Member-only story
The Authentic Eclectic
Unburdened
I should sleep.
The dogs raucous and horrorbound in the streets. They drink blood, these mongrels, like vampires or fouler demons: the penanggalan, the aswang. But should I have let him into my room? Impossible. This is my sanctuary, and the man reeked of filth.
The market blossomed today. The weather was fine, and as it is a holiday, everyone in the city seemed to make an appearance. The guards were too busy to engage in their usual pastime (I say “pastime” because shooing away a poor merchant like myself can hardly be considered a legitimate vocation). I made out very well, which is fortunate: I’ve barely scraped together the rent in recent months.
Perhaps I will go to see the doctor tomorrow. There has been a slight itch in my throat. I am not truly concerned, but it’s nice to visit with a friend now and again. He always has some new method or medicine to show me — last time, it was powdered centipede to cure asthma and a necklace of mouse tails to check cowardly impulses. But that man, that foreigner, who stopped me on my way home, who was he?
I was born in this city; I’ve never been outside of it. Travel is for the rich. I met an old wanderer who said otherwise, but he knows the ways. Me, I’d die in a heartbeat. Besides, people from so many lands pass through here, it’s difficult…
