Village 7 and Rustica
The nomad with the basket of fresh hams came to pay his taxes at the kiosk. The liar behind the counter took his twelve ducats and let him through to the marketplace. The dolers (as in “they were dolers of fruit”) were shuttling little relics back and forth. The eel vendor leaned back in his mini-hammock, his feet spray-painted a striking blue. The nomad opened up his basket, releasing a fly that had gotten stuck inside. Darnit, he muttered, hoping nobody had seen. Who would buy his fresh hams now? The market was getting wispy; most folks were out by the reefs, watching the famous wigglers, and the drunks tempting fate with the bulls.
Bones began popping up all over the yard. At first, Bendina assumed it was the neighbor’s doing, tossing leftover roasts and such onto our property. But the bones were strange, worm-like ones. The dog wouldn’t touch them. When at night they started to glow, like great parasites of moonlight, to burst in furious, springtime blossom, we decided to call someone. It’s just we weren’t sure who. I went out last dusk and the austerity of the yard seeped, like gritty talc, into my throat. It held me hard, glued to the mouth of the cave.