By Abigail Falanga
Somewhere on the edge of town, just where civilization meets wilderness, an unassuming building stands off to the side of the road surrounded by the smallest of gardens. It seems to be in its own world, apart from everything and everyone else, so most people leave it alone, driving by without a second glance.
But if you were to go inside, you’ll find a quirky little shop, overcrowded with books, knickknacks, dark glass bottles, and plants in mismatched pots. There’s tea, lots of it. And coffee, still hot and fragrancing the air with heady steam. There’s a fireplace visible through a door with two comfortable chairs beside it, a fire almost always burning on the hearth except on the hottest of days. It’s welcoming, but in the cozy kind of way that needs an invitation or old friendship as an excuse to just pop in.
This building looks, in fact, so like a home that you will probably apologize the moment you step over the doorstep, turn, and return to your car to go on your way.
But it isn’t a home. It’s a shop. And if you have need of the wares I sell there, when you enter, you’ll notice a counter to one side of the main room. A wisp of hope might pass through you then, for here at last you might obtain that special thing you’re missing.
The trouble is, it’s never a tangible thing, and few even know they need it until they stumble in.
It’s an Idea.
My customers are sometimes musicians, sometimes poets, and frequently artists. But most often they are writers—crafters of stories to thrill, touch, provide a little escape from the humdrum, and illuminate pain with a gleam of beauty. Shapers of words and language, catchers of insight.
They come, and I find the perfect, shining Idea they lacked.
To one writer, I might display a selection of story concepts—almost complete but lacking form only they can give. Another might browse my selection of characters, like images that might pulse and shine with the life only an author breathes into them. Still another might find a tease, ready to explode into action and suspense under the hands of a master.
For that is what my customers are: masters of that ancient craft of storytelling. They are magic-workers, wonder-smiths, wizards.
And so often they are in want of that one simple, shining, fiery thing—an Idea to ignite their enchantment.
***
One warm day in late spring, when the air outside is thick with sunshine and tastes like honey, you might stop by my little shop. Not quite knowing why, you’ll walk in and hear the tinkling of bells over the door. You may have noticed the building often, but this is the first time you’ve thought to enter.
You notice the counter immediately, a large gray cat sprawled over it, and you walk up, half-hesitant and half-hopeful. I’m seated on a stool in the corner, bent over the pages of my book. I look up and smile encouragingly.
“Can I have a…” you begin, but stop, unsure of what you’ve come for.
“Fire?” I ask so softly that you can still hear the hum of bees outside the open window. “Or stream?”
“Crumbs,” you say, not knowing why.
“I have just what you need!” I slip off my stool and rummage around the shelves until I find a small wooden box, old and rough—though varnished—and set it on the counter.
Curious, you open the lid and look inside.
Iridescent light streams out, and you blink. There seems to be no source, and nothing else is in the box but dry pieces of bread.
“I don’t understand…”
“Don’t you?” I ask, perching on the stool again. “It’s something you recognize, isn’t it?”
A memory comes to you—breakfast two days ago, on a patio overlooking a backstreet. You almost finished a pastry under the first roses blooming on a trellis, scattering the remainder for the birds to collect. The birdsong forms a tapestry of longing, though you hadn’t noticed the sound at the time. It’s a subtle connection to a lost friend.
You look from the box up at me, puzzled. “Is that all?”
“Follow them.”
The last time you saw that friend, you watched a movie together and her insight into the main themes stuck with you. It connects now with longing and that May morning at breakfast.
“A little further,” I prompt.
The light streaming from the box. It was like the way the sun filtered through the church windows on the Saturday before Mother’s Day long ago during your grandmother’s funeral. It looked like angels’ wings, and somehow the image comforted you.
You gasp as the Idea comes together from all the crumbs of moments and emotions. It is complete, shining, beautiful. At last, you close the box and let your hand rest on it as you fumble for your wallet.
“How much do I owe you?” The words shake as you say them.
“Nothing,” I say and smile. “The idea was yours all along. You needed only to follow the crumbs until you found it.”
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What a neat story! The descriptions were really well done, made me feel like I was right there. Now if only something like this existed in real life for when writer’s block comes knocking…..
Oh I like this. I like the use of the second person, and the lovely descriptions.
beautiful!
The voice of the story was fantastic! So whimsical and I think many of us writers need the reminder to follow our own crumbs when writing. Well done!