Antonio and Fatima

I have a story idea about two different individuals whose stories cross paths. One character is an Italian chef named Antonio and the other is the daughter of a Lebanese bakery.

Antonio

            The aroma of the fresh garlic and tomatoes filled the kitchen.

A dash of pepper, a pinch of salt. Inhale; exhale, in the summer sun and out the winter frost. Eyes closed and stir, not to hard but deliberate, yet delicate with a lovely ease. Ah now the herbs: rosemary, basil, and oregano. The atoms in his nose began to dance. Saliva embraced his tongue, stirring in the pot a work of art. He opened his eyes; looked down at the metal pot, bubbles popping, steam dancing. He grabbed a wooden spoon, gently scoped a spoonful of the homemade sauce, put it up to his nose and once again exhaled. Then he tasted it, in all its ruby red, savory glory. But something was wrong. He shouted in frustration, anger filled his eyes. Once again a miss. But the look, the smell, how could this not have been the right one. Why had his eyes deceived him, his sense of smell fooled him, his intuition leading him to the wrong one once again. At this rate he was no longer sure whether the markets would have enough tomatoes to cover his endless trials. Maybe if he was in the right state of mind he could have found a neighbor, or eat it himself but the humiliation was too much to bear. And so he poured it into the garbage along with the rest of his mistakes.

 

Fatima

            Not far from the Casa di Filipio, stood a bakery. But not just any bakery. You wouldn’t find croissants filled with jam here. No frosted rings of dough glazed in glass cases or long, warm loaves of bread laying by an oven. In this bakery, the sweet smell of syrup filled the room. Glossy mounds of filo dough stared out the windows, their whimsical shapes curbing passerby’s curiosities. Next to them, a favorite a carousel of decadent powdered cookies on display.

Ever since the newly opened pizzeria had burned to the ground, people no longer flocked up to the counter, oohing and aahing at the displays of honey covered dough. There was no more rush; no more energy filling the room with excitement once the clock tower chimed 4 o’clock. Now the bakery stood in silence, as if it no longer existed. People passing outside looked away, perhaps it was to look at the blue jays flocking around the town square, purely a coincidence. But even when there was nothing there in the square they still hung their heads to the ground. Even the humps of the wooden camels seemed to collapse, resembling more of a pony. For the towns people had suddenly come suspicious that the long-standing Ma’amoul bakery was the reason the new pizzeria with it’s authentic Napolitano pizza had burned to the ground. 

Author's Note

Here are a couple paragraphs from the story. Please keep in mind that I'm in the very early stages, but I would love some feedback on the style and content if the writing.

Reviews

[Brian Warby]

It's very descriptive, and I think you should continue more! However I'm not sure what your idea for the plot is, but I hope it will be amazing too! :D