beginning of a short story...need help, where does it go

[swybs]

I walked up to the address, which was written on the back of a torn Fruity Pebbles' cereal-box top I had been given by my mother, and opened the store's door. A rusty bell connected to the door clinked and the people in the shop stopped their chatter just enough for me to grab a long enough stare at the criminal-looking man behind the counter. I pretended to produce a casual laugh that came out more nervous than congenial, when I asked "So, you sell happiness here?" As though I asked for something as simple as the weather forecast, the grungy shopkeeper practically burped "Yes," and as though he expected me, he hefted a large book out from underneath the dirty counter. For a brief second, I tried not to stare directly at him or his food-encrusted beard, when I thought I saw two eyes staring at me from a hole in the wall directly behind the counter. Almost on cue, the customers, who had been talking loud enough to cause a loud hum when I walked in the door, now quietly walked out the door, silent, except for the chiming of the bell as the door jiggled both less and more for the different sized people.

The outside of the store I now found myself in was very discreet--actually, it was more than discreet, since there were absolutely no signs or markings on the outside of this buildingI. Finding the address was an embarrasing ordeal, since I must have walked up and down the block 5 times before the laughter drew me in for directions. Now, standing inside the shop without the comfort of the customers, I felt even more uncomfortable alone with the "shopkeeper." He opened the book and leafed through the first couple hundreds of pages, until he asked "Happiness, right?"
swybs

 

[eltoro]

I tcould go many ways, but what are you trying to say, is happiness unnatainable, is it easy, how does buying it at a store reflect whether it is material or not, at the moment it is unclear. Nicely written

"The outside of the store I now found myself in was very discreet--actually, it was more than discreet, since there were absolutely no signs or markings on the outside of this buildingI. Finding the address was an embarrasing ordeal, since I must have walked up and down the block 5 times before the laughter drew me in for directions."

make this it's own paragraph,IMO

 

[syd]

I walked up to the address, which was written on the back of a torn Fruity Pebbles' cereal-box top I had been given by my mother, and opened the store's door. A rusty bell connected to the door clinked and the people in the shop stopped their chatter just enough for me to grab a long enough stare at the criminal-looking man behind the counter. I pretended to produce a casual laugh that came out more nervous than congenial, when I asked "So, you sell happiness here?" As though I asked for something as simple as the weather forecast, the grungy shopkeeper practically burped "Yes," and as though he expected me, he hefted a large book out from underneath the dirty counter. For a brief second, I tried not to stare directly at him or his food-encrusted beard, when I thought I saw two eyes staring at me from a hole in the wall directly behind the counter. Almost on cue, the customers, who had been talking loud enough to cause a loud hum when I walked in the door, now quietly walked out the door, silent, except for the chiming of the bell as the door jiggled both less and more for the different sized people.

The outside of the store I now found myself in was very discreet--actually, it was more than discreet, since there were absolutely no signs or markings on the outside of this buildingI. Finding the address was an embarrasing ordeal, since I must have walked up and down the block 5 times before the laughter drew me in for directions. Now, standing inside the shop without the comfort of the customers, I felt even more uncomfortable alone with the "shopkeeper." He opened the book and leafed through the first couple hundreds of pages, until he asked "Happiness, right?"
swybs

As I slowly nod my head the stained and broken man begins scribbling in the large book. Feeling more nervous than ever I give casualness another shot.
My mom_
Save it kid.
I turn to look around the small greasy room. Form outside I had thought of the building as discreet, but from inside it felt almost invisible. I felt invisible. The dust and filth of the place felt impacted like it had been here since the dark ages, but at the same time barely there, ghost like. And all at once I want out immediately. All at once I would give anything to be at home with my mother and away from the awful ancient place.
After what seems like days the breaded man slams the large book closed, and I notice that none of the dust or grime stir. Without a word he reaches below the counter again and produces a small clear vile filled with a transparent blue liquid. I stare back not knowing what to say. The feeling of being not quite there is growing stronger with each agonizing second. The now impatience looking man shoves the vile closer indicating I’m supposed to take it. He makes eye contact for the second time as our hands briefly touch.
Make sure your mom gets that.
I will, I say.

 

[blahblahblah]

I would make it the story fall into line of that of a drug 'speak-easy' joint, fully stocked pharmacy [illicit & pharm] where you can buy what ever fits your mood, from there I dont know...

Interesting though it pulls you in wanting to know what the deal is?

 

[Shucklak]

^^^i imagine if there was a place like that the crackheads would pretty much take over.

 

[swybs]

awesome comments!!! :>

So, I added a bit more and want just a little bit more--I need to finish this tomorrow, since it is going to be one of my wife's gifts (she wanted a few short stories, along with her gifts, but since most of my writing is cliche, I tried to stray a bit with this one and leave it open to interpretation...)

Thanks again guys!!!

In addition, no matter how sad things may get . .

I walked up to the address, which was written on the back of a torn Fruity Pebbles' cereal-box top I had been given by my mother, and opened the store's door. A rusty bell connected to the door clinked and the people in the shop stopped their chatter just enough for me to grab a long enough stare at the criminal-looking man behind the counter. I pretended to produce a casual laugh that came out more nervous than congenial, when I asked, "So, you sell happiness here?" As though I asked for something as simple as the weather forecast, the grungy shopkeeper practically burped "Yes," and as though he expected me, he hefted a large book out from underneath the dirty counter. For a brief second, I tried not to stare directly at him or his food-encrusted beard, when I thought I saw two eyes staring at me from a hole in the wall directly behind the counter. Almost on cue, the customers, who had been talking loud enough to cause a loud hum when I walked in the door, now quietly walked out the door, silent, except for the chiming of the bell as the door jiggled both less and more for the different sized people.

The outside of the store I was now in was very discreet--actually, it was more than discreet, since there were absolutely no signs or markings on the outside of this building. Finding the address was an embarrassing ordeal, since I must have walked up and down the block 5 times before the laughter drew me in for directions.

Now, standing inside the shop without the comfort of the customers, I felt even more uncomfortable alone with the "shopkeeper." He opened the book and leafed through the first couple hundreds of pages, until he asked "Happiness, right?"

I nodded, suddenly unable to speak.

“Well, we sell all kinds of ‘happiness’ here” said the shopkeeper, crumbs falling from his beard to the floor behind the counter, joining their now moldy brethren. Standing nearer the man, I could smell a stale, sweet aroma, familiar, but just out of reach of my mind. Foreboding, my gut told me, and reminded me by standing up the hairs on the back of my neck. “Ah, here we go!” triumphed the shopkeeper, after leafing to the exact page of the huge book.

He rotated the book to face me, and slowly I looked from his face to the open pages. Instantly the image bought a flood of emotions from so deep within me, I nearly choked.

“What’s it worth to you?” a grin like a dirty pond surfaced from the reeds of his beard.


As I looked down at the book, I saw the open pages, 2-pages filled of pictures of me: snapshots of me as a child, photos of me at family gatherings, portraits I had never saw before. What startled me and sent a second, more pronounced bone-chilling shiver up my spine was that I knew some of the pictures had never been taken.

My bottom lipped trembled, and I reached down to turn the page in the book; more of the same, except, as I stared at one particular picture of me sitting at a campsite with an ex-girlfriend, I realized that, really, it wasn’t possible that anyone could have taken these pictures—my ex and I had been completely alone, in the middle of the woods. . . And, worse off, I had never been happy with her, before our relationship, during it, and after the rocky breakup....

swybs

 

[eltoro]

"So, are these what you're looking for" he inquired baring his brown teeth.
I looked down at the pictures, with a maelstrom of emotions raging inside me. "H.. how did you get these" I stammered.
"Look never you mind about how" he said "It's here if you want it, and that's all that's impoartant, not how."
"But I..."
"You either want it or not, make a choice"
Again I gazed down at the book full of my life. All the images of happiness, taken when they could not have been. And the one pictue of me with my ex-girlfried stared back at me. Why was it there, what was the book telling me, about her, about myself.
Then I realised.
"How much" I asked.

Just a thought, you know what you want to say and I don't so I thought I'd leave it ambigious and let you do with it what you will.