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Cardamon wheezed as he unloaded the small U-Haul he'd rented, tipped the driver and watched it drive off. He'd rent another one if he needed to, and he had the speed dial for them ready just in case. Secretly, he wanted no one to come. He'd made everything by hand, and had a very personal connection to each piece.

Perhaps it would make more sense to sell to an art dealer, but the glass boy was of the mindset that his work would garner chump change to someone who actually knew what they were doing, and some of his older work was taking up a lot of space. He'd cleaned them off ever so gently, like a parent washing an infant, wrapped them in bubble wrap, and brought them to the city.

"ART SALE--PIECES BY LOCAL ARTIST. JANUARY 5th - JANUARY 8th"

Today was January 5th, as he set up a stall and a space heater to keep the area decently toasty. Cardamon himself was immune to external temperatures, but he didn't want his pieces to crack because it's too cold. Sometimes ceramics could be temperamental, you never knew.

On the table, he set a few of his works. One was a vase with a fluted neck, the body carved in such a way that the negative space suggested leaves, the body itself looking like the bud of a flower that has yet to bloom [[ref]]. Another was porcelain that reminded him of the wind, how it turned in small circles. The creation was layered, the inner part turning more tightly, while the outer layer fanned out more [[ref]]. He called it a wind flower. He placed another and another, each holding a similar look that he'd coined as 'dynamically delicate', before sitting in his folded chair and tucking his knees under his chin and waiting.

He had a feeling it would be a long day.

Cardamon's eyes were trained in front of him, and sometimes down at his phone. While smartphones were a great invention, the glass boy was flat out unable to use it without special gloves or a stylus. Whatever technology the smart phone makers used to make the screens register taps did not agree with someone like him, someone smooth and cool and unable to conduct electricity.

On one hand he was wearing a special glove that let the screen read his taps as he swiped his thumb across the screen, looking at pictures and looking up often to talk to the people who walked by.

He was talking to one such person, when something strange seemed to happen in the corner of his eye. He wasn't really sure what it was--only that it looked like something pastel pink grew into a huge brown shape. When he actually looked at it, he saw a moose.

Man, maybe he was more exhausted than he thought.

The woman he'd been talking to seemed to walk off at the sight of the moose, who came close and seemed to be looking at his wares.

Honestly Cardamon wasn't sure if he should be trying to shoo the moose away or if he should be trying to sell his wares to it. And well, the moose seemed to be actively looking at the things he had for sale, unlike everyone else who just walked by as if he wasn't there.

"Hello," he said to the moose, who seemed to be looking at him. "Do you see anything that catches your eye? Or perhaps you'd like to look at something else?"

If someone would have told him earlier today that he would be trying to have a conversation with a moose he would have told them to sit down and perhaps rethink their lives. They'd been drinking too much, or eating too many herbal brownies. Cardamon honestly wouldn't have believed it himself if it wasn't happening to him in that moment.

As he watched the moose and tucked and errant bit of hair behind his ear, it occurred to him that the animal in front of him seemed to be nervous. It was nervous in a very human way, looking around furtively, giving him side glances. Perhaps it had wandered into the city by mistake. Maybe it was lost.

Maybe it just didn't understand what he was saying. It was, after all, a moose. And Cardamon couldn't really remember the last time he had a long, interesting conversation with a moose.

That was, until the moose seemed to speak to him.

"I - ah - um - "

Well. Kind of.

Then the moose swayed. Was he going to fall over? Did moose fall over? What would happen if they ended up on their backs?

... were moose like turtles?

"Do you, uh, make all of these? They're, er, very nice."

"Oh, yes, I made everything here by hand." Cardamon said softly. "Uh, would you like to see some of the other things I've made?"