Feel free to comment, I won't tear your head off.


The machine slices effortlessly through the wonderful dark red of the meat. Somehow the cold steel of the slicer is in no juxtaposition to the warmth that radiates from the little shop. It looks like a cabin from the woods that came to the city, got lost and simply decided to stay right there, in the middle of the market, because it liked it there. Like a little piece of foodie heaven - prosciutto, foie gras, roastbeef; huge rods of chorizo hanging from the ceiling. The display window is bursting with cheeses, bottles of wine are cluttering the counter. You'd think one could barely move in between all these lovelies, that's how small the shop is. Yet at the counter there is a handful of patrons with wine glasses propped in front of them. They seem incredibly relaxed on this early Wednesday afternoon. Maybe it isn't just that they're basking in the warm light of the low ceiling lamp. It seems they're being entertained and you can see why. The guy behind the counter is beautiful. Sure, curls have always done something for you. The ones you are looking, well staring at now are of a very deep shade of brunette. You can't tell his eye color from where you are standing, but you can see that he's blessed with a capturing smile and a body that can pull off a simple clingy yet loose fitting shirt. He's showering the patrons with his easy smile while the machine under his hands keeps slicing slickly through the meat. He seems to love this place. Not coincidentally the shop and the guy emanate the same kind of calm. It's not winter in there. You check out the food on display, sneaking glances at him while he's happily chatting away. You're no less enthralled by the place itself – it looks like a happy place, a reprieve from the fast pace of the city, a place that lets you forget the constant drizzle of the rain that you just know will creep into your bones today. About three paces, you measure. Only three paces to the glass door that will seemingly lead you to safety. You step away, making it four paces, then five. You can't go inside. You think you'll ruin the atmosphere, as if bursting a bubble by opening the door and breaking the scene and the moment behind those glass windows. You wouldn't even know what to buy and you can't easily waltz in there and say: “Excuse me, I just wanted to come in to enjoy the atmosphere and bask in the glow of your smile”. Not really. Your physicality would take up too much space to not disturb. But it's not like you can leave either and break that tether. So you keep standing in the drizzle, staring in from the outside a while longer, the rain not the only thing creeping into your bones today.


  1. oh cheese and beautiful men ... two things i like right there.

    but i have to say ... if it were a short story i feel like it should have gone differently. i know there were some fictional elements, but not enough. granted, i am not a big fan of inner monologues, but overall it's missing something. it felt more like a blog entry of what you saw today then a story. for it to be a short story it would need more fiction. her going in ... maybe you would do me the favour and do it over? find another ending. a madeup one?

  2. claire, you got a point and I know it :/ I just couldn't for the life of me figure out an ending. All I can think of so far is hollywoodesque and would be a very long story. But I will think about it. I'll try to think of something and then I'll write it.


    thank you for the feedback, very very much.