The Outdoor Market

Walking down the street at Shuka, the outdoor market, you can pass some interesting sights: Pig heads. They lay on a table. Cut off. Alone. Like fleshy pink balloons. Covered in dust. Bristly as a toothbrush. Huge hairy heads. Brains spurt out from the back like soft wet clay. Bloody, rubbery, squishy brains. Two gigantic hairy ears stick out like stray leaves in a withered bush. A snout protrudes from the head. Shriveled like a round, decomposing, spongy carrot.
Pig feet. Next to the heads. Like large, dead, stiff eels. Sorry pink twigs gathered in a container. Hooves like worn-out granite.
The air reeks of raw meat. The powerful, potent, repulsive, malodorous, stomach-wrenching smell of raw meat that has been basking in the sun too long.
Nearby are little meat huts. The sidewalks are stained with blood, like someone threw a ton of too-old tomatoes down on them. Mushy tomatoes. Dirty tomatoes. Rotten tomatoes. Soggy tomatoes.
Tubs full of animal parts line the street: Livers. Like colossal, slimy slugs bathing in blood; burgundy as a dark, mysterious sunset.
Hearts. Rose-red, like squelchy balls of soft dough soaked in beet juice.
Cow udders. Charcoaled pink. Massive, wobbly. Wrinkly, inflated balls of gelatin with short, stubby fingers sticking out from them.
Cut meat hangs from the ceiling like laundry left out in the rain. Wretched, pathetic, neglected, soggy laundry. The meat-seller’s apron looks like a starched white dance floor where strawberries were just cutting a rug.
Across the street are tiny shops. You can buy fruit, beverages, spices, canned foods, etc. The fruit stand is bursting with color. Apples. Bright golden apples. Like sunbursts in a dreary world of darkness. Red apples. Radiant crimson lumps of passion. Nuts, rice, beans, grains, dates, and seeds. In cases. Reddish brown gems in the Queen’s jewelry box. Bananas. Tempting yellow flashes of lightning piercing the blinding haze. Pineapples. With tops like angry green cacti; warriors waving their daggers in the air. Pomegranates. Feisty scarlet balls of fire shining through a cloud of gray mist. Persimmons. Smooth, glossy; newly polished. Little amber munchkins wearing silky overcoats. Kiwis. In a heap. Brown, shaggy. Lazy old sloths taking a long afternoon nap. Oranges. Beautiful, delicious. Glistening like happiness on a dull, rainy afternoon. Grapes. In bundles. Bursting at the seams. Pale green. Over-stuffed aphids busily swarming on a leaf. Sausage. Dry, spiced beef sausage. Like a flat yak tongue covered in brick-red sandpaper. And sticky soujukh. Long, lustrous. Garlands of icky brown muck. But looks are deceiving. They taste like a bite of chewy, crunchy satisfaction. Chewy molasses enclosing crunchy walnuts. Precious treasures hidden beneath a sneaky sugariness.
Disturbingly fresh pig heads; bloodstained sidewalks; rose-red hearts; bright, happy fruit; sweet, sticky soujukh. Walking down the street at Shuka, you can pass some very interesting sights.