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July 26, 2005

Volume 4, Issue 26

The sights, the sounds, the smells, everything there is seen and unseen.

Write about the bazaar.

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The Eschatologist: Training

I could see my clan cheering me silently, fists pumping, as I made my virginal run.

No one notices children. I danced and crawled around oblivious shoppers and peddlers, in and out of garish multicolored tents hocking metallic trinkets, under and between carts with apples, dates, mangos, sweetmeats, and every other possible delight. My eyes were wide, my pockets wider.

The mark was fourteen cubits away, ten, then two. I hid behind the robes of a fat moneychanger, spit flying from him in fevered negotiation over a goat.

I leaned in, quietly, ready to dart.

She turned and winked, smiling.

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Ted: An Eye for an Eye

The thing is, I actually know a guy who sells eyeballs.

I got called to head over to Park's in Chinatown to evaluate the crime scene.

The hands were removed, of course, as well as his eyes. It was the eyes that told me what I needed to know. No one just takes an eye or two, they have to have a place to sell them. Or as a warning to others. This was a warning, since it turns out that Park had quite a collection of trophy eyes in his warehouse.

Dammit. First the clones, now the accessories dealers.

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Michele: Stand in the Place Where You Are

Lights were strung across the booths, casting a spirited glow across the bazaar. It looked exactly the same way last year, when he was there with Greta. They walked the aisles, buying exotic spices and odd statues and when a waltz drifted from one of the booths, they danced right there, by the “Spiritual Advisor” who told their fortunes.

He knelt down on the exact spot where they danced, holding back tears.

“You came.” The Advisor knelt next to him. “Your daughter, she says she is at peace.”

A waltz drifted through the night, and John felt his grief lift.

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