by: Samara M. (Grade 8)
Vignette 1:
Alisson worked at the record store a few blocks up from Canfield Street. She would idly stroll to work on the weekends, bearing a brown leather slouch bag that overflowed with old records, stray bits of food, and a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. She sauntered into the store, staring meticulously at the bell which chimed as the door opened. Her co-workers would snicker and mock her while she placed her tarnished black trench coat and bag on the hook. She seemed listless, apathetic to all the rumours that would pass around.
Instead, she would spend her time in the corner by the listening booths, carefully admiring records and finding her favourite rock songs. People would glance sideways as she swayed absentmindedly, listening to Black Sabbath with her flimsy headphones.
Ten minutes before lunch, she would trudge back and forth with large stacks of threadbare music books, detached lampshades and large hollowed plant pots. Everyone watched curiously as she placed an object on every chair around the red table to ensure that no one sat near her at lunch.
When ten minutes passed, she sat at her planned table across from her co-workers, who stared at her in awe as she compiled her lunch. She would dig through her bag like a mole, chucking out tissues and CDs as she went along. When she finally found the stray pieces of bread and cornflakes at the bottom of her bag, she would spread her belongings across the table while dropping grains of sugar and flakes on the floor, all while listening to the Guns n’ Roses track.
In the late afternoon, Allison was forced to sit at the wooden cash desk, waiting for people to buy the records. During these hours, she would contentedly listen to ACDC while customers nervously edged up to her holding their chosen records. As they finally approached her they would anxiously prattle about the weather while she stared at them lethargically, slowly scanning each of their items. She would check the clock every few minutes in order to keep up with her intricate schedule, and when it reached 15:50 she would begin to pack up her belongings. Collecting her leather slouch bag and trench coat, Allison would swiftly walk through her favourite aisles in the store and pick up three to four records, typically Nirvana, Aerosmith, Arctic Monkeys, and The Kinks. At 15:55 she would recklessly throw her bag over her slouched shoulder and walk vacuously out the store, ignoring the relentless comments of farewells and listening to Kurt Cobain’s solo album like a melomaniac.
Vignette 2:
Mama likes to read. Every morning at the crack of dawn, I furtively trail behind her as she marches down the small, cobbled trail, leading up to the little shed she calls her library. Whilst pressing her black threadbare boots on the wall for leverage, she thrusts open the stiff shed door, revealing a maze of shelves stacked with hundreds of brightly coloured books. As she closes the door behind her, I discreetly perch on the grass and rest my head against the rough surface, peeking through small holes in the shed wall. I inhale the sharp, musky smell emanating from each crevice, as if it were trying to escape from the confined room.
I watch as mama slowly paces past each bookshelf, picking out different novels to form a tall pile in her arms. Tilting my head slightly, titles such as Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Little Women, and The Song of Achilles flash past my eyes. She slams one book on top of the other, creating a furious storm of dust with each particle scintillating in the morning sun.
After collecting a copious amount of books, she sits on a well used wooden chair placed in the corner of the room. It looks empty and bare, oppugnant to the rest of the cluttered shed. Mama extends her legs in front of her, breaking away from her usual strict posture with a sigh of relief, and opens the hardcover book placed on her stained apron. Her cracked fingertips, worn away from hours of cooking, gently run over each letter of the title Pride and Prejudice, before creating the satisfying crack of the book’s spine. She deeply inhales the strong, earthy smell pouring out of the book like a fountain of perfume, and becomes lost in a sea of many pages.
Minutes become hours, and mama sets down her book and simply stares at her roughened hands; small teardrops fall like the last bit of raindrops after a storm on a crisp winter morning. Her shoulders slouch further with every fallen tear until her damp face is buried within her hands. Her whole body rocks steadily back and forth like a child’s crib at night. Slowly, she stands, gripping on to the arms of the chair for support, and wipes tears away with the sleeve of her honey-stained blouse.
Mama bites her bottom lip and her nostrils twitch in the effort of pulling back tears as her shaky hands rummage through her large apron pockets. She carefully pulls out a pale blue compact mirror with intricate gold detailing. Due to rusting, it makes a loud squeaking sound as she opens it, a contrast to the silent room in which even a blossoming bud can be heard. Mama stares into it, while tracing her shaking fingers around her delicate face. She sniffles, tucks her tight curls behind her ears and uses a wrinkled piece of tissue to wipe away the myriad of emotions streaming out of her desolate eyes.
The Halcyonite 
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