The Antique Shoppe


A nothing story really.  It is what you make of it.  What does the father whisper to his son?  The answer belongs to the reader.  Wow, I’m so cryptic today.



The Antique Shoppe


A young boy is sitting on his father’s knee, amid a room filled with objects of all sorts.  Hanging on one wall are chairs; none of them matching, some covered in rich coloured fabrics, some embroidered.  His favourite chair is hung in the top right corner, it is covered in a deep lustrous purple silk that changes to a shade of crimson depending on the time of day and how much sunlight shines through the dusty window.  The wooden frame has a lion head carved into it, plastered in gold leafing and the legs are trees with ornate detailed carvings of leaves and small birds in nests.  It is a grand chair.

The boy’s father reaches over to a table laden with teapots and vases to seize a particularly beautiful decanter.  He is showing his son features of the flask, turning it over and pointing to the bottom at some markings there, all the while talking in gentle, dulcet tones.  The boy is nodding and looking from the bottle to his father and back to the bottle again.

His father replaces the decanter on the table carefully and wraps both arms around his young son, calmly rocking him from side to side on his knee.  He leans into his son and whispers something in his ear.  A smile widens on the boys narrow face as he looks upwards towards his favourite chair, his father follows his gaze with a knowing laugh, and they both look up at the chair and see how the light has hit the fabric and altered its colour.

By Sophia M.

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