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Description
sometimes i have strange thoughts. the idea came to me while i was peeling vinyl backing from a banner. it reminded me of skin. and i got some crazy blisters on my fingertips to show for it. i like how my mind works.

***

another beautiful piece of writing by ~apocathary.

The market was dusty and dry, and the sand swirled through the stalls to sting shins and catch in the oily surface of eyeballs. The colours on the flags that flapped crazily in the wind were faded, and the material on which they were bound was threadbare and torn. The concept of exotic was expressed here in its totality: strange fruits, cuts of cloth that defied modern fashion, oils that promised virility beyond that of Atlas, and trinkets of all shapes, sizes and heritage.

I was a tourist here, beyond a doubt. This was not the colour of my dirt, these were not the curves of my buildings, nor the smell of my people. My tour bus had cradled me on its journey over the mountains and down to the plain that this market huddled together on. But now I was alone, separated from the rest of the pustulent, flabby british that had complained the whole trip about missing the taste of proper cheese (that made from cows, rather than the perfectly prepared goat's cheese that we had been given). Aromas rose from the flat sheets of metal, piled high with meat and improvised spice sauce. The cooks that stood behind them bared oil burns that spread across their palms and up to their steel-cord shoulders. Though tempting, the sight of the occasional clawed foot poking through the slip and slide of the meat mounds was enough to keep me walking.

The markets weren't large in area but, like the Swiss variant of the cheese that my compatriots yearned for, it was filled with holes that ran through the bulk. On a whim I decided to journey into one of these dark entrances, in search of further definitions of foreign, and perhaps a more appetising meal. It was darker than outside, and blues cast cool eyes at me where reds had previously glared. Clothes hung off wooden limbs that stuck out at random from the walls. I had obviously wandered into the area where families that ran the markets lived. I turned to go, but as I did my eye caught the entrance to a shop. The door was slightly ajar and hazy golden light spilled out from it into the street. Above the doorway was a carved wooden sign. It had burned into it the words "Mr. Raven's Oddity Emporium", with a stylised motif of a crow next to it. The crow had on a top hat, and was grinning out at the passers-by.

I stopped, intrigued. While it wasn't the food that my stomach was craving, it certainly looked like it could harbour the kind of gifts my friends and family back home might delight over.I decided to put off the growls issuing from my mid-region in favour for some bargain hunting. As I passed the threshold of the store I felt a shiver run through my body, and my cheek started to twitch; it had always had a spasm that would start up at inconvenient moments. I was massaging it as I wandered around the store, working my fingers into the thick muscle in hope of halting its irritating frequency, when an old man, presumably the store owner, startled me from behind.

"Hello there luck sir! Welcome to Mr. Raven's Oddity Emporium!"

The old man was crooked, but lively. His dark eyes glittered and he was wearing a worn top hat under which tufts of grey-streaked black hair sprouted. His arms extended to encompass the store and its contents and he bowed slightly, "I am Mr. Raven, and here you will find the most unique and curious items available for purchase in these markets."

I recovered quickly, still massaging my cheek which had begun to pulse stronger in my fright. I eyed the self styled raven man carefully, and corrected his poor english.

"'Lucky'? Okay I will remember this word, sir. Thank you, sir."

I asked him if he had any suggestions for some small items for my folks. He leaned back thoughtfully, "This is a request I often get. Let me show you around the shop and we will see if anything grabs your attention?"

I nodded and followed his hunched form around the cramped shop as he picked out rarity after trinket after legend. I was shown the eyeball of a manticore, an intricate brass key thought to open a hidden treasure chest in the ruins of Maya, and various bottles containing elixirs of life. I was somewhat unimpressed, and let Mr. Raven know this. He looked at me critically, "Where do you hail from, sir?"

I replied that I came from mainland England.

"And what is your occupation there?"

I'm a computer software analyst.

"That would mean you would be indoors, yes? Tucked away from the elements?"

Of course, computer software doesn't often grow trees.

"Well then I believe I have just the thing for you, luck sir! Very luck sir! Please, please, follow me."

I tried to correct him again, but he merely beckoned me towards the back corner of the shop, where he swept aside a carpet to reveal the pull of a trapdoor. He grunted and heaved the trapdoor up to reveal a ladder into a small underground room. My cheek started pulsing even more strongly and I paused to try and knuckle it into submission. I wasn't particularly enthused about descending into dark places. He started climbing down the ladder and, sensing my reluctance to follow him, beckoned again, "Come sir, I am only an old man and the perfect gift awaits you. Come, come!"

I swallowed me inane suspicions and ducked down onto the ladder and into the room. It smelled sharp, like the pages of an old crime novel might smell like if violence on the page had leaked into the binding. Mr. Raven disappeared into the darkness and I heard the scrape of a flint and the flare of a lamp. He ran around to the corners of the room and lit four thick candles that stood guarding the treasures that lay beneath them. And treasures they were. I looked down at the covers of four flawlessly bound journals. Gold gilded the edges of the covers in harsh, angular script that I supposed indicated the nature of the contents in some weird language. I looked between the journals and Mr. Raven, deciding how I was going to play out this sale. He spoke before I did, removing his top-hat and twirling it on a finger, bottom-up.

"You like what you see, sir?"

I replied that I thought they were a pleasant curiosity.

The old man chuckled darkly, "Pleasant, sir? I think you should look more closely."

I frowned and picked up the the journal closest to me. The cover was an off grey colour and felt smooth but dry, drier than the air around me. I opened the first page and was taken aback by the sight of messily recorded English handwriting. I drew my reading glasses out of my pocket, settled them on my nose, and began reading. The brown text related autobiographically the life of a female high school science teacher from Canada, starting from birth and, I flicked through the book a little, continuing throughout towards what I presumed was her death. I passed through her first kiss, the mediocre feelings she associated with her husband, and her decision to leave him to travel the world. The smell of the room was stronger as I turned the pages. I stopped and inhaled deeply. It was the smell of burned copper, of iron rusted in sea salt. The smell I would usually associate with blood. My cheek was practically exploding out of my face at this point. I turned the book over in my hands and immediately dropped it, as if my hands had touched the metal sheets that fried up the meat I had previously rejected. It hit the ground with a thump but mercilessly stayed showing the grotesque image of a screaming face stretched over the backing of the journal.

I turned to ask Mr. Raven what on earth the image meant, but found him completely gone. In his place, there was a pool of shadow. No, not shadow, but feathers. A pile of pitch black, thick, oily feathers. And in the centre of the feathers, the same top hat that the old man had twirled on his fingers. As I stared, the feathers rose into the shape of a man, a coat of darkness out of which an oversized beak loomed, top hat perched precariously behind it on the crown of its head. Its call echoed into the small space from another world, bursting my ear drums in an instant. I knelt, hands on the side of my head with blood streaming through them as Mr. Raven stalked over to me and gripped his clawed hands over mine. His voice resounded in my head.

"Your luck day, sir."

Description
sometimes i have strange thoughts. the idea came to me while i was peeling vinyl backing from a banner. it reminded me of skin. and i got some crazy blisters on my fingertips to show for it. i like how my mind works.

***

another beautiful piece of writing by ~apocathary.

The market was dusty and dry, and the sand swirled through the stalls to sting shins and catch in the oily surface of eyeballs. The colours on the flags that flapped crazily in the wind were faded, and the material on which they were bound was threadbare and torn. The concept of exotic was expressed here in its totality: strange fruits, cuts of cloth that defied modern fashion, oils that promised virility beyond that of Atlas, and trinkets of all shapes, sizes and heritage.

I was a tourist here, beyond a doubt. This was not the colour of my dirt, these were not the curves of my buildings, nor the smell of my people. My tour bus had cradled me on its journey over the mountains and down to the plain that this market huddled together on. But now I was alone, separated from the rest of the pustulent, flabby british that had complained the whole trip about missing the taste of proper cheese (that made from cows, rather than the perfectly prepared goat's cheese that we had been given). Aromas rose from the flat sheets of metal, piled high with meat and improvised spice sauce. The cooks that stood behind them bared oil burns that spread across their palms and up to their steel-cord shoulders. Though tempting, the sight of the occasional clawed foot poking through the slip and slide of the meat mounds was enough to keep me walking.

The markets weren't large in area but, like the Swiss variant of the cheese that my compatriots yearned for, it was filled with holes that ran through the bulk. On a whim I decided to journey into one of these dark entrances, in search of further definitions of foreign, and perhaps a more appetising meal. It was darker than outside, and blues cast cool eyes at me where reds had previously glared. Clothes hung off wooden limbs that stuck out at random from the walls. I had obviously wandered into the area where families that ran the markets lived. I turned to go, but as I did my eye caught the entrance to a shop. The door was slightly ajar and hazy golden light spilled out from it into the street. Above the doorway was a carved wooden sign. It had burned into it the words "Mr. Raven's Oddity Emporium", with a stylised motif of a crow next to it. The crow had on a top hat, and was grinning out at the passers-by.

I stopped, intrigued. While it wasn't the food that my stomach was craving, it certainly looked like it could harbour the kind of gifts my friends and family back home might delight over.I decided to put off the growls issuing from my mid-region in favour for some bargain hunting. As I passed the threshold of the store I felt a shiver run through my body, and my cheek started to twitch; it had always had a spasm that would start up at inconvenient moments. I was massaging it as I wandered around the store, working my fingers into the thick muscle in hope of halting its irritating frequency, when an old man, presumably the store owner, startled me from behind.

"Hello there luck sir! Welcome to Mr. Raven's Oddity Emporium!"

The old man was crooked, but lively. His dark eyes glittered and he was wearing a worn top hat under which tufts of grey-streaked black hair sprouted. His arms extended to encompass the store and its contents and he bowed slightly, "I am Mr. Raven, and here you will find the most unique and curious items available for purchase in these markets."

I recovered quickly, still massaging my cheek which had begun to pulse stronger in my fright. I eyed the self styled raven man carefully, and corrected his poor english.

"'Lucky'? Okay I will remember this word, sir. Thank you, sir."

I asked him if he had any suggestions for some small items for my folks. He leaned back thoughtfully, "This is a request I often get. Let me show you around the shop and we will see if anything grabs your attention?"

I nodded and followed his hunched form around the cramped shop as he picked out rarity after trinket after legend. I was shown the eyeball of a manticore, an intricate brass key thought to open a hidden treasure chest in the ruins of Maya, and various bottles containing elixirs of life. I was somewhat unimpressed, and let Mr. Raven know this. He looked at me critically, "Where do you hail from, sir?"

I replied that I came from mainland England.

"And what is your occupation there?"

I'm a computer software analyst.

"That would mean you would be indoors, yes? Tucked away from the elements?"

Of course, computer software doesn't often grow trees.

"Well then I believe I have just the thing for you, luck sir! Very luck sir! Please, please, follow me."

I tried to correct him again, but he merely beckoned me towards the back corner of the shop, where he swept aside a carpet to reveal the pull of a trapdoor. He grunted and heaved the trapdoor up to reveal a ladder into a small underground room. My cheek started pulsing even more strongly and I paused to try and knuckle it into submission. I wasn't particularly enthused about descending into dark places. He started climbing down the ladder and, sensing my reluctance to follow him, beckoned again, "Come sir, I am only an old man and the perfect gift awaits you. Come, come!"

I swallowed me inane suspicions and ducked down onto the ladder and into the room. It smelled sharp, like the pages of an old crime novel might smell like if violence on the page had leaked into the binding. Mr. Raven disappeared into the darkness and I heard the scrape of a flint and the flare of a lamp. He ran around to the corners of the room and lit four thick candles that stood guarding the treasures that lay beneath them. And treasures they were. I looked down at the covers of four flawlessly bound journals. Gold gilded the edges of the covers in harsh, angular script that I supposed indicated the nature of the contents in some weird language. I looked between the journals and Mr. Raven, deciding how I was going to play out this sale. He spoke before I did, removing his top-hat and twirling it on a finger, bottom-up.

"You like what you see, sir?"

I replied that I thought they were a pleasant curiosity.

The old man chuckled darkly, "Pleasant, sir? I think you should look more closely."

I frowned and picked up the the journal closest to me. The cover was an off grey colour and felt smooth but dry, drier than the air around me. I opened the first page and was taken aback by the sight of messily recorded English handwriting. I drew my reading glasses out of my pocket, settled them on my nose, and began reading. The brown text related autobiographically the life of a female high school science teacher from Canada, starting from birth and, I flicked through the book a little, continuing throughout towards what I presumed was her death. I passed through her first kiss, the mediocre feelings she associated with her husband, and her decision to leave him to travel the world. The smell of the room was stronger as I turned the pages. I stopped and inhaled deeply. It was the smell of burned copper, of iron rusted in sea salt. The smell I would usually associate with blood. My cheek was practically exploding out of my face at this point. I turned the book over in my hands and immediately dropped it, as if my hands had touched the metal sheets that fried up the meat I had previously rejected. It hit the ground with a thump but mercilessly stayed showing the grotesque image of a screaming face stretched over the backing of the journal.

I turned to ask Mr. Raven what on earth the image meant, but found him completely gone. In his place, there was a pool of shadow. No, not shadow, but feathers. A pile of pitch black, thick, oily feathers. And in the centre of the feathers, the same top hat that the old man had twirled on his fingers. As I stared, the feathers rose into the shape of a man, a coat of darkness out of which an oversized beak loomed, top hat perched precariously behind it on the crown of its head. Its call echoed into the small space from another world, bursting my ear drums in an instant. I knelt, hands on the side of my head with blood streaming through them as Mr. Raven stalked over to me and gripped his clawed hands over mine. His voice resounded in my head.

"Your luck day, sir."