Tatiana Lutje; “La Tienda de Velas y Sueños”

Artist Feature: Tatiana Lutje / Writing / Class of 2024

By Madison Alexander

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The shop closes at nine.

Everybody knows that.

Five years ago it appeared out of nowhere, the abandoned shack down the lane bursting

into life overgrown with lush vines and flowers. To this day it still holds the fascination of all of

your neighbors.

The delectable smells that mingle in the warm night air, drift through the open windows

of your small block home. Scents you’ve smelled from other candle shops, like coconut ginger

almond, lemon creme, clay and burnt wood fill your room. There’s recognizable scents that you

never imagined could have a formula, a family around the hearth, the coziness of a warm drink

on a chilly day, then there’s the smell of nutmeg and horchata. Finally, there are scents you can’t

decipher, otherworldly. You can’t explain it. When these smells waft through your window you

want to breathe in, feel them on the tip of your tongue. They radiate in intoxicating perfumes,

you’ve heard the lady down the block went mad because of them.

The shop advertises candles, but they sell as dreams.

This one will make you dream of meadows, this one will lull you into the void, it’s good

for insomniacs!

Nothing out of the ordinary, same marketing strategy except, instead of advertising on a

fancy posh website, something that you know would make your wallet bleed, the notices are

found on carved wooden arrows stuck around the neighborhood. The people you see entering are

always people you know or at least have passed at some point.

You’ve only been there a few times, after all you just moved here about two years ago

and haven’t had the time or money to shop for candles. But the times you have, are permanently

etched into your memories.

How the smell seemed to shift depending on your mood, from lemon to raspberry,

personalized for you. You remember the strange warm lights that illuminated the pathway as you

made your way to the door. How cozy the rough wooden tables and flower adorned walls looked

in a place that should have been worn and dreary.

The only candle you’ve ever bought sits untouched in your drawer, unlit, still in the light

brown wrapping tied with a dainty gold ribbon. You were drawn to it immediately, and only paid

a quarter, the owner (whoever they may be) shooing you away.

You had plans to light it the moment you got home. Enjoy it, your prize for a hard day's

work. But didn’t. Suddenly feeling compelled to keep it in the drawer you dare to call a closet.

But there’s something in the air tonight. In the stuffy, impossibly warm night, there’s an

itch. You’ve felt it for a couple days now, but there’s something about this atmosphere that

finally forces you out of bed and out the front door. Slipping on raggedy slippers, throwing on a

loose bathrobe along the way.

Feet traipsing through the cobblestone streets, with little gravel bits nipping at your toes.

You’re being led down by an unseen force.

Papel picado hangs from the lines strung between each neighbor's house. You recently

fished yours out from under the sink, checking for signs of wear or water damage (maybe both)

before stringing them to the roof and connecting them to the neighbors line. The fragile paper

swinging back and forth at the slightest movement. In the darkening sky, they’re set aglow by the

red, white and blue lanterns stuck on every lamppost.

Despite its setbacks you realize how much the community has worked hard to make the

streets a wonder, dreamlike like something right out of a dream.

The four young boys of the lady in the house next door wave at you as they run past,

kicking a tin can. Still in their school robes of black, tan and navy blue. They parade around in

them often, showing off the little crocheted emblems they claim haven’t been hand stitched but

made entirely by a machine.

Your feet take you past them, past your own little block and down the streets passing

other neighborhoods in this (sort of) gated community. It takes a moment, but soon you realize

where you’re going. You’re going to the ‘The Shop of Candles and Dreams.’

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It’s dark now, the last of the sun is disappearing over the tallest houses, as 7:30 draws

near. The old rickety picket fence peaks out from overgrown bushes, long tree limbs reach

outside their perimeter, little children think it’s scary, you’re quite fond of it.

You push open the gate which creaks loudly.

Bursts of colors greet your eye. Red roses, spiny leafed yellow lilies, marigolds, blazing

stars and lavender. Following the grass hidden stepping stones you notice the flowering trees and

bushes, the bursts of blue or white delphinium, or larkspur. A soft breeze rushes past, toying with

the ends of your hair. As you climb up and over the fallen tree trunk in the middle of the road,

your path is illuminated with hundreds of dancing fireflies, their bioluminescent lights setting

fire to the world around you.

It smells of warm earth and freshly mowed grass, although you can’t tell where the grass

has been cut.

You run your hand along satiny petals, slowly making your way to the large wooden

door, up the stairs that groan with every step.

'WE CLOSE AT NINE’ the sign hung from the front porch roof reads. ‘Never early, never

late.’

You’re so close now, the smell is burning down your throat and inside your lungs.

Fogging your headspace as if it were trying to pluck something from the depths of your brain.

Was it always this electrifying? Or is it just your current mood?

Reaching for the door, you’re surprised to see that your hands are shaking and with no

door knob in sight, you push.

The brightness of the shop spills on to the front porch, and down the stairs, coating you in

its heat before melting into the shadows of dusk. It’s welcoming you, pulling you forward. Any

decision making you had is lost, for in this moment you’re a moth, enamored with a flame.

A young man stands just inside, his eyes obscured from view by the blurriness creeping

into your own. His hair is combed in waves to the right side of head, chestnut brown dyed auburn

in the light of the candles. He can’t be older than 16.

You’re moving without choice now, both feet, one in front of the other.

tick…

A clock, an old rundown one with a broken seal and rusted gold finishings hangs by the

door. It’s counting down to nine, perhaps?

tick…

Both your feet now stand parallel on the inside of the shop, there’s a tingling in your

stomach, you’ve crossed a barrier but you can’t make out what. You jump as the wooden door

slams behind you with a loud bang! You didn’t close it.

You look at the boy, confusion evident in your face. You still can’t see his eyes, but his

mouth perks into a friendly smile.

“Felicidades,” he says, “you’ve made it to La Tienda de Velas y Sueños.”

- El Fin -

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Tatiana Lutje is a St. Mary’s Academy junior. Lutje shares, “I’m inspired by my visuals and colors, by random strings of dialogue, and by emotions that more or less spring into my head from time to time.” She harnesses this inspiration to determine and refine a concept for her work, which guides her first draft. Lutje, a writer, has honed her narrative skill through experience, and she notes, "I've been creating stories for quite some time."

Her short story "La Tienda de Velas y Sueños" was published in Escribe Maria's 2021-22 issue.