Mr Egret's, Emporium & Trade

Write a story that weaves together multiple lives through their connection to a particular place. Try writing from at least two POVs. The story can be real or fictional.

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Whenever Tansy was having a bad day, she liked to stop by the coffee shop for her favorite comfort order (cardamom honey latte and mini pain aux raisin), walk six blocks west and three blocks south until she reached the park on Waterhouse Avenue. At the edge of the greenery sat a big oak tree with a bench under it—a bench that oddly enough faced away from the park and towards the shop fronts across the street instead.

Squeezed in-between the big bookstore on the left and a detox juice bar on the right was a rickety little store, with dark wood trimming around the edges of its crooked windows. It was very tall and narrow, and the whole thing seemed to lean slightly like a house of paper cards that was just about to tumble. The door was painted a dark green color, like the felt on a billiards table, and faded gold lettering over the door read Mr Egret, Emporium & Trade.

From what she could see, the few times she’d peered into the dark windows, it appeared to be an antique shop of some kind. In the center of the room stood an old, mahogany grand piano. It must’ve dated back to the early 1900s, with real ivory keys and a beautiful grain on the wood. Around the piano, rolled Persian rugs, towering stacks of faded books, lamps, clocks, and various taxidermy animals were scattered in haphazard disarray. If it wasn’t an antique shop, Mr. Egret must be quite the eclectic collector. Or perhaps he was a furniture restorationist. She didn’t know, and probably never would. The shop was never open, the windows were always dark.

It was this mystery that kept her coming back whenever the melancholy settled on her like a wool coat left out to soak in the rain. Armed with caffeine and glazed pastry, she’d plant herself on the bench across from the shop and let her curiosity distract her from the gloom. She’d make up stories of all the lives the objects must’ve lived before they ended up in the dark little shop. That candelabra had once belonged to a French prince. That old suitcase was once the decoy in a money heist. That urn secretly held the ashes of a murdered emperor. 

Sometimes she’d wonder about the shop itself, if it had always been there or had spontaneously appeared one day. She speculated how the owners managed to afford the rent, which couldn’t be cheap, when it was never open. Perhaps the shop wasn’t a shop at all, but a front for a nefarious crime mob. She’d follow these trailing ideas down their respective rabbit holes one pastry bite at a time, until her fingers were sticky, her stomach was warm, and the gray no longer weighed on her mind.  

She’d been coming to the bench for over two years without any change in the shop. So when she arrived one overcast Tuesday to find a warm glow emanating from the windows, she drew up short and nearly dropped her coffee in shock. 

Tansy stared at the shop. It looked as though there were one, maybe two people inside? They cast silhouettes like shadow puppets on the rain-splattered glass, but she couldn’t be sure through the haze. 

The wrapper on her pastry was starting to get soggy. Tansy looked at her bench, then back at the lighted windows. She couldn’t not go in, after all this time—but once she did, the mystery of the place would be over, wouldn’t it? She might meet the owner, speak to him. No more wandering theories, no more imaginary intrigues. Her game would be finished. 

A bicyclist gave a quick shout and she jumped back as he rode past. She was standing in the lane. She had to make a decision.

Drawing her scarf a little tighter around her neck, she made her way across the street. 

“No, no, NO, my dear boy!”

The voice rang out from the back of the shop. Louis cast his eyes up towards the heavy beamed ceiling in plea to a deity he didn’t believe existed. 

“You need to be careful with these items! Didn’t your mother teach you anything?!”

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” Louis said, gently lowering the glass cloche he’d picked up that appeared to house a dancing mouse. “I know this is going to be difficult for you. But we need to get everything in the shop cataloged for the appraisal.”

“I know that, idiot boy! But that does not mean that you need to rampage about like a charging mule. These items are temperamental. Show some respect!”

The owner of the voice finally wheeled himself around the corner. Wispy, white hair seemed to levitate off of Charles Egret’s head like he’d just stuck his hand on one of those static electricity balls they have at a science fairs. He had a large walrus mustache that ruffled as he talked, giving the impression that he was on the verge of a sneeze. His thin frame, usually quite tall, was dressed in an olive tweed suit and folded awkwardly into a creaky wheelchair. The newly acquired cast on his leg was the only thing in the entire shop that didn’t appear coated in dust. 

Louis was saved from answering by the tinkling chime of the bell from the front room. The bell may have seemed welcoming, but it was really there to warn his uncle from afar if any wayward customers managed to find their way into the shop uninvited. 

“You left the door unlocked?!” Charles exclaimed. 

Louis sighed. This task might drive him to religion after all. “We talked about this, Uncle. Some of these items will have to go. You can’t keep all of them after you move.” 

Charles was still sputtering when Louis pulled back the curtain and entered the main room of the shop.

A woman was standing by the grand piano. She appeared to be in her early thirties, but it was difficult to tell with the way that her scarf was wrapped twice around her neck and seemed to swallow half her face. A heavy peacoat covered her from collar to knee and in her mittened hands she held a takeaway coffee cup and a half-crumpled pastry bag. Louis recognized the name of the bakery a few blocks away. 

“Be careful with that,” he said. “My uncle may have your head if you spill on anything in here.”

She jumped and turned wide-eyed to face him. Her light brown hair poufed out from where it was trapped under the edge of the scarf, making her look a little like a startled mushroom. She glanced down at her hands as if she’d forgotten what she was holding.

“Oh!” she said quickly. “I won’t touch anything! I didn’t realize food wasn’t allowed.” She turned to go.

“Don’t worry about it,” Louis said, pulling a stool over to the counter. “More a risk to you than to the furniture, to be honest.”

She nodded and looked down, seeming unsure what to do with herself. 

“What brings you in?” Louis asked.

“Oh, I was just curious,” the woman said, gazing around the shop again. Her eyes seemed to light up as she took in the chaos. “I often sit on that bench, the one across the way? I’ve never seen the shop open before.”

“That’s because it hasn’t been,” Louis said. “My uncle is notorious for his dislike of strangers as well as his inability to run a functional business.”

“I heard that!” came a shout from the back of the shop.

The woman smiled just briefly. It made her seem younger when she did.

“What’s your name?”

“Tansy,” she answered.

“Well, Tansy, I’m Louis. And this here is my uncle Charles’ shop. Well, it’s our family shop, but Charles runs it now. ‘Runs’ being a flexible word in this case.”

“Now see here, you insolent scrape.” Charles managed to push his way through the curtain from the back room, shaking his pen in Louis’ direction. “I won’t be talked about that way in my own shop. You have no idea the value of what’s being stored here! Who’s this?” he asked sharply, noticing Tansy.

“Tansy,” Louis said, and added with a grin, “a customer.”

 Charles balked. “No, no! Not for sale! You can just take yourself on your merry way, young lady. Nothing to see here! Is that a beverage?” he asked in horror.

Tansy’s grip tightened on her coffee. “I won’t touch anything, sir, I promise. You have quite an amazing shop. Is it all your personal collection then?”

“Was,” Louis chimed in. “I’m the proprietor now.”

“Preposterous,” Charles scoffed. “As if the collection would just hand itself over to you.”

“I don’t think the collection has much say in the matter. The will is written, and you’re in no state to care for it anyways.” He turned back to Tansy. 

“We’re actually trying to clear some of this stuff out before my uncle moves. If there’s anything that’s caught your eye, I’ll give you a good deal on it.” Charles sputtered again, but Louis ignored him. 

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Tansy started, but her eyes were wandering around the shop again. She drifted past a battered writing desk and several framed paintings of dogs before stopping in front of the grandfather clock.

“Not him. He bites,” snapped Charles.

Tansy frowned in confusion. Louis shook his head not to ask. 

Wandering around the shop further, Tansy finally stopped in front of an old record player. Tucking her pastry into the pocket of her giant coat, she picked up a vinyl he didn’t recognize, something with a flower on the cover. 

“How much for this?” she asked.

Louis shook his head. “Take it. No charge. One less thing for us to catalog.” 

Tansy smiled widely this time. “Thank you,” she said, tucking the album under her arm. She looked around the shop again as if she wanted to stay. “Well, it was nice meeting you both,” she said, drifting back towards the door. 

“You too, Tansy. Thanks for stopping by.”

 She slipped out the door with another lingering glance at the shop. 

“You’ll be regretting that, my boy,” Charles said darkly. 

Louis rolled his eyes and pulled a ledger from under the counter to start documenting. 

Did you enjoy this story? I’d love to hear what you thought of it. Drop me a note in the comments below ❀

Author’s Note:

Sometimes, life gets in the way of the story you wanted to tell and gives you something new. I was really excited when I got the prompt for this week because I thought it’d be a perfect continuation for both The Alice Fragments and my Ordinary Magics story.

However, this week was hard. My son has been waking up at 3am for multiple nights in a row, I started a new online class, was prepping for not one but two photoshoots this weekend, and trying to stay caught up on The Substack Soiree. I sat down to write at least three times and the words were just not there. I even took myself to a coffee shop twice, my failsafe for writing inspiration, and still could not find the focus.

I didn’t want to give up on doing the prompt though. So far I haven’t missed a week and it’s felt really good to show up for my writing this way. Lying on the couch yesterday afternoon, holding my baby, my eyes landed on our baby grand piano that we inherited from my husband’s grandmother. I pulled out my phone, opened my notes app, and this story came out.

I have no idea if I’ll continue it further, or just let it be a standalone piece—but it was an important reminder that sometimes inspiration comes easiest when we’re not trying to force it.

Impromptu is a year-long creative writing challenge that I started on my 30th birthday. Every week, I use a random number generator to select a prompt from a list of over 150+ options. These prompts are meant to be creative seeds that can be built on later into full stories, reflections, scenes, or poems. The goal is to write for at least 10 minutes and post the response by the end of the week.

Any and all writers are invited to join in the challenge! To participate, set your timer and write for 10+ minutes. Feel free to adjust the prompts as needed to fit what you want to write about (fiction, nonfiction, poetry, etc.). None of them are meant to be a box, so let your inspiration guide you and be flexible! When done, be sure to tag me in your response or leave a comment below telling us how it went.

Happy Writing!