Nefaria--a prose anthology

The Fantasia Borealis Traveling Carnival

Perhaps there was nothing particularly special about the Fantasia Borealis Traveling Carnival. Not on the outside, at least.

In every town they stopped at, a simple blue tent would be pitched, just small enough the show would only have one ticket left for you, no matter when you would pay. It doesn't matter if the ticket booth just opened. The woman sitting there would say only one ticket remained. That was okay with you, though. You'd only ever go alone. The carnival was not to be viewed by anyone but a singular circusgoer.

No, nothing interesting or different about that. Yet, something was off.

Perhaps it was the entrance sign, with its glowing letters and the way the second 'a' in 'Fantasisa' flickered, no matter how many maintenance people were called. Or it is the hall of sideshow attractions, where no matter how many times you passed down the corridor, none of the performers were in the same spot. Or the popcorn stand, which never had an attendant, yet everyone still got their popcorn and drinks, even without the unnecessary moral atrocity of stealing.

Maybe it's the caricature artist, who perches on her little stool and makes dark strokes with her marker, never once making a mistake. When she hands over your black and white portrait, you startle, as the eyes move almost imperceptively, and the mouth is not quite drawn in the same undeniable smirk every moment you stare.

Maybe it's the fortune teller, her eyes glowing and cold like a dying ember. Her hands weave mystical tales over her crystal ball. It's sheer white to you, but to her, it fortells your life, and your death.

Maybe it's the snake charmer, sitting upon his woven rug, an instrument you don't recognize clasped between his hands. A basket sits in front of him, the lid tightly closed, as if nothing could have the possibility of escaping. He starts to play the unknown instrument, a soft melody that winds its way through the air, into your ears, into your bones. You begin to dance, along with the other passersby. After the music filters away, and your bones stop vibrating, you realize no snakes were dancing. Maybe you and the other passersby were the snakes all along.

Maybe it is the silk dancers, who spun and dropped and flew over the crowds on tethers of silk ascending far into the rafters, seemingly connected nowhere. Music filters from nowhere as they perform. One is inches away from you as she passes, close enough you could see every detail on her face, if such details were to be found. Their uniforms shift from color to color, even under the dull monochromatic lighting.

Maybe it is the knife thrower, who stands on his pedestal, a rack of gleaming knives arranged in front of him. His eyes never change from the dull, bored look so terribly ingrained within by years of monotonous shows, where each throw brings him less and less pleasure. A single Ace of Spades sits within his front pocket, occasionally peaking out as he moves through his routine. It's unassuming and a detail easily missed, but you can't help but notice the red staining both sides.

Maybe it's the knife thrower's partner, a young girl fair of face, but never the same face with each passing show. She stands against a plain painted block of wood, her chin high and not quivering. She seems proud to be here. Her hair is in a perfect bun, except for the single piece of hair falling against her right cheek.

The knife thrower picks up his first knife, and the audience in unison holds their breath as he lines up his target, and throws. In quick succession, each knife hits its target--hand, hand, calf, foot, thigh, shoulder, cheek, hip, and, finally, heart. The girl does not move, her skin ghostly pale, and the audience claps excitedly as she is wheeled off the stage, trailed by the knife thrower and his red-stained Ace of Spades.

Maybe it's the lion tamer, her face scarred and her eyes battle worn. She holds a chair and a whip, though she uses neither. The lions stand in front of her, staring her down, daring her to make a move. Each lion's eyes are blood red, looking like they're set on vengeance. You are safe, though. Don't worry. You'll be fine. You have time to run.

Maybe it's the flag spinners, standing in formation and spinning their multicolored flags. They jump and twirl and whirl as one. Their feet stay off the ground a moment too long, leaving their beautiful flags to float in the air, and show off the messages written in dark red ink.

Maybe it's the elephants, moving in almost a mechanical way, each footstep falling on the same place it had hundreds of times before. When the elephants come out, you hear soft fans whirring, which you were unable to hear before. Metal clangs against their ivory skin as the elephant tamers lead them along.

Maybe it's the human cannonball, walking to his cannon, a limp obvious on his left leg, his face set and determined under his helmet. His assistant helps him into the cannon, and her crouches down. He gives one, final wave, before a loud crash sounds, and smoke fills the air. You vaguely see him soar over you, looking like a bird in all his freedom, before disappearing from sight.

Maybe it's the Ringmaster, in all his black silks, swishing over his shapeless form as he takes center stage. The entire audience, including you, is enraptured by him, as he raises his fabric-draped arms, commanding attention. His face is hidden under his wide-brimmed hat, all except his smile, wide and unnerving, each tooth gleaming like a polished stone. He says goodbye, and have a goodnight, and you know you will, for you have no choice.

Or, perhaps, the Fantasia Borealis Traveling Carnival is entirely normal, and every little penprick of paranoia you have, every little off thing you sense, is just your imagination. It's not my place to say, but it is yours to decide.