Week of Tuesday June 07, 2010

I was inspired to write some flash fiction. Hopefully, It is not as bad as I think it is.

~

Misdirection and the Carnivalesque

And so my face eclipses me. I have become this face which is not mine,
yet I chose it freely

-Angela Carter, Nights at the Circus

I avoided eye contact with others in my row as I shuffled my way to an empty seat. I uttered an array of “sorry”s and “excuse me”s as they forced in their legs, stood up, or otherwise willed their bodies smaller to endure my passage by. After I had finally collapsed onto an empty spot on the steel bench, my eyes scanned the expanse of the tent. I saw thousands of faces circling the stage and I scrambled for my watch, which, as always, was secured safely within my pocket away from the twice-thousands of hands lurking in the audience. I freed the device from its chain and took it into my palm. I glanced down at its face; the show would begin soon. I squeezed the watch in my hand as the lights dimmed and the chatter of the crowd faded.

Minutes passed and the tent remained dark. The silence once again became white noise and whispers hummed in the blackness. I fidgeted with the timepiece and ignored the mumbling of the woman beside me. When the buzz of the crowd reached a low moan, a single spotlight appeared on the centre of the stage and any spark of sound was extinguished. Standing perfectly straight in the light, a formally dressed man casually stroked his moustache, raised one eyebrow, and then his body exploded in a flourish towards the audience.

“Welcome,” he bellowed, paused briefly, and bowed. Upon rising, he continued, “to the Circus.”

Two more spotlights flashed on and high above the audience, two women threw themselves off the tops of opposing turrets. They flew towards each other across the air with such confidence that I almost believed that it was not the trapeze that supported them, but rather the reverse. Though their forms were clear in the yellow glow, I found myself unable to distinguish the aerialists from another. Both performers wore matching sparkling uniforms and delicately applied makeup. Even the liquorice-like smiles plastered on their face lacked any individuality. I began to wonder if they were the same person, or if they were even people at all. The crowd cheered as the twins somersaulted delicately into each other’s hands. I rolled the watch between my middle and ring fingers while I scoured for any aberration in the flawless synchronicity of the acrobats.

Before I could find anything, an orchestra of bells, whistles, and horns drew my attention back to the stage floor. There, like some kind of serpent, a miniature vehicle twisted in repeating figure eight patterns. The car was covered in tinted blots akin to that of a Rorschach test, but when I looked at them no images came to mind. I felt my grip on the pocket watch begin to slacken.

The spectators were compelled to laughter as the occupants of the vehicle emerged into focus. The figures that appeared were varied in form; they were large and small, round and sharp, obtuse and acute. I gazed at the paintings upon their faces; they were more intense than those on the car. It numbed my mind to look at them, but I could not will myself to turn away. Now, there were no faces, but instead colours, and shapes, and reflections. I searched and searched but no where could I find a visage. The audience is howling and smiling and I don’t understand how they can find humour when I can’t even find an expression. If there aren’t faces then there can’t be anything under the faces and there can’t be people. There are just colours and shapes and reflections. I open both my hands to touch my face. I feel skin, lips, and bone, but do I feel a face? Do I too have no face? I look again at the figures, and the twins, and the ringmaster’s cocked eyebrow and all at once everything that was mine became theirs.

That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Florescent lights flickered and glowed in the near empty big-top. Paper cups and popcorn littered the floor of the isles. Eric pushed a broom down the rows and moved the trash towards a large pile. Streaks of makeup were still showing across his cheeks. He breathed a sigh of exhaustion; he was the only performer left cleaning up from today’s show. He grimaced and dreamed of sleep, not noticing as a forgotten watch was swept away with the rest of the mess.