Short Story: 'Bazaar By Night'

 by Indie Stone

Illuminating the inky sky into a canvas of gleaming brilliance, the warming lamps carved a path; a path in which the horde followed. Although dancing above the sea of swarming bees, the mellow radiance wrote a map that they obeyed. Even so, some strayed away from the beaten track, scurrying and scampering, so their very bodies created a murmur that echoed through the balconies above. Amounting like the great piles of cumin, turmeric, star anise and cardamom, the brisk flow of people created a welcoming breeze to the close, stifling air. Lifting the small plumes of gold beyond the spires in the rafters, their nutty fragrance created an abyss that aromatized the sweet-smelling bridleway. 

As the cascade of bustling bodices rambled past the wicker hampers, some full to the brim with an abundance of grapes, dates and peaches, a basket suddenly shook. It stopped. Little by little, the lid was opening, revealing a black slit of darkness. Through strained eyes, one could see something contained within the vessel, however, amongst the sheer mass of the crowd, it was not clear. Encapsulated in the wake of the thoroughfare, and through the windows of legs and limbs, two green eyes were emerging from the basket; they were as emerald as the jewels dangling from the surrounding storefront. Like a landslide, the wonderfully weaved lid flew to the floor.

With soft, delicate strands that effortlessly floated above its skin, the silent assassin surfaced from its nest, while its tail twitched in excitement. Releasing a piercing screech that cut through the low humming of the crowd, it jumped from its perch and wrapped wrinkled fingers around the flagpoles above, swiftly swinging away. 

It was gone.

Upon its withdrawal, the former home was sent sideways, becoming a cannonball that bombarded the neighboring towns. A tidal wave, the tsunami of dates came plummeting down, their wrinkled sweetness threatening to cover the floor in a lake of maroon elixir. Drowning out the faint twang and pounding of the residing music, the sudden shrieks of surprise bounced around the walls; an ocean of heads turned, while a plethora of eyes peered upon the syrupy oil spill. 

Returning to the same melodic tune, the faint creaking of a wagon parted the red sea of people, creating two streams that were tightly packed to each side of the street. Jolting and nudging the solid stalls, the harsh clang and tinny clash of the lustrous pots and pans resounded, like a herd of cows in a field. Nevertheless, their imperial shades of golds and silvers reigned the rafters as they dangled from side to side, glinting their own sunset hue.  A fleet of brightly colored ships, great sails of satin, silk, and cashmere floated above, while voices muttered financial offerings for these regal sails of deep purples, crimsons and golds. A cymbal struck when meaty morsels were poured into a jacuzzi of sizzling oil, releasing a cloud of piquant odor that brushed past the hanging beads, uplifting them with vivid notes of fragrance: 

The street was alive.