Poetry: A Curiosity Shop of Doom

Daily writing prompt

If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?

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I love stories of strange evils,
and the smell of something dark
in a shop somewhere lost in a
dense city.

Monkey’s paws and lament configurations,
ancient books splayed out, next to
ceremonial daggers, all of which
have been used.

The shop’s owner doesn’t come out
until you pick up the one thing
you were meant to pick up.
Quickly, she comes,

“Oh, that?” she says emerging,
but you can never see her legs,
because her bottom half slithers
behind the counter.

“It’s the eye of Dagoth.
I can’t sell you that.”
But she does, and suddenly
you are at home with your family.

And the Eye of Dagoth begins to glow
while you sleep,
and the two people buried in the backyard
(previous tenants, not yours)
rise from the dirt, clawing their way toward the house.

A traditional three-act structure ensues.

And you return the Eye of Dagoth to the shop,
but the owner is nowhere to be seen.
Because she has slithered back
to her own realm.

Now you own the shop,
and you slither about.