Flowers for the table

During a creative writing class on Modernism we were asked to write a short piece exploring the stream of consciousness style. We were also given a modernist painting of Edinburgh, and encouraged to be inspired by the image. I wrote this story about a young woman out doing errands around Edinburgh, much in the style of Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway, hoping to explore her mind as she is running through the streets.

By Sarah S 

The time, the time, oh it flies away. It’s like a leaf rushing through the dark streets, through the alleyways and doors. Oh it flies and flies and I’m running behind it trying to catch up but it’s so hard, oh yes it’s much too hard to catch it. But I continue through the streets and hello there baker yes I would like a loaf or two and perhaps a box of cookies, for the table. I run and two bouquets should be fine, a flurry of red and orange, perhaps, to liven up the place. I’m not far off now, a left and a right and I’ll be there. I’ll be done. there is also napkins and something else I’m sure I’ve forgot, but I’m not sure, perhaps black and white is most suitable but I like the blue, like his eyes, an odd shade of ocean and sky. Oh and yes, new gloves mother said as a must even through he didn’t like my hands in gloves, oh no, he liked them bare, but mother says gloves are required and who am I to question her, she has already buried a husband, and I’m oh so very new to this. Yes, gloves, black if you have them. Are they suitable for a funeral? Do you think they go with the flowers? Do you have any for a little girl, she would so love a pair, perhaps green or purple. Thank you, yes, I’m fine, only in a hurry, I must run towards home, there is no time for a cab, even though my feet ache like the devil. My own street isn’t as busy, it seems slow and tired and the black curtains only remind me of my father standing in the window, judging how long it should have taken to and from the store and just why was I five minutes late? I was late now but no one yells at me anymore, only give me sad looks, as if I’m a wounded animal about to be put down but the flowers go on the tables, the cookies underneath and Gemma takes the break for it goes to the kitchen. The gloves tickle the inside of my elbows and I want to take them off, I want everyone to leave but they don’t and the only one that matters is already gone. The cookies are lovely at least. And the flowers really do brighten up the room.

– Sarah S

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