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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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Today’s the day, thank God. I’m tired of the practice.

Over and over again, we go through the routines. Shoulder position, hand position, head position, body direction. Then the bump, the take, the pocket, the walk. Do we speak? Depends on the bump, the crowd size. I’ve been working on situations where the mark bumps into me.

They say I show real promise. Small, fast hands, and a very forgettable face. They have no idea. I have goals. I’ll swipe the Queen’s wallet one day. I can smell the marketplace from here; can already hear the din.

Today’s the day.

Posted by: Mr. Parx at July 26, 2005 5:47 AM · Permalink

Through the jetlag and cheap sake, I struggled to follow the gist of my host’s broken English as we stumbled toward a cone of light touching down on the dark alley floor. An anonymous rancid stench sent my head and stomach reeling as a tiny river of greenish brown sludge flowed unnervingly near my Ferragamo wingtips.

Staggering upriver, a cacophony of broken English enveloped us. “You rike virgin?” “How much for rittle sister?” Nudging beyond, we reached the belly-slicing serpent venders as they drained cobra juices into shot glasses. “Five dolla, make bitch holla.”

Taipei’s Snake Alley is bizarre, indeed.

Posted by: Mitch at July 26, 2005 9:11 AM · Permalink

Damn. It just occurred to me that editing is best done BEFORE pushing the post button. Would I be out of line to re-submit?

Posted by: Mitch at July 26, 2005 9:58 AM · Permalink

I first saw her tending stall for her cruel-faced master. We talked, avoiding his gaze. She said for fifty obols, she could buy her freedom.

I had only two. I bought an apple from her with one.

I sold it outside the apothecary's to a man who just downed a bitter potion, for five. I bought a wineskin, then sold it to a sailor for twelve and pearls worth ten more. I bought a horse, then traded it to a fleeing criminal for sixty.

When I returned to the stall, the master said he sold her to the General's harem.

Posted by: Jeff R. at July 26, 2005 10:31 AM · Permalink

Used Goods
By Thomas Wilburn

The man in the corner of the crowded church basement is selling skin - the sign says so! His booth is made of canvas slung over a rough wooden frame built from two-by-fours. It must weigh a ton. The merchandise must be out of sight inside the dark stall, because the outside is just plain burlap brown, with a cardboard sign reading “SKIN.”

“Is it some kinda porn thing?” You ask the proprieter.

Not exactly, he replies, and gestures for you to enter. Hung from nails hammered through the cloth are people, empty, slack, and drooping.

“I’ll take two,” you say.

Posted by: Thomas at July 26, 2005 11:02 AM · Permalink

"How much for the lamp?" Tom was in a hurry; he didn't have time to haggle.

"Twenty dollars."

The merchant smirked as Tom replied, "Sold."

Tom threw the lamp in his backpack and hailed a taxi. Jenny would kill him if he didn't bring her something.

"I wish that I could have found a better gift for her instead of this kitsch," he murmured.

----

"So, what did you bring me?"

"It's in my backpack," Tom replied.

"Tom, it's beautiful! Thank you!"

Tom was stunned to see Jenny wearing a glittering necklace. The lamp, and Tom's other two wishes, were gone.

Posted by: Johnny Catbird at July 26, 2005 11:21 AM · Permalink

Peter carefully considered his position. One more purchase and his collection would be complete, and the victory would be his. He checked over his currency on hand again. He reviewed the rates of exchange. Finally, he double-checked the prices of the items remaining for sale. At last, it was time to roll the dice.

Blue! Yes! That trades for two whites and a green, and the red he already had goes with that green to trade for another two whites. Since he already had a white, he could buy the five whites good, at double value. The game was won.

Posted by: Jeff R. at July 26, 2005 12:17 PM · Permalink

It was a punishing summer, crops and townfolk fading under a relentless sun.

They rolled in with the dust at the edge of town with tents of gaudy gypsy color, crackling torchlight glinting off spangles. Their bazaar, hungry from our months of sun-leeched existence, bewitched us.

Fried delicacies entranced the children, the menfolk sampling exotic drink, the women drawn to silks and potions of promise. A night of wild music and abandon.

I huddle in a root cellar listening to the fire and screams that consume the town. I write furiously in the dark, a witness to the approaching doom.

Posted by: Darleen at July 26, 2005 12:21 PM · Permalink

At the risk of being inappropriate (this first timer's not familar with the rules), I'm going to re-submit an edited version of one I prematurely posted earlier. I hope that's ok.

Posted by: Mitch at July 26, 2005 1:06 PM · Permalink

Through jetlag and cheap sake, I struggled to follow the gist of my host’s broken English as we staggered toward a cone of light touching down on the dark alley floor. The ghastly vapors of fermenting body fluids enveloped me while a thin river of greenish-brown sludge threatened my Ferragamo wingtips.

A cacophony of flies and barking merchants surrounded us: “You rike virgin?” “How much for rittle sista?”

Nudging beyond, we reached the serpent mongers where slit cobras hung high; their juices draining into shot glasses. “Five dolla, make bitch holla.”

Bizarre is as bazaar does in Taipei’s Snake Alley.

Posted by: Mitch at July 26, 2005 1:07 PM · Permalink

That's fine, Mitch.

Posted by: michele at July 26, 2005 1:07 PM · Permalink

Before they shut it down, a kid could get anything at the Freeport Flea-Market. Frankie Luntz bought the soul of old McCready's doberman, Gina Sperduto bought a modest planet in the Orion Nebula, and I bought a pirate's glass eye - all for a song.

We spent hard-won dollars on pocketknives! glass-fixed scorpions! horror comics Mom wouldn't let you read! anything, as long as it was interesting and cheap! It felt like cheating, like buying the power adulthood without doing any of the growing up.

Later on, we realized we were buying shares in childhood, and growing up all the while.

Posted by: G-Do at July 26, 2005 4:09 PM · Permalink

In the spirit of reposting, I'm going to correct my own error :P

Posted by: G-Do at July 26, 2005 4:11 PM · Permalink

Before they shut it down, a kid could get anything at the Freeport Flea-Market. Frankie Luntz bought the soul of old McCready's doberman, Gina Sperduto bought a planet in the Orion Nebula, and I bought a pirate's glass eye - all for a song.

We spent hard-won dollars on pocketknives! glass-fixed scorpions! horror comics Mom wouldn't let you read! anything, as long as it was interesting and cheap! It felt like cheating, like buying the power of adulthood without doing any of the growing up.

Later on, we realized we were buying shares in childhood, and growing up all the while.

Posted by: G-Do at July 26, 2005 4:13 PM · Permalink

He was Ali Bakr, yougest son of a wealthy Shia family. His family could trace their lineage all the way back to Mohamed, there was no more prominent family in the region.

She was Fatima Salem, daughter of a modest Sunni merchant here in the village.

Their's was an unlikely love, and a forbidden one. A chance meeting in the bazaar as young children had grown over the years into a secretive friendship and eventual passion. However, the one thing not for sale in the souk was privacy, and their frustrations grew.

They agreed that escape was the only answer........

Posted by: Gahrie at July 26, 2005 9:31 PM · Permalink