litlinks 2018

小淘气 (Little Rascal)

by Samantha Lawson, Namadgi School

Falling through the air. Flashes of blue and white. Suddenly swallowed by darkness.

He awoke abruptly, head shaking in confusion. Squirming, he flailed his legs to right himself from the gritty wet floor, dazed eyes searching for his friends. Just moments before, they had been playing happily together. But now, they were nowhere to be seen.

A wave of dread washed over him. Where was he? How was he going to find his way back to his friends? Was he ever? His senses were overwhelmed. Foreign speech, the scuffling of feet, and the scrape of metal upon stone combined into chaotic disorder. Despite seeming wholly unfamiliar, the constant stream of noise oddly resembled the melodic crashing of waves upon the shore. The scent of blood and raw flesh filled the air; underneath lingered scents of dried flowers and incense. Still disgruntled, his vision was filled with harsh specks of light. In terror, he scampered away quickly, searching for a quiet, dark place to hide.

From underneath a wooden table, body obscured by a tattered cloth, he composed himself. Determined to find out where he was, he decided to explore his surroundings. Small heart beating, he peeked out from beneath the cloth.

In front of him stood a pair of feet. They wore faded white socks and flimsy slip-on shoes, the cheap white fabric adorned in oriental patterns of royal blue. The feet stood on a dark cement floor, littered with pieces of rubbish and rotten fruit, stained with all manners of liquids, beverages and bodily fluids alike. They scuffled on the ground occasionally, moving side-to-side, back and forth, sometimes even tapping the ground impatiently.

As he watched curiously, he was alarmed as they took several large steps towards him. For fear of being trodden on, he retreated to the side, watching them cautiously. They stood only for a brief moment before wandering back into a clamouring crowd, blending in as they walked out of sight. Bewildered, he craned his neck.

Towering over him was a bustling stream of figures. They wore many layers of jackets and jumpers, scarves draped around their pale necks. Some had sagging faces wrinkled with age, peppered with speckles and bumps. Others had smooth porcelain skin. Their curious faces were framed with shiny dark hair; sleek locks reflecting the dull fluorescent sheen of the artificial lights. Most carried satchels or bags. Still, there were the occasional curious contraptions dragged around the ground. Strangers walked with intent, stopping occasionally to inspect a cut of meat or a green knobbly vegetable displayed atop tall wooden tables.

He twitched in excitement as he observed his surroundings in wonder. What a strange place! He was very eager to explore.

Through further observation he concluded that he stood in front of an intersection of sorts, peering up at rows and rows of tables and stalls. Across these stalls were haphazardly strewn all manners of exotic produce. Some held bunches of long white mushrooms, while others displayed exotic pink fruits laid out upon frayed blankets. I wonder what they would taste like, he thought to himself. Behind each stand were shop owners standing elevated above the crowd, bellowing loudly to their customers.

In his wake, the bellowing noises were deafening. Emerging from under the table hesitantly, fuelled by fear and fascination, he turned around and was bathed in a dull pink glow. Above his head towered a tall figure, standing behind a sturdy wooden bench. The figure wore a bloodied apron. A broad, glinting cleaver raised in his plump hand. Blood trickled down from the sharp blade, mingling with pools of water and gleaming scales on the pockmarked floor.

If he craned his neck high enough, he could just see the contents of a row of plastic tubs, sitting on top of the bench. In one, a pile of gleaming, deep red livers. In the next, countless feet, knobbly skin drawn across gnarled claws. And, in the last, rows upon rows of severed necks, white bone protruding from the cylindrical pieces of flesh. High above, sharp metal hooks drained the bodies of several naked chickens. Bare of feathers and colour, their small heads dangled limply to the side.

With experienced fluidity, the man in the bloodied apron unhooked a chicken and plunked it onto the bench, the wood crisscrossed with scars. Then he raised his cleaver. THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

The sound filled his little heart with fright. Panicked, he scrambled away, diving into the stream of figures. THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

The sound still perceptible even in the clutter of the crowd, he let himself get swept away. Amidst the rabble, his senses were in overload. The air was warm and humid. The scent of stale sweat and rotting fruit lingered in the air. Streams of conversations, clearing of throats, and the bellowing of shop owners combined into a single boisterous uproar.

Before he knew it, he found himself beside a smaller stall, the unpleasant odour replaced by a sweet fragrance, the terrifying thwacking noises no longer audible.

Having regained his composure, he looked up at the stall to his right. It was piled high with oddly shaped fruits. Some were a bright yellow in colour, while others were brown and battered. They emitted a mouth-watering fragrance that opened yawning chasms in his growling stomach.

He watched anxiously as a looming figure approached the stall. An oriental style jacket hung off her frail frame, the folds and creases of the fabric accentuated by her heavy stoop. In one hand she held a satchel, its rough cloth material bulging with plastic bags. Around her wrist was wrapped a long, red rope that dangled onto the ground and disappeared behind her baggy pants. Her hair was wispy and white, framing her wrinkled face.

As she came to a stop in front of the stall , she gave the owner a gummy smile and made a gesture with her hand. The woman standing behind the stall promptly returned the greeting and tossed a plastic bag down to her. Then the dainty figure set to work. Wrinkled hand pawing through the fruits, she selected only the brightest and firmest fruits on display, although he couldn’t possibly fathom why. A small piece of fruit fell from the display in her endeavours, but she paid it no heed. The fruit landed in front of him and exploded into a gooey brown mess. Giddy with excitement, he devoured it in a few large gulps.

It was sweet and sticky, the delicious yellowy brown interior melting in his mouth. He gazed up at the dainty figure, wondering what else she might knock down from the bench, but she was finishing quickly.

The frail figure reached into her handbag and pulled out several wrinkled green paper notes, along with a few silver and copper coins. She handed them over to the woman behind the stall and tucked the small plastic bag of fruit into her satchel. Then she turned around, heading back the way she came. It was at that very moment that he noticed what her baggy pants had been obscuring from sight.

The red rope wrapped around her wrist, now appearing worryingly feeble, was attached to the collar of a monstrous beast. It was covered in white fur, its hairs standing on edge as it glared down at him with murder in its eyes. The hideous creature let out a low growl, its vicious fangs set in a menacing snarl. Drool dripped from its jaws, and without warning, it lunged at him.

Terribly frightened, he bolted, weaving between giant feet and curious wheeled contraptions and almost being caught underfoot. He made his way past stands stocked high with bundles of long white mushrooms underneath the frayed cloth which displayed exotic pink fruits. He came to a stop under a familiar pink glow. Just as his breathing was slowing down, his little heart beating more evenly, he was shrouded in the shadow of an enormous hand, suddenly swallowed by darkness.

“There you are! You little rascal!” exclaimed the fishmonger humorously as he picked up the crayfish, returning it to the blue plastic tub with the others. The crayfish wriggled his antenna and scuttled around happily, overjoyed to be reunited with his friends.

Several stalls away, the dainty old woman picked up her Pomeranian, still snarling at the wet patch left on the floor. “Now look what you did,” she bickered, stroking its silky white fur. “You scared that poor critter half to death!”