I write random tables as a warm-up every day. You can suggest a prompt here.

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Curious Market Stalls

1. A teetering shack made of reclaimed driftwood and roughly hewn quarry stones. Simultaneously appears to be an ancient, immovable part of the landscape and like it might fall down in a stiff breeze. Owned by Sweaty Steve, a leather-faced man of indeterminate age who exudes a musk of sour body odour and sharp salt. Sells unimpressive chunks of ambergris and planks of rotting wood painted in spirals of red ink. It’s tat, seemingly, but he does a steady trade and has been here for years.
2. Mrs. Landry sells cats. She has dozens of them, a different brood every day. They claw and climb along the insides of the massive steel cage that surrounds her simple wooden stall. They hiss and spit at passers-by, mangy and feral, and stepping into the cage to do business risks having a host of them climb your legs and body.
3. A small empty table flanked by two shabby armchairs stands out in the bustle of the market through its mundanity. Old Rother sits in one chair, draped in layered shawls and coats whatever the weather, face always covered in a thick purple veil. Sit opposite them and they’ll grasp your hands in theirs, whispering to you for long minutes. They sell futures. Not predictions, not promises, not vague wishes that might go unanswered – futures, for you or another, the threads of time and fate unpicked and restitched to suit you and the contents of your purse.
4. "Buy a star today!" the man screeches, hand patting the huge brass telescope mounted on a stand beside him. "Any star you like!" Maester Coldfront is the market’s pre-eminent astronomer. You know that because his cloak and his stall are covered in paper stars that flutter and flap in the breeze. Peer through his telescope, even at the height of day, and you’ll set your eyes on furious burning orbs far across the galaxy. He swears he can sell you them – and for the right price he can give you the means to visit, too.
5. The meats at Randall Campbell’s stall glisten in the noonday sun. Thick and juicy and ripe, he swears you’ll never taste anything like them. But they don’t look like any cut of meat you’ve ever seen, and he’s notoriously cagey when pressed on which animals he’s butchered for your delectation. Still, the price is good and the flesh is tender, and who can argue with that?
6. A twisted forest of glass, jars and beakers and flasks and tubes covering every surface. Thin gasses swirl inside them, so light and ethereal as to be almost invisible. Robertson will sell you a quick sniff for a coin, or a deep draw for two. The carpets and pillows that surround the stall are always filled with punters in repose, smiling and drooling as they sleep off whatever concoction they’ve had a hit of today. Robertson won’t say what they are, and the only way to find out what they do is to pay up.

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Get this post in PDF at Detritus.

I write random tables as a warm-up every day. You can suggest a prompt here.