Monday, June 11, 2012
Timed Writing: 6/11/2012
Time: 10 minutes
Prompt: "... the shop window with the liqueur bottles and the stuffed rats..."
Source: The New Life by Orhan Pamuk
Sometime during the night, rioters -- vandals -- had assaulted the shop window with the liqueur bottles and the stuffed rats from the specialty distiller's and the taxidermist's shops that sat to either side of my own establishment. Broken glass and tailed bundles of gray and brown fur lay in puddles of rain-diluted sugary, intoxicants -- along with my tumbled wares. The floor of the taxidermist's shop was, no doubt, littered with his creatures, as well as candles from the shop beyond, and the paper, cloth, and leather-bound books from my shelves and table displays. The rain, blown by heavy gusts, had finished the work of the destroyers, leaving even the shelved volumes damp and poised to mold.
Out of habit, rather than necessity -- the windows were adequately large and entirely ruined -- I turned the key in the lock and pushed the open the door -- pushed it through its familiar sounds: ringing of the little bell that hung above, creaking of the ancient hinges.
"Makes me want to cry." The taxidermist appeared beside me, a man of seventy with dry, papery skin and a weepy eye, at which he dabbed continually with a cotton cloth when engaged in conversation. I did not point this out to him -- that he was already crying.
"Or vomit," I said. Nausea was all I felt then. Just sick. Somewhere, deep in my head, machine-like business parts were clicking away, taking inventory of damages, losses, weighting them against insurance deductibles, costs of repairs, availability of replacement stock, delays in filling orders, loss of clientele, et cetera. But that was all buried down in the recesses, running autonomously while the conscious me -- the me encountering the wreckage of my livelihood -- wallowed in the visceral manifestation of my anger and grief.
(about my timed writing exercises)
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