shopping - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Cassandra watched the man in the deli carve the meat and then put aside one slice. She was curious. The slice looked good, from the middle of the joint. So she asked why it was separated from what her grandmother bought. The man replied, "We are told to throw it away. I'd rather not though. Sometimes I ask customers if they want it for free and they refuse." After a small pause, she asked what was wrong with the first slice. "Nothing!" he replied, "It's good! It could be slightly drier but still very good!"
Liam could never shop in the cool and perfect indifference of a supermarket, served by underpaid drones and sucked into purchasing the over processed salty junk. What he couldn't get at the local market he just didn't buy. Every Saturday morning he would drink in the colours, the aromas and the atmosphere like an elixir. He thrived on interacting with the stall holders, each one almost a caricature of bubbly friendliness. They knew him by name and often had kept something back from the stall that they knew he would buy...and he always did. He weaved through the crowds, edging through the dense flow of people with his bags getting more full by the minute. The air was perfumed with produce, the ground was gritty stone and the air a perfect pre-winter chill. There was no irritating music, just a busker with a guitar. This to him was life, real life, not the sanitized pre-packed convenience world of individual yoghurts and personal cheeses.
If it was a choice between shopping and diving into a swimming pool of cold vomit, Ella would take the vomit. She'd tie her hair back, get in a bathing suit and dive right in amongst the chunky bits. Everytime she went to the mall she'd have to try on fifty different outfits while her mom sighed and suggested she loose a little weight.
Alicia loved shopping. She loved the perfumed, air conditioned mall. She basked in the attention of the sales staff and pawed over different fabrics and textures. She would try on new boots and hats, get a free make-over and then head to the spa for a manicure. The garments she brought home would often never be worn or maybe worn once. She was a shop-a-holic. It was a compulsion to her. She would rather eat porridge for a whole month so she would have more money to shop than eat a proper diet.
Jack hated everything about shopping. He hated the crowds, the queues and the aching feet. He also took exception to overly attentive shopping assistants, the perky seasonal music playing in every store and all the special deals tempting him to spend even more. He even hated the free food samples, seeing them as ideal flu spreading agents. He hated shopping for himself even worse than for his wife. With his wife at least he got to pass the judgements on the way she fitted into the clothes, when it was his turn it was his beer gut on trial. And he loved his beer gut. His beer was a non-negotiable aspect of his life and it was the only thing he did enjoy shopping for.
The ice-cream freezer was stacked high with all of Marcia's favourites, chocolate peanut butter, raspberry ripple and tin roof sundae...but there were more, so many more! As her breath fogged up the glass another shopped cut in front of her reaching in decisively. She took a step back and waited until they were gone, this wasn't something she liked to rush. With hands in the pockets of her winter parka she walked up and down, looking at the prices as well as the flavour. Finally she decided that nothing beats praline and pecan. With the store music playing softly behind the noise of the shoppers and tills, she laughed internally at the stupid covers of the magazines...
Market shopping is my favourite time of the week. Four o'clock every Friday I am in the square moving between the stall holders, each pushing harder than the one before to unload their wares. Sure, many of the best things are long gone, but what I want is vegetables for hearty winter soup and of those there are plenty; turnips, swede, fat carrots and bunches of cilantro. I take the bruised egg plant and the black plantains that people are too stupid to snap up. I am only done shopping when my army surplus back pack is so heavy it threatens to pull me over and leave me stranded like a flipped turtle. But even then some fruit often catch my eye and I stumble out from the cacophony of new deals being heckled with more bags in my hands. Every other day of the week I walk home, sometimes I toy with the idea of a hike back with the shopping, but then I hit the long hill toward the park and my feet redirect automatically to the bus-stop, where I wait for the smudgy illumination of the no. 73.
Tina ran her hand along the belt rack, listening to them jingle at the buckles. She watched them move back and forth, independent of each other but bound to the same shiny rod of chrome. Sometimes it was to irk her mother, browsing an isle over for "treasure." On those occasions she would swipe the belts over and over. But today she paused after the first strike, her poised hand dropping to her side with her thumb hooked into a pocket. Tina's eye was fixed on a brown leather belt with a distressed look that was entirely genuine - quite unlike the jeans with fashionable holes in them in the stores. She fingered the top, smooth, silky, like suede. Over the top was an impression of leaves on a vine. The colour was more truffle than chocolate and the buckle tarnished almost black over brass with age. She mentally looped it into her blue jeans, blue and brown, like waves meeting pebbled shore. In moments it was in her mother's basket, a stowaway. Mother would see it at the check-out of course, she'd be inwardly pleased that her daughter had found something at the thrift store...
I spend more time reading the labels than walking - isn't that modern shopping for you? It's that or buys only single ingredients - rice, wheat, beans, tomatoes, eggs... Ingredients lists are worse than those instructions for experiments in science class, every word as long and complicated as possible. Likely the finest thing about any of these things is the packaging - pretty in its garish way - and that just adds to landfill. Junk on the inside, soon-to-be-junk on the outside. But that's life, right? Working early to late and shoving in a TV dinner.