I have edited a bit thanks to comments, (thanks!) but haven't done any major plot-wise kinda stuff. I'll get to it when I have time. (No idea how many times I've said that) Anyway, thanks everybody who gave me critiques!
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Totems 4
I run my hand over the bridge of my nose, rubbing a huge streak of flour across my face. My ponytail itches the back of my neck, and I swing my head to move it. Wiping my floury hands on a dish-towel, I breathe in the scents of fresh bread baking and yeast. My mother is stirring a large bowl of dough, and I see that her hands aren’t at all dirty. I sigh, and pick up a ball of dough. I begin to knead it, turning it over and over in my hands. My mother puts a cloth over her bowl, and walks through the double swinging doors towards the front. A small line of customers have formed, waiting patiently for their daily bread.
The flour makes a rough scratching sound on the wooden counter as I continue to knead, putting all my weight on it. At last I am done, having worked the sticky mass to perfection. I begin to shape it into a loaf, putting it in a long baking container to rise once more. I reach over for the other un-kneaded ball of dough, picking it up and then shaking my hand to try and unstick it. The damp dough clings to my hand, large clumps of it breaking off. Scraping my fingers off, I reach for the shelf to grab a handful of flour. Something stops my hand mid-reach, and I step back. There is a small brown face peeking back at me, accompanied by tiny whiskers and a twitching nose. A mouse. I consider yelling for my mother, but the customers would probably wonder what the problem was. Also, if my mother knew of a rodent in the kitchen, she would put out traps. There is such an innocence in its round black eyes, and I do not want it to die.
A shout from my mother interrupts my thoughts. I turn around as she speaks, seeing her face through the window on the swinging door. Also visible is the long wooden counter, behind which the customers are waiting. There is a man standing in front of the register, his closed eyes almost disappearing in his wrinkled and weather-worn face. He is without a doubt the oldest person I have seen. His eyes snap open, and they catch mine. As his gaze meet my face, he breaks out into a huge grin, and points towards the mouse, which still hasn’t moved from the shelf.
“Isn’t the bread done yet? The ovens are ready!”
I hear footsteps and realize that she is coming into the kitchen. Thinking quickly, I grab an empty parmesan cheese container, and bundle the mouse into the square plastic box. Surprisingly, it doesn’t resist. I love the feeling of the soft brown fur on my hand. It is not like the mice I have sometimes seen before. Its tail is covered with hair, and there is a small tuft on the end. It also has amazingly large, sensitive-looking round ears, which twitch around at the slightest noise.
I find myself imagining the view from the box as I walk quickly out of the kitchen, container under my arm. The cool breeze in the backyard blows in my face, bringing the scent of summer rains to my nose. My shoes make heavy clomping sounds as I travel down the wooden ramp. Suddenly I trip, jouncing the box. I should be able to regain my balance, but I feel like I am flying off my feet. I land on my backside, container still in hand. The mouse's large eyes are staring at me through the clear plastic. It doesn't look injured, but my heart is still pumping fast. I had never fallen like that before. It almost felt like I was being thrown off my feet. I set the container down next to a rock at the bottom of the ramp shakily, hoping that it will be safe. I will have to find somewhere else to put it later.
A heavy step on the ramp makes my head turn. It is my mother, and she is looking at me strangely. I straighten up hurriedly, trying not to look too guilty. She frowns.
"Are you alright?"
I nod.
"I just needed a little fresh air."
She sighs exasperatedly, and turns to go into the kitchen. I follow, glancing once back at the mouse's hiding spot.
*sigh* I guess I'll have to start over from the beginning. 
Critique Four of Five 
But I shall comment anyways.