Curiosity Shop

ernest hemingway once wisely advised "write while drunk, edit while sober." taking this in mind, i blacked out once in 2004 and woke up in someone else's clothes, with this in my head.

somewhere in the desert, outside of the city and beyond the woods,

there is a large tent built on a hill. 

it sits, cold and alone 

against the waves of sand that move,

warm and legion, and this tent owns nothing but a single sign.

the sign, short and wide, reads in all languages of the world "Curiousity Shop."

as you make your way, tired and thirsty, up and over the most recent dune 

in front of you, you see the tent, long and tall, calling out to you like a beacon.

the moonlight covers it in crawling shadows, cast from its many billowing folds

that blow this way and that way, just before the shop's closed door. 

you see light coming from behind the tent door.

you make your way in.

 

your eyes squint against the light, soft and small, as it seems to cover the room entirely. you look left, then right, and find, against all odds, the insides of the shop seem much, much larger than the picture it gave moments ago. there are twists and turns, jarring and far-off, and yet only one lamp seems to light the bizarre with yellow hands that reach every corner. you see globes that seem to depict the world incorrectly, with countries and oceans where you know there aren't. you see large, golden cages that seem the size to hold horses, yet come with a swing or bedding small enough to house fleas. you find shelves of all sizes, cluttered and dusty, that cover every side of the store save for one.

 

across from you suddenly is a large desk, one made of old wood, bare and clean, with a man sitting behind it. he stands looking in your direction, as if he has been waiting for you, wearing a dark, red gallibaya that covers all but his eyes. 

 

you raise your head and meet his gaze. you seem afraid at first, but search in your head to find words to say.

 

"what...what do you sell here" you ask the man as your voice finally cracks, parched and tired. 

 

his eyes close to almost slivers then, and he looks neither old, nor young.

 

"that will be five dollars."

Reviews

[KillerWithWords]

Fantastic job here.

Upon first glance at your ending i was expecting something really cliche'. But it turned out that your shop is fantastic and anything but predictable.

This story my friend, is the real stuff.
Check plus, as usual.

[Francis Danger]

thank you again!

[KillerWithWords]

Btw i read this story aloud to a roomful of strangers at a coffee shop in park slope. They all loved it.
Ohhh yeaaaaa.