He took himself off the pathway and walked towards the back of the 
area, taking a deep breath as he found the correct tree, marked with 
a nearly indeterminable infinity loop near its base. He used to be 
self-conscious fulfilling this ritual, but the things rattled mercilessly in 
his pocket and the sweat on his palms reminded him of his task. 


He just had to get in, find his target, and get out. Easy-peasy, 
lemon-squeezy. 


Reminding himself of this, he put his hand on the trunk of the tree 
and closed his eyes tight. A middle-aged couple walking their dog 
nearby gaped and then hurried along, muttering about ‘damn 
stoners’. 


Kit let the breeze ruffle through his hair and matched his breathing 
with the faint life pulse of the tree, once the world was silent enough 
around him that he could hear it, though it always seemed to be 
more with his head than with his ears. 


The chant, at least, was only in his head for sure. 


‘Imagine a market here. Imagine people yelling their wares. Imagine 
the man who wants preemie pies. Imagine why someone not made 
of tin may want a heart. Imagine why someone with a brain of their 
own may want the still-pink brain of a young woman who had killed 
herself. Imagine how courage may look, feel, and smell, if you could 
bottle it. Imagine yourself there, and sell them your sacrifice. 


|, Kit, willingly wish to visit the Meat Market. | accept my fate and do 
not hold the Market libel for any maiming, crushing, murdering, 
dismemberment or defenestration that may happen to my person 
whilst visiting. | have your sacrifice and | wish for...’ 


What did he wish for? He could ask for anything. Didn’t mean he 
would get it, but he could ask. But his outstretched hand was 
trembling, and he was sweating buckets. The bruise on his face 
ached with every distant heartbeat. 


‘And | wish for Bloom.’ 


The world went silent around him. No breezes, no birds, no 
strangers’ footsteps. Then it span and he lost grip on the tree, 
slamming into the ground which had gone from grass to cobblestone 
paths. His ribs ached as he struggled to catch his breath whilst 
waiting out the dizziness. 


He put out his hands to lever himself up, and they were nearly 
trodden on by someone with very big feet that had no toes. The 
owner of the feet grumbled about ‘outside trash’ and Kit waited until 
they had moved on before scrambling to his own feet. 


Regardless of how many times he had been here before, the 
change always amazed him. The park was gone, instead replaced 
with an area with stalls as far as the eye could see, and probably 
further than that. Manning these stalls — and they were always men, 
Kit had noticed — were beings that called out their wares. They all 
spoke in English to him, with a variety of accents, but, from what Kit 
understood of this place, English was not what everyone else heard. 


The clouds in the sky were gone, replaced with a domed roof that 
seemed to go on and on, carrying the acoustics of the market. 
Entities jostled for space and for attention, with some stalls serving 
more as pop-up stores, whilst others were little more than folded 
tables with a few items spread on them. 


Some had banners — some didn’t have as much as black marker on 
a piece of card. Kit squeezed into a space he could find between 
‘Pied Piper's Preemie Pies’ and ‘Bob’s Meat and Two Veg’ whilst he 
found himself still recovering from the dizzying sensation. A voice 
nearby called out in an East London accent, identical to his 
mother’s, causing profound nostalgia and a flinching pain in equal 
measures. 


Those who didn’t know the way to the Market still saw the illusion of 
the park (or was it the Market that was the illusion?), with Kit’s 
human body slumped in front of the tree, as if sleeping — or 
collapsed. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out he had limited time 
in this place, if only for the fact that some Good Samaritan would 
eventually rush to his side and try to rouse him. If that happened, he 


would be dragged from this place, whether a deal was struck or not. 


So, Kit doggedly got to the business of moving towards one of the 
more unassuming stalls that he knew offered Bloom in exchange for 
anything of a human, with the quality dipping based on what one 
had to exchange. 


He slipped past ‘Vincent's (slightly used) Vulvas!’ and ‘Here’s Lookin’ 
at You, Kid!’ before reaching his destination, mumbling the 
occasional ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’ to the variety of creatures that 
had followed their own unique rituals to come into this world. 


He was glad to find the queue wasn't really a queue at all — 
someone stood at the table, with just one very tall bipedal creature 
with huge, hunched shoulders ahead of him, waiting for the last 
transaction to finish up. When the being turned around to see what 
the tiny human behind him was doing, Kit saw they had no face, yet 
they still managed to grunt, though if it was in greeting or disgust, Kit 
couldn’t be sure. 


When the tall thing reached the front, they took a machete from the 
pocket of their long, dark coat. No-one seemed shocked or even 
surprised at the action, not even when the being bent himself down 
and began to chop at their ankle. Only the noise of the blade slicing 
flesh, cutting tendons, smashing through bone, was present, rather 
than the screams of anguish and noises of panic that would be 
displayed within the world of humans. 


Even Kit was becoming somewhat immune to the sight of extreme 
self-mutilation, although words flashing through his mind such as 
‘sinew’ and ‘throbbing gristle’ still offered an element of disgust. 


Kit’s own shin ached in sympathy, then he realised the being was 
literally radiating pain — sharing it out amongst creatures within a 
certain radius, as some now walked with a slightly uncomfortable 
limp whilst others shot daggers at the thing, clearly not impressed by 
their technique at dealing with the pain. 


It seemed like a wise idea, really — rather than absorbing all that 
pain on ones’ own, share it out in small doses to those around you. 
Still, it all seemed rather invasive without asking permission, first. 


Job done, the tall being dumped its butchered foot on the table. Kit 
wondered if he would ever be so addicted that he would willingly 
cripple himself, and, in a sudden moment of realisation, he figured 
out why exactly the creature in front of him didn’t have a face. He 
would never get that desperate, right? 


The sale in front of him concluded, and the tender was doing a poor 
job of cleaning up the blood that had pooled on the table, and had 
apparently pooled there many times before, if the stains were to go 
by. Maybe that was why he didn’t exactly seem to care, and why this 
table wasn’t as busy as some. 


Beckoned forward by the seller, a squat man who seemed human 
enough, with a bald, greasy head and tiny eyes, Kit grabbed his 
‘sacrifice’ from his pocket and approached, spreading them out onto 
the table. The man eyed them with disinterest. He got countless 
numbers of this cheap tat every day, but no-one could afford to turn 
down a customer who may one day be desperate enough to 
sacrifice an arm and a leg, so he dealt with these piddly offers the 
best way he could. 


Picking them up one at a time, making a big deal about checking 
their cut-marks, how decomposed they were, even their 
temperature. Kit knew there was a market for everything here, from 
the fresh to the totally mummified, but fresh tended to sell better — 
so did the ones with neater cut marks, and lighter skin tones. 


He looked down at the table as there was a series of clattering 
noises. 


“We don't take the ring-things here. Take back to human world, 
maybe they give you money, cash.” 


The man spoke in a definite Russian accent, sharp and blunt, but 
with slang he had probably picked up from working here. They used 
the slang that the alleyway world did too, which Kit was slowly 
getting the hang of, for the good it did him. 


“That’s fine, fine.” He muttered, simply, collecting up the rings that 
had been removed from the fingers and slipping them into his 
pocket. Two plain gold bands — or maybe just gold-plated — and a 


silver ring with a low-quality diamond. Cash wasn’t really forefront in 
his mind right now, but he was sure it would be next time he needed 
tobacco. 


“Okay, kitlet. That’s a lock.” The man said, and Kit let out a breath 
that he didn’t know he had been holding. So far, he hadn’t had a no 
to anything he had brought in as a sacrifice, but Lady Luck wasn’t 
exactly known to be a friend of his, so he expected that to be 
challenged, one day. 


The Russian reached inside his trenchcoat and got out a tiny vial, 
letting Kit see the goods inside — Kit examining it just as closely as 
the seller had done with the fingers, looking at its quality. The colour 
of the petals — purple, with a hint of blue at the end. Good stuff then. 
Not top of the line, but good. They curled in slightly, so he knew it 
was freshly produced — however it was produced — and it would last 
him a while. An increasingly short amount of time, but he didn't 
really want to think about that just then. 


“No touch, no smell,” the seller recited, as if Kit was going to ask, 
when he knew better than that by now. Kit was entranced by the 
flower as he had been so many times before, but snapped out of it 
when he paused to actually count the petals. 


“...Four? Only four?! | gave you...” His shaking hands spread the 
dismembered fingers across the seller’s filthy table. “...Six. Six 
perfectly good fingers!” 


The seller smirked, Kit’s shaking hands speaking volumes, telling 
him he could have offered him less and Kit would have been 
convinced to take it. Still, he wanted his prey customer to keep 
coming back for more. 


“Supply and demand, kitlet. Come back, an arm, a leg? Maybe we 
talk.” The man shrugged. 


“Fine.” Kit muttered, curtly. “That’s a lock, you...” He thought better 
of cursing the man out, knowing it wouldn’t do anything worthwhile 
anyway. Instead, he snatched the small vial before any more deals 
could be discussed — and before he could change his mind and 
storm off to get a quote from the stars elsewhere. 


Kit disappeared into the crowd, little more than a speck on most 
people’s radar, apart from a set of dark blue eyes watching from in 
between two stores. 


“Oh Kit... What have you got yourself into now?” The voice 
whispered, forlornly, before the eyes — and their owner — sunk back 
into the darkness to watch the rest of the Market from the shadows. 


« Twenty Minutes | Hub | Kit, The Storyteller » 


An Average Life 


Larry Robbins had never been a particularly active or happy man. 
He went to work, he worked, he went home, and he slept. On certain 
days, he’d go out to bars and talk up a girl, take her home, enjoy her 
company, and then never speak to her again. On others, he’d go out 
to eat with an old college acquaintance, or call one of his brothers or 
sisters—it was a large family and there were many to choose from— 
and talk for a short while. 


All this made it more unusual when, almost out of the blue, the 
woman had began flirting with him in the elevator. More so, she 
stopped by his desk once or twice to ask for things she already had, 
did her best to look seductive for him, and, more than once, allowed 
her hand to trail over his as if by accident. With the signs obvious, 
Larry had no choice but to make her formal acquaintance and, 
eventually, take her out for a night on the town. 


He found the company pleasurable, in spite of his initial 
unwillingness in the whole affair, and after dropping her off back at 
her home, found the invitation of a second date appealing. The next 
Wednesday, he found himself anticipating her arrival at his desk 
after work. They met, exchanged pleasantries, and went to her flat 
for a night in and warm food. 


Her cooking was exceptional, and Larry was finding himself more 
and more enamored. When she proffered herself, he graciously 
accepted, and the next morning, his desk seemed brighter and more 
inviting. His officemates made note, good naturedly ribbing the 
twenty-eight year old, especially when he noted that his third date 
would be coming up within the few days. 


The restaurant he took her to was more expensive than he could 
comfortably afford, but Larry didn’t care. She looked ravishing in her 
burgundy dress. He had the chicken; she had the fish. They split a 
piece of tiramisu. All the while, Larry found himself falling more and 
more in love with the strange, wonderful woman who had pushed 


herself into his life so abruptly. 


Within a year, they were married. Within another year, their first child 
was born. 


A week later, the doctors diagnosed his beloved wife with renal 
failure. There were possibilities for finding a transplant but, due to 
her mixed heritage—his wife’s grandmother being Indian—the 
chances were more slim. Of course, he immediately volunteered, 
but the doctors told him it was a long shot. 


It was with delight that they told him, in voices almost disbelieving, 
that he was a match. He was crying over his wife’s smiling face, 
holding their new born daughter between them, when he told her the 
news. They would be together forever. 


The operation was a success. Within two months, they returned 
home with their quickly growing little girl. Her parents and his 
siblings rotated through the home, meeting and fussing, delighted 
for the couple. The doctors were pleased to announce that not only 
was Larry’s other kidney functioning normally, it was apparently 
much stronger than they anticipated, adapting to the absence of the 
other and increasing its function drastically. Not only that, his wife 
was responding very well to the transplant. Things were well on 
course for a wonderfully happy future. 


A month after he returned to work, Larry was offered a promotion: 
Assistant Manager. It would mean an honest salary, good benefits, 
and additional vacations, but it would also mean time away from the 
new family he was building. His wife encouraged him to take it and, 
eventually, he did. His direct supervisor turned out to be very 
understanding of the young father, allowing for more time out of the 
office than he might otherwise. He, as a father himself, understood 
Larry’s situation quite well, and was extremely supportive, though 
firm. 


When Larry went in for a checkup a year after the transplant, the 
doctor was different. He asked Larry if he’d had any unexpected 
side effects or problems that his previous physician had not warned 
him about. Larry replied a negative, stating that he felt better than he 
had in quite some time. The doctor nodded and instructed Larry to 


roll onto his side for an ultrasound, to check for scarring problems. 
Larry did as he was told, feeling the cold gel and the strange hum of 
the machine. When he was finished, he cleaned himself up, and the 
doctor took some blood and gave him a clean bill of health. 


Oddly enough, the file must have been lost, because the hospital 
called him reporting that he’d missed his checkup. When Larry 
explained, they apologized, thanked him for his time, and told him 
they’d notify him if there were any further problems. 


His manager at work, discreetly, mentioned that a friend of his, a Mr. 
Carter, was looking for someone to work on an overseas account. 
Larry was unsure of the implication until his manager mentioned the 
pay and that the job would be local with little travel. He clapped 
Larry on the shoulder, told him the job would be his if he wanted it, 
and then gave him his blessings, pushing a card into his hands. 
Larry stammered a thanks, telling his manager that they should still 
meet for lunch as often as possible, and called the number on the 
card.