Locked In The Fruit Cellar
Strange how fragments of
experiences we once had, force themselves
upon our consciousness and cause us to
recall little incidents that make our childhood
a fertile field in which to reminisce.
It was dark and cold in the fruit cellar
and very damp. Green beads of moisture
clung to the solid gray forbidding walls. In
my childish mind, I had begun to conjure all
types of fate for myself. I had heard the
ominous click of the latch as I had swung the
solid door shut. For a few moments I stood
in sheer terror, too paralyzed with fear to cry
out. Just what the end would be I was not
certain, for I was too tiny to grasp the
significance of eternity.
All about me loomed row upon row
of preserved apples, plums, grape jams and
jellies, but they had somehow lost their
tantalizing appeal when I became aware of
the fact that I had locked myself in. Locked
in! Salt tears accompanied the thought.
After all a baby cannot be reprimanded
for lack of courage. I kicked and screamed
and pounded upon the barrier in a frenzy of
abandon. All I wanted was a breath of clean
air and to be freed from the terrible presence
of the potato bin and the heaps of carrots
and turnips that persisted in taking on
ominous shapes. I dug my fists into my eyes
to keep my fancy from running off with me
and I sank exhausted, terrified and sobbing
to the floor.
It seems I must have fallen asleep for
my next recollection is of loud pounding
upon the heavy beamed door. Suddenly it
swung back and ushered in light, and best of
all, my daddy. I remember with what
relief I rushed into his arms.
A pitiful little figure I must have
made, a tousled, disheveled, tear-stained
little creature, thoroughly repented and
ecstatically comforted by another human
E Irene Fyten Eull
This is a favorite short story that my Mother
wrote for a school project. I hope you enjoy it.
© 2019 Mariannajo
(All rights reserved)