a Flash Fiction piece
After a certain turn in the road spanning the states of Oregon and Washington there is a gravel pathway. A line of shops extend far into the distance. Shops selling any number of wares. One day, after taking a certain turn in the road and walking about a half mile down the endless line of shops, I finally entered one. This one had no sign at the top, no name. It was a large tent, bigger than the rest, almost like a circus tent, with many small peaks surrounding the main one. Inside the tent, many faces peered out at me. Stacked on the floor, hung upon the walls. A thousand pairs of eyes staring back at me. I walked up to the wooden desk that was slightly right of the center of the room. The desk was almost completely covered by the carved faces. A man sat behind the desk. He was a small, gnomelike man, and looked to be as old as a man could possibly be. He spoke in a high, scratchy voice that was vaguely reminiscent of the sound of nails along a chalkboard. "What do you want?" He graveled. I looked back at the plethora of etched masks, and suddenly, the stories began.