Ripples 13 by KimB

[Editor's Note: Ripples is a serial story.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]

13 Antipasto

She entered the market; the driftwood would buy meals for a week.

What was discarded and swept away still had value, if one could see it. Most people did not.

What was trash to one, was a meal to another. As long as the trash was out of sight, the originator could pretend it no longer existed, that somehow, like magic, the item had vanished, but of course, magic doesn't work like that.

You cannot make nothing into something.
You cannot make something into nothing.

The trash remained, transformed by time, decay or perhaps lingering for millennia. You can cover it, bury it or hide it but it remains. A heúrēka for the future.

She started her customary circuit of the store. Moving from one end to the other. Passing much. Selecting little. Stopping at the various gleaning bins, placed in far corners or lesser used pathways where "final mark down" items awaited their dispersal into yet other bins and then to dumps. The poorly placed and peeling 50% Off stickers still hoped to entice buyers too poor to buy in the better lighted areas.

The items were the same, only the lighting was different.

Although now, she noticed that more people hovered over the discounted meats and vegetables. People with jobs but not enough food. People with shelter but not enough nourishment. People dressed well but not dressed in fashion. Gleaning was bargain hunting. Those struggling to stay abreast sheltered their minds from reality. Bargain hunting made reality less bitter.

She riffled though the bins finding some treasures. Meat she could turn into broth. Vegetables to turn it to soup. Dented cans turned pasta to marinara. Magic.

In her pockets, shiny brochures and jumbled printouts also described a magic.

Magic dark. Magic sinister. Magic of a different sort