Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for
this month is to write a story involving a source of light—to be taken
literally or metaphorically.
This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De
Giorgi. Chiara is an Italian author and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. She
writes fiction, with a focus on children’s literature and science fiction.
The teapot
by Chiara De Giorgi
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| created with Canva |
Malia had been walking along that road for a
while now… or had she? She frowned. She could not remember exactly how she had
come to be on that road. She glanced back to where she was coming from, then
ahead to where she was going. The appearance of that winding path kept
changing, with the brightly coloured pieces of jigsaw puzzle it was made of
constantly rearranging under her feet.
She clutched the teapot and resumed walking. It
wasn’t much of a teapot. Chipped, with a faded floral pattern and the rattling
lid. And yet, she couldn’t lose it. It was far too important.
“Hey there!”
The voice made her jolt.
“Apologies,” said the woman. She was impossibly
thin, her elbows and knees sticking out as if she were a pencil sketch. She
wore a purple and black striped dress, but being so thin, there was only room
for three stripes. She had a long, curved, pointed nose, on which gold-rimmed
glasses rested, and a mass of curly chestnut hair shot in every direction
around her head. To complete the look, her thin-lipped mouth was open in a
smile that allowed a glimpse of blindingly white teeth.
“Who are you?” Malia asked, suspicious. She
held the teapot closer to her body.
The woman’s smile widened.
“I am the Librarian of the Lost Stories!” she
announced proudly.
Malia squinted. “A-ha? And what do you want
from me?”
The librarian’s gaze went to the teapot, but
just for a second. Very quickly, she pulled a rolled-up sheet of paper from a
pocket of her dress and unfolded it in front of Malia.
“As the Library of Lost Stories Manager, I am
offering you a job as my assistant. It’s a very prestigious position, you know,
it gives you a chance to travel far and wide, to read a lot, to discover new
things.... All stuff that you love, right? See, I knew it. Now, come on, don’t
waste your time. This is the contract, sign here and I will immediately pin
this badge depicting a bespectacled frog to your shirt.”
Malia squinted. Everyone always just wanted the
teapot, what was this contract thing?
The librarian’s smile didn’t waver.
“Look, you can use this pen with invisible
ink,” she said fishing a slim, golden pen out of her pocket. “Once you sign
this contract, you’ll forget you ever existed. It’s very popular, you know?
You’ll be able to embrace your new life as a librarian assistant in full.”
Malia raised her eyebrows.
“Why would people wish to forget they ever
existed?”
“Oh, all kinds of reasons, really. Come on, try
it. You won’t regret it.”
Malia snorted and shook her head.
“No, thank you. I like remembering who I am.
And you cannot have the teapot,” she added, sure that the strange woman had
made up the unlikely story so that she could put her hands on it.
The woman’s smile faded.
“But… I need it. I really do. The lost
stories…”
“I believe you,” Malia said kindly. “But look,
I need to refill it. Even if I gave it to you, it would be useless.”
The path under Malia’s feet rippled, and when
it stopped, the librarian was gone.
Soon after, a chimney sweeper stopped her. He
was scrawny and a bit hunched, with grey hair poking out from under his cap. He
wore overalls and big black shoes.
“Hey, nice teapot! But why are you carrying it
around? Are you going to have tea in the middle of the road? May I have a cup?”
Malia smiled. The chimney sweeper didn’t sound
like he wanted to steal the teapot from her. Unusual, but not impossible.
“I need to refill it,” she replied.
The chimney sweeper face, black with soot,
fell.
“Oh. You drank all the tea. Such a shame.
Should have brought biscuits at least.”
“No, no,” Malia said. “This teapot is not for
tea. I need to refill it with light.”
The chimney sweeper raised his hat and
scratched his head.
“Light? What kind of light?”
“The light that dreams are made of.”
The man rubbed his chin. “Dreams, you say?” His
eyes were glinting.
Malia sighed. He didn’t even know about the
teapot until a moment ago, and now he wanted it too.
“I told you, I have to refill it. It’s not
working anymore,” said Malia, then added, “But if you keep walking along this
road, I’m sure you’ll find biscuits. What do you say?”
Hearing those words, the chimney sweeper ran
off.
Finally, Malia reached the Well of Light. To
her surprise, it was behind a big gate guarded by a huge, green dragon.
“State your business,” the dragon said briskly.
“I need to refill this teapot,” Malia replied.
“Mmmh, let me see…”
The dragon put on thin copper-rimmed glasses
and opened a scroll. It unrolled, spilled onto the ground, and continued down
the winding path from which Malia had come, until it disappeared from view.
“…Teacup, teahouse, teakettle… Ah, here.
Teapot. Nonstandard Dream Receptacle. Do you have your Form 27B filled and
signed?”
“Form 27B?” repeated Malia, bewildered. “I had
no idea a form was required for…”
“Tsk tsk. So I suppose you don’t have the compulsory
500-word statement of why you need to refill the teapot either, nor the
photocopy of your soul.”
“The photocopy of—”
“We don’t accept originals, sorry. Rules are
rules.”
Malia looked at the cracked and lightless
teapot in her hands.
“What if,” she said. “I entrust my teapot to
you, and you go to the well and refill it for me? I can give you a story in
exchange for that.”
The dragon removed his glasses and stared at
Malia.
“I have never received such a request. But yes,
I think there is nothing against it. As for the story, I don’t have time to
listen to it, I’m working and have a lot of work to do.”
With that, he presented Malia with a document
assigning him responsibility for the teapot. After she signed it, he passed
through the gate to fill the teapot at the well.
He was halfway back, when a piercing sound
filled the air.
BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP
Malia jolted awake and turned off the alarm
clock. Such a weird dream! She yawned and got out of bed. She had a busy day
ahead of her and was soon out running errands.
After returning three books to the library and
picking up vitamins for her cat from the vet, Malia walked past an antique
store and absentmindedly turned her head toward the window. She froze in her
tracks and stepped closer to get a better look. In the window, resting on an
old sewing machine, was a teapot identical to the one she had dreamed of. She
entered the shop and bought the teapot without a second thought. The antique
dealer gave her a good price because it was cracked.
Once home, she dusted it off and placed it on
her desk, then she immediately set to work. Malia was a writer and was in the
middle of writing a novel.
She wrote all day long without stopping—one should never waste such days like this, brimming with inspiration. When darkness fell outside
and her stomach began to growl, she finally decided to close her laptop. That
was enough for one day.
She thought of the teapot she had bought in the
morning. It had never occurred to her that a dream could enter her real life in
such a way. It was indeed a curious thing which had happened to her. Just then,
Malia realized one thing: she hadn’t turned on the lamp. The light she had been
writing to for the past few hours came from the teapot, softly glowing on her
desk. She had refilled it after all.
“The light that dreams are made of…”
The Spot Writers:
Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie:
https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
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