Authentic Swamp Market

* inspired by “authentic city” by ari banias

late-morning muggy air, turkey-tail mushrooms bloom from the stalls of the vendors, like they’ve been sitting here for years and years, ten frogs in pointed hats lined up for cotton candy, the chatter of the trees, the sweet scent of mud and decay, thick moss hanging like beards, two faeries bathing in the brackish water, using acorn shells as floaties, rivers of flies absorbed in their nowhere-dance, the wizard who stands beneath the bent cypress tree and asks if you’d like a “homemade concoction” that will make you “see faster,” wooden landings on stilts, just inches above the bog, a gaggle of lichen enthusiasts, “don’t touch that” snaps a gnome to her children, eyeing the glowing pink mass that has affixed itself to a nearby treestump, carpets of duckweed, little houses nestled between the roots of trees, sparkling lights far-off where the lanterns can’t reach, two teenagers making a bet on whether or not they can catch a will-o-the-wisp, a witch laughs and says they’ll sooner be drowned in the swamp, fries dipped in ectoplasm, cattail hotdogs, an eyeball trapped in a cracked glass, that dragon-scale armor that’s all the rage with young lesbians these days, the sign for cheap cleansing spells that goes mostly ignored, everyone wants to buy potions from the druid, but he’s too engrossed in his conversation with an egret, someone is fishing illegally, no one can get good deals out of the warlock from the north, a street performer makes skeletons dance with his flute carved from a reed, “you’ll see more of this at the night market,” he says, grinning, and you mark down the date of the next full moon.