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Soul Seller

The crows crow mightily, black birds on thick black wires that loosely stretch for miles between tall metal poles. They smell the stinking flesh, both of rotting animal carcasses and of decaying human hearts. The people who are but mere specks in a bird’s eye view, bustle and hustle in the small marketplace nestled in the heart of a busy city, thinking themselves with errands more important than the other person.

The bird brained crows know better.

Within the push-and-pull, a young man stands erect, withstanding every shove, ignoring every irritated glare. He holds a box that hangs by a sling from his shoulders and within it, lidded bottles clink and rattle with every shake he makes. People with a higher degree of patience and gifted with a wonderful sense of humor smile privately as they imagine the thumping of a tambourine while elbowing past the young man.

There are fish up for sale, fresh vegetables, and pots and pans. The wet produce drip moisture upon the black tar, producing puddles black and thick. The oil leaks from motorcycle engines and tall barrels, creating puddles with rainbow colors reflected. The many different puddles release different pungent smells as they are stepped upon by the many different feet.

The young man sells souls. His is a puddle of perspiration that hangs by the brows.

A fat woman waddles and cuts through the thronging crowd, carrying a rattan shopping bag, her big unshaped breasts encased in a too tight shirt rest on top of her groceries like an object from a Dali painting.

She pushes forward with her purchase placed forward like a battering ram. The young man winces as she steps on his toes in her haste. He imagines ligaments tearing away as the sharp wooden heel of her platform shoe digs into the skin clothed only in rubber sandals.

The young man tilts to the side, maintaining balance momentarily lost to the searing pain. The box shakes dangerously, and a jar falls down to the tar, breaking into a million pieces. The nicer people stop to stare, the mean ones glare, but nobody offered any help, as if they don’t dare intrude the young man’s personal space.

The young man looks in dismay at the glittering glass shards, but simply shrugged and continue standing resiliently, squinting against the sun rays that peek through corrugated zinc roofs.

The traffic trickles through as people gingerly step around the diamond disguises scattered, brilliantly refracting light, like precious gems. The young man unapologetically peddles his wares, silently and with his back straight. He is deaf to the mutterings and the cursing of the strangers around him.

A shopkeeper emerges from his stall,