derelict shop - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The derelict shop was no more than a shack. Outside lay fragments of the good the potter used to sell. Out back was the old brick kiln, which no doubt would be the only thing left in another few years. The shop appeared to have been closed for a decade or more, but in truth the old potter hadn't been gone even a full year. It was decrepit even when in use and abandonment had only made it worse.
The derelict shop blended right in with the rest of the street. It was a passage through the city and little more for most London urbanites, a place to drive through with the windows done right up, never a thought to stop. But inside the creaking walls of the little shop, long ago abandoned by anyone likely to pay rent, more sales went on than in the local supermarket. It was the black-market even the cops knew about but left alone. Sure they sold weed and a few other things they shouldn't, but along with the illegal trades was cut price food that would otherwise end up in dumpsters. The residents couldn't afford to be picky about "best before" dates and more children had full bellies for the store staying open.
The derelict shop squatted behind the rusted street-lamps, slowly giving way to the desire to conform to gravities unrelenting will. The entire front window was stolen years ago, the mullioned panes reappearing on a hipster dwelling a block or so east of the crossing. Since that time the decay had only accelerated, the walls being attacked on both sides. Rusted skeletons of shelving were all that told of the purpose it had years ago, selling mike and cigarettes to the locals and above absent window the faded old sign still had Mr Sun's name on it.
Once inside the derelict shop, the unlockable door banging every time a truck passed, Eve put down her bag and rested against the wall. From the posters that still hung tenaciously behind the cluttered counter, she guessed it was once a drug store. All of them encouraged her to get vaccines that were no longer in production. No-one but the rich got healthcare these days, no wonder the store died on its feet. Eve startled. A rat scurried from near her left boot into a hole in the plaster. With her hand pressed like a spread starfish to her lips her blood temperature fell a few degrees.
He peered through the hastily brush-streaked whitewash, where the coating was at its thinnest, and into the interior beyond. He recalled how not so long ago, and during lunchtime, the colourful and friendly independent store would likely be three-deep at the checkout.
How many times had he stood in that queue, passing the time of day with the regulars? Whilst chillers hummed, and piped music played in the background.
But now the shelves and the gantries were stripped naked, and the store stood shrouded in gloom, and derelict. What had happened, he wondered?
The hinges, rusted over squealed in defiance of the opening door. A haze of dust permeated the room, settling on any free surface it could find. The boarded over windows allowed vestiges of the morning sun to seep through, lending the shop a vibrance not seen in years
The shop had been derelict longer than the school children had been alive. Outside hung a round circle, like a yin yang sign but in faded blue and red, the white lettering imposed on the top legible but quite meaningless to them. Even the idea of commerce was alien, a generation having passed since the Big Change. The floor to ceiling windows were sprayed white from the inside twenty years previously and with no movement inside it still clung to the glass. From the doorknob inside hung a sign, "gone for lunch, back soon, the black ink sun-bleached to grey.
River pushes at the sun-worn door, slivers of bare wood showing through long cracks in the blistering paint. The sound of an old store-bell is a shot gun to his heart and he stands reeling against the softening plaster for a full minute, eyes wide open, panting. Most supplies are gone of course, he'd expected that; but perhaps in these walls there was shelter for the night and another other "finds" would be a bonus. With ungloved hands he searches the shelving for anything at all. After several minutes, his hope fading, his fingers seize upon a packet of ground ginger; he holds the fragile plastic to the light to see the powder inside. There is enough for several loaves of gingerbread and his mind can't help but flicker to Willow...