Months and months ago I wrote a piece for a flash fiction challenge from Chuck Wendig over at terribleminds... If you've never encountered his writing, do yourself a favor and go introduce yourself to one of his books... you'll be glad to make its acquaintance.
Without further ado, here's the blurb I wrote for the prompt FLEA MARKETS. Enjoy! ^-^
Kat poked through the piles of junk, the tables full of treasures. She had no particular item in mind, but browsed the aisles piled high with anything and everything imaginable, searching for a special something. She would know it when she found it.
She wandered around for what felt like a terribly long time. As she was getting ready to give up her search, she found it. It being an old, slightly rusted door knob attached to a back plate with a large key hole. It also came with a skeleton key that weighed heavily in her hands. There was no price tag.
“How much did you want for this?” she asked the seller. The old woman raised bushy eyebrows and peered at Kat with her bleary, aged eyes.
“That? How did that get here? Hmm. I suppose I could give it to you for $5... if you're sure you want it. Although why anyone would need that many doors, I'm sure I don't know.”
Kat handed the woman the money and carefully placed her purchase in her messenger bag. She looked back up at the old woman.
“What did you mean, about the doors? This is only for one door.”
The old seller scrunched up her wrinkly face as she laughed. “Ah, young lady, that knob will lead you through more doors than you think, if you will it.”
With that, she turned away to help another customer. Kat left the woman to her next customer and walked back toward the bus stop.
As she sat on the bus, she thought about the old seller's words. They sounded like something out of a fairy tale. She thought how lovely it would be if life had fairy tale magic, but how it most certainly did not. At least not for someone like her, a college student working at a coffee shop, who could barely pay her bills. Yeah, she'd definitely welcome some fairy tale magic.
That night she couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned, then finally got up to take some NyQuil, hoping it would knock her out for a few hours. Around four in the morning she gave up and went to her kitchen.
She made some tea and toast, then sat down to more closely examine the doorknob. It was strangely heavy, just as the key was. She held it up to get a better look at the design etched onto the knob. She glanced through the keyhole and what she saw nearly made her drop it. She set it down on the table and took a deep breath. Maybe she'd taken more of the cough syrup than she'd thought. Because she was obviously hallucinating. She had to be, right? Yes, she decided, she had to be, because moonlit gardens simply do not exist in the key holes of old doorknobs.
She held it up again and purposefully looked through the keyhole this time. Sure enough, the garden was still there. “Through more doors than I think, if I will it,” she whispered to herself. She walked over to her kitchen wall and placed the knob against it. She let go and found that it held fast to where she'd placed it. Slowly, she turned the knob to the right. It didn't budge. It was locked.
Of course it was, she thought, that's why there's a key. She grabbed the key off the table and walked back over to the knob on the wall. Kat inserted the key, turned it, then turned the knob to the right again. The whole doorknob promptly detached from the wall and she had to scramble to catch it.
“What the hell...” she muttered.
She looked through the keyhole again and saw the garden was still there. Her eyebrows drew together as she replaced the knob on the wall. She inserted the key once again and turned the knob to the left. A door that hadn't been there seconds ago easily opened out of her wall. She gazed through it into the garden bathed in moonlight, smelling of sweet flowers and green, growing things. The warm Summer air enveloped her and fireflies beckoned her forward. She stepped through the doorway onto a dirt path and didn't look back.