#POTO fandom

[jmwdoesthings]

Erik: (lying in his coffin with his eyes turned towards the ceiling) So let it be done. Before I leave this cruel, accursed world, Christine, I want you to know that you are the very fibre of my being and I love you. I love you like the sky loves it's stars, like the ocean loves the heavens it strives up to kiss each time it rises, my beautiful angel. Let these be my last words, spoken into the silence, with only you and my fettered conscience as the witness.

Christine: (turning book page serenely) Thank you, Erik, but for heaven's sake and for the last time, you have the common cold.

[erik-carriere]

Behold! Cherik doodles <3

[princesssarisa]

Musical fandoms and ingenue hate

Is this really such a problem?

There's a YouTuber named Katherine Steele who mostly makes videos about musical theatre, and who has a small video series in defense of ingenue characters, titled "Why Everybody Hates..."

There are four videos in the series: "Why Everybody Hates Cosette" (Les Misérables), "Why Everybody Hates Christine" (The Phantom of the Opera), "Why Everybody Hates Johanna" (Sweeney Todd), and "Why Everybody Hates Maria" (West Side Story).

Some other sources – like TV Tropes, for example – have cited those videos to talk about why these characters are "widely" disliked.

But is it really true? Of all four of those musicals' fandoms, I've only been deep in the Les Misérables fandom, but from what I've seen people say about the others, I had no idea that those ingenue characters got big amounts of hate!

Being indifferent to the character doesn't count as hate, nor does considering her unoffensive but boring.

Do Johanna and Maria get the same kind of real loathing in the diehard Sweeney Todd and West Side Story fandoms that we see in the Les Mis fandom with talk about "that horrid Cosette," "I hate her with a passion," etc?

There is a lot of visceral, venomous Cosette-hate in the Les Mis fandom, or at least there used to be in the '90s and early 2000s. But it has a cause: Éponine. Immature people hate Cosette because she's loved by Marius, when they want him to love Éponine instead. (And to a lesser extent because she "abandons" her father Jean Valjean, but that's more the novel's Cosette than the musical's.)

I know that there's also some Christine hate among Phantom Phans, which is also love-triangle related: they hate her for choosing Raoul instead of the Phantom.

But I had no idea that Sweeney and WSS fans were venomous about Johanna or Maria – are they?

From what little I've seen of Sweeney fans, I've occasionally seen them call Johanna boring or a Mary Sue (and even then, the context has been "I always thought she was, but then [insert actress here] made me appreciate her"). But for the most part, I see people talk approvingly about how she's more complex than an average ingenue, how she can be played as mentally unstable, etc.

And Maria? Yes, there are the people who can't stand how quickly she forgives Tony for killing Bernardo. (Although that complaint only seems to have become widespread with the 2021 film's release – I remember occasionally reading it in the past, but not nearly as much as now.) But apart from that, and from sometimes seeing people call both Maria and Tony boring, I had no idea that anyone hated her! And if you think she had no characterization but "pretty and nice" until the 2021 film, then you've been giving both the stage version and the 1961 film a shallow surface read! She's always had intelligence, playfulness, passion and strength!

I'd like people who have been deep in the fandoms of these musicals to tell me. Is there really a widespread problem of loud, venomous hate for all these ingenue characters, the way there has been for Cosette in the Les Mis fandom? Or is it really just a few people calling them "boring" now and then, with only the love triangles in Les Mis and Phantom making people nastier about Cosette and Christine?

[lupinedreaming]

The Hidden Plot: A Tale of the Phantom of the Opera Fandom

It’s here!! My write up on the infamous Hidden Plot about the 2004 Phantom of the Opera movie! I know I said I wanted to put this on the r/hobbydrama subreddit, but I’m not sure it meets their guidelines, so I’m posting it here on Tumblr.  

Disclaimer: If you come across any of the people mentioned in this write up, do NOT bother them. This is silly and strange, yes, but is ancient fandom history and is also relatively harmless. Be nice and don’t hassle online strangers. Now, on to the story.

——

The Beginning of the Journey: 

Allow me to set the scene: It is the late 2000s. It is after school, and you are a young teen with too much internet access and no social life. What do you do? You go visit one of your favorite forums to lurk on — phantomoftheopera.com.

You browse around for a bit, trying to decide what thread you’d like to read. You settle on one that’s something about a hidden plot and symbolism in the 2004 adaptation of the Phantom of the Opera musical. 

As you begin to read, you are very confused. The author of this thread is talking about lens flares, lighting, and camera angles all pointing to a secret, secondary plot hidden within the movie. All of this, the OP says, was completely intentional on the director’s part. Even though you are at an age where you’ll believe some pretty far fetched stuff, this still sounds TOO out there for you. 

Unknowingly, you have stumbled across what has infamously become known in the POTO fandom as the Hidden Plot. 

Explaining the Hidden Plot (Kind of):

You may be asking, “What exactly IS the Hidden Plot?”

Good question, and one that is a little complicated to answer due in part to the fact that many sites that hosted threads about the Hidden Plot are now lost to the internet sands of time. It seems they can’t  even be accessed via the Wayback Machine. (Trust me, I tried.) 

So, I’ve done my best to cobble together an overview based on the recollections of POTO fans who were there when this theory was being actively posted, as well as info provided in this Google doc, which has direct quotes from the author of the Hidden Plot. The doc was helpfully provided by @glassprism (thank you!).

I have made sense of the Hidden Plot based on the above linked doc, this post from rjdaae, and a summary of the Hidden Plot on the FFnet bio seemingly written by the main author of the theory. I’m not going to link her bio so no one leaves her mean comments.

A Summary of the Hidden Plot:

The basic idea of this fan theory is that there is a second, deeper story embedded into the 2004 POTO movie. This story is conveyed through cinematography, lighting, clothing, sets, the placement of props, and more. The Hidden Plot is as follows:

Erik is literally the King of Music. What does that mean? Well, I’m not sure what it means beyond the fact that he feels he is in charge of the opera house, but I think there’s some supernatural element. Christine is his Queen of Music, naturally. 

Speaking of a supernatural element, in the Hidden Plot, the “Phantom” is not a persona that Erik uses. Oh, no, the Phantom is a literal evil spirit that possesses Erik sometimes. 

Raoul factors into this by being a Priest of Light (I’m also not sure what that means) and is … ERIK’S BROTHER!! Yep. 

Somehow, Christine and Raoul save Erik from the clutches of the evil spirit, and Christine and Erik become King and Queen of Music and go off into the light. (Or something like that.)

Wait … What? Where Did the Theory Author Get This Stuff From?

Like I mentioned earlier, apparently this Hidden Plot is revealed through EXTREMELY subtle “clues.” 

I’ll give a couple examples of the theory author’s own words, which were compiled in the Google doc:

Evidence for Erik being King of Music:

“** ERIK: “Since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me to serve me to sing, for my music, my music”

“** These also seem like key words that Erik is king of music. This is his kingdom. He wants her to serve him as his queen, to sing for him, and he uses "me"--first person, showing Phantom is gone. (Kings send a servant {or more} to do their bidding and bring s person to them for an audience, just as what happened when the Phantom went to collect Christine and bring her to the king. The Don Juan song shows that is what happened.)”

Example of using the movie’s lighting to hint at the Hidden Plot:

“** When he helps her out of the boat, a long ray of blue light goes across her head, followed by another blue ray of light going through his middle--his heart (spirit). (This isn't just about being a reflection from the light—because if it were it should logically have happened many more times all the times they showed white light, and didn’t. It happens other times in story, and always in the same places on their bodies, sometimes without any white light showing.) Also, as he sings to her "Turn your face away from the garish light of day"--another blue line of light goes across his back (his middle, where his heart would be).”

Evidence that Raoul is Erik’s brother: 

“** Because the white horse is symbolic of Raoul and they made a point of putting it next to the family crests in Erik’s lair, I believe this is a clue showing Raoul is a relation (Erik’s brother), and that Erik is actually a de Chagny. Count de Chagny to be exact.”

And now, for a few visual pieces of evidence that would make any YouTube conspiracy theorist proud: 

(Screenshots taken from this post.)

What Are the Origins of the Hidden Plot? Who Came Up With It?

I thought that the Hidden Plot originated circa 2007-2009, which is when I was actively lurking on POTO.com and saw it pop up there. 

However, it appears to date back further than this. 

According to rjdaae and this forum thread, the Hidden Plot first popped up shortly after the 2004 film. Its first home was on the WB message boards, and then moved to different forums across the internet. As I mentioned earlier, it appears that all of these forums are now gone, and all that remains of the Hidden Plot are pieces saved in the aforementioned Google doc and people’s recollections of threads discussing the Hidden Plot. But I digress. 

As for who came up with the Hidden Plot, according to ya-chai 2 in this forum thread, two unnamed people first came up with the Hidden Plot, but its most fervent advocate and writer was someone who used to go by the username Honeyphan. 

However, the idea that it was created by two other people shpuld be taken with a grain of salt, as that’s the only source I’ve found saying the theory was made by someone other than Honeyphan. 

At any rate, who IS Honeyphan? Based on old profiles of hers I found, she is/was a huge fan of the 2004 POTO film and created lots of fanfic and photomanips for it. She appears to be a pleasant enough person and a very dedicated fan with some unusual inclinations toward the conspiratorial, if the Hidden Plot is anything to go by. 

What was the Fan Reaction to This? 

Largely the fan reaction seemed to be, and still is, skeptical amusement. POTO fans generally do not seem to hate the Hidden Plot but find it very silly and entertaining. 

However, based on fans’ recollections, there was a group of very dedicated people who discussed and espoused this theory. 

Quoting again from ya-chai 2 again, it sounds like proponents of the Hidden Plot might have brought their passion into the real world: 

“At one point there were supposedly sessions where forum members met at each other's houses to discuss it. That's all I know about that.

“I do know that both Gerard Butler and Patrick Wilson were asked by members of the WB forum if they were aware of any hidden story. Both actors denied knowing anything about a so called hidden story.”

If you’re a very charitable and understanding person, you might be wondering why the Hidden Plot had any attention at all. After all, there are lots of POTO AUs out there, and this could pass as one. 

The reason why it has gotten so much attention over the years is very well explained in this post by ancientphantom: “What differentiated it from regular shipping and fanfic-writing was A) the extreme insistence that it was actually part of the movie and not invented by fans, and B) the willingness to create “evidence” out of the most ridiculous details, including the timing of random lens flares, what shoes everyone is wearing, how we should interpret hairstyles, and of course the memorable Stockinggate.”

What Can We Conclude from All of This?

My general takeaway is that the Hidden Plot is an early example of something we’ve seen in other fandoms in more recent years — intense fans insisting that a conspiracy theory surrounding their favorite piece of media IS real. I think the best example of this phenomenon is the Johnlock Conspiracy. 

The Johnlock Conspiracy actually has a lot in common with the Hidden Plot, imo, in that proponents of both pointed to subtle clues planted in cinematography, decor, etc., which revealed the “true” story. 

But yeah, that’s about it! That’s what I could dig up about the Hidden Plot. If any POTO fans have other memories of the Hidden Plot or interacting with its proponents, feel free to share in the comments or reblogs of this post!

[sonicfanartist22]

Here is some more Phantom of the Opera Sonic AU for y’all uwu

[royalavera]

A gift for myself, I always wanted an animated wallpaper. I decided to take a break from the Phantom of the Opera and chose another emo, goth, depressed but very talented man, who has a mark on his face, people don't trust him because he's weird but he just wants to be loved. So no better choice than Black Jack and Kiriko, his rival, who's another emo, goth, depressed but very talented man, who has a mark on his face, people don't...

[operas-phantom]

We’re.. multiplying..

[friskafriskito]

Just a humble Rat Catcher, on their way to work!

[cubbyhole-for-flea-bee]

give it up for Mr. I-don't-really-talk-about-my-feelings-maybe-I-should, everyone, any donations made to the theatre are going straight to a therapist fund!

[toonybrin]

Some quick Eriks as proof that poto still has (and always will have) me in a chokehold.

[sar-ca5tic]

MY. FAVORATE. COSTUME. EVER. I love that the phantom took the time to get dressed up for the masquerade party. That hat has literally 100000 feathers in it. His costume has BOWS🎀 (i think… or lots of bow-adjacent things)

[knuxadowmumbles]

The Phantom of the Opera was the first musical I ever saw, both on screen and in the theater:]

My mom introduced me to it and I genuinely never recovered

I drew all my characters as the Phantom, downloaded every song, and listened to the overture on repeat. I learned it on the piano and was always just thinking about it.

Playing the Phantom even ended up as a dream role of mine— I think it still is

The story always stood out to me, and the setting was astonishing... I loved the dark aura contrasted with the gorgeous glowing lights. Not to mention the Cherry ontop; The organ.

I love organs DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED I think they’re memorizing 😭

Anyways enough yap. I’ll likely be using another ship for my next musical theatre art piece thing

[erik-carriere]

Sketch from my upcoming poto Valentine's Day comic! First page is up tomorrow and will update throughout the week :)

[potpzine]

🎼⚡️🎹 PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE has rocked our world for 50 years, and we’re celebrating with a huge collaboration of artists, writers, cosplayers and more in

NOT JUST SONGS: A Phantom of the Paradise 50th Anniversary Zine

hosted by @drawnwithoutref & @whittledraws!!

Digital copies and physical copy pre-orders will drop October 31st! Profits will support the organization Girls Rock Camp Alliance!

Physical copies will also have a package option with amazing stickers, bookmarks and prints made by our artists!

See more info at potpzine.carrd.co!

Get hyped, get ready and sell your soul for rock n’ roll!! 🎸 🩸 ⚡️

[ablatheringblatherskite]

POTO RP BLOGS!

So there is this really fun little community of POTO RP blogs here on tumblr that I think the phandom should know about! Because they thrive on interactions. They're all a lot of fun and have a lot of fun roleplaying and interacting (I should know, I'm one of them!). I also think that it's nice to support these parts of the fandom. So I thought I'd make a little post dedicated to them!

Go ahead and harass send asks to all of them!!

Erik: @thisloathsomegargoyle

Another Erik: @not-the-phantom-of-the-opera

Another Erik: @erikaskblog

Another Erik: @operas-phantom

Another Erik: @thephantomofthisveryopera

Another Erik: @gentle-as-a-lamb

Another Erik: @fallenmaestros

Another Erik: @theoperaghostsblog

Cherik: @askcherik-blog

Winslow Leach: @an-american-songbird-in-paris

Christine Daaé: @lovely-lotte

Another Christine: @cchristtineeddaaee

Another Christine: @angeliquedaae

Another Christine: @lottewanderer

Raoul de Chagny: @vicomte-raoul-de-chagny

Meg Giry: @megthegiry

André and Firmin: @memoirsofamanager

La Carlotta: @the-better-soprano

Monsieur Reyer: @godstiredestmusicmajor

Philippe de Chagny: @comte-philippe-de-chagny

La Sorelli: @la-sorellis-askblog

Francine Garnier (OC): @sweetest-soprano

Calloway Agosto (OC): @anangrytrombonist

Alexandré Garnier (OC): @valiant-violinist

Aurelio the Propmaster (OC): @aurelio-the-propmaster

Julien de Auclair (OC): @juliendeauclair

Idony Petrikov (OC): @doeoftheopera

Nour Mebarki (OC): @somewherefarintheclouds

And another RP blog that does everyone, but as a muppet!: @ask-muppet-phantom

Also, I'm sure there's more, these are just the ones I know about (if you know of any more feel free to reblog tagging them!)

[erik-carriere]

This is the most wonderful Kay based piece I’ve seen in years :,) Thank you so much, this was so generously written!

The Magician’s Prelude

This is a gift for @erik-carierre posted with permission! Many thanks for your feedback and support!!

Summary: Erik’s morning routine while working as a magician in Russia prior to his recruitment by Nadir. Based on Kay!Erik.

Cover art by @erik-carierre

Content warnings: PTSD-like trauma flashbacks, bloody/gory imagery, slightly graphic descriptions of violence, body negativity (Erik is an angsty teenager)

Blood. There is always blood.

It oozes around the shards of mirror buried in the skin of my hands…it drips in thick crimson blobs onto the bundle of golden fur…it spatters in hot torrents against my chest and sticks to the open buttons of my shirt…

And it is there again that night. In the rooftop garden, I stand paralyzed staring at the gap in the crumbled balustrade. My chest feels hollow—I cannot breathe, I cannot scream—all I can do is watch as the gap yawns before me, pulling me closer. Against my will, I peer over the edge to view the sight I know is there.

I wish I could blink. I long for even the tiniest respite from what lay before me, but all I can do is look. Her body is small amidst the shattered rubble, her thin delicate limbs laying at odd angles, her soft barley hair matted with flecks of blood and gore. And her eyes…her pale eyes snuffed of all fire that had once bubbled inside of her like smoldering lava. They stare blankly up at my unmasked face, looking but not seeing.

All she ever wanted was to look at me…and now all I can do is look. Look at what I have done.

I awakened with a jolt, my eyes flying open and clenching the thin woolen blanket to my chest. One skeletal hand flew up to my face, and only once I felt the smooth hardness of the mask did I relax. After a moment of composure, I opened my aching jaw and heaved out a sigh of annoyance. The nightmares were as persistent as they had always been.

I sat up in bed and fumbled to light the oil lamp on the nightstand. I had no difficulty getting prepared in complete darkness, but I simply preferred not to after a night of haunting visions. A small clock beside the lamp told me it was early in the morning—earlier than I typically rose, but I was already resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t be sleeping any more if I tried.

I flung the woolen blanket to the side and felt the floor creak beneath my bare feet. The inn’s modest wooden room was comfortable enough for my needs: a bed with sheets, a chamber pot, a pitcher and washbasin, and most valuable of all, privacy. There had been a mirror, but I removed it soon after arriving.

I yanked off my nightshirt, letting the room’s warm air graze the scars slashed across my back. Russia had intriguingly hot summers; the books I had read as a boy only bothered to describe the harshness of the winter months, so I confess to being slightly bemused upon my arrival three years ago to a city with a climate only moderately cooler than the one I had left behind in Italy.

Her twisted body flashed before me again, the broken masonry wet and crimson from the split in her skull… I closed my eyes and angrily shoved the image back into the shadows of my mind. No. No more thoughts of that place. I poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin and dunked in a bar of perfumed soap. Once it had worked up a lather, I soaked a clean cloth and derisively began to wash myself.

The dawn of my body’s maturity had proven to be a dismal affair. It took my bones the full extent of my nineteen years to finally cease their growing, leaving me wretchedly gaunt and pitifully covered in pasty yellow skin. I had the strength of a man twice my age and triple my weight, but my frame still refused to resemble anything but a corpse. In my frustration, I scrubbed harder at my own flesh, attempting to cleanse it of its rotten color. But it remained as it always had, pulled tight over my arms to display veins and tendons, with the only thickness found in the old silvery scars adorning my wrists and hands.

Once I had scoured myself raw, I slung the cloth over the rack of the washstand to dry and stared down into the bottom of the basin. Silence screamed in my ears and my stomach twisted with dread. I turned my head to glance at the door behind me; the lock was securely in place, but the familiar prickle of eyes stung my skin all the same.

With trembling fingers, I removed the mask. Warm air rolled across my bare skin like a caress, or what I imagined a caress to feel like. I set the white sculpted shard aside on the stand, and after a heavy sigh, I bent over the basin and scooped handfuls of water over my head, scrubbing the soap’s lather deep into my thick black waves of hair. Droplets ran down the edges of my face, as if even they were afraid to touch the horror that was there. But I forced them to touch it, rubbing the water into the cracks and distorted furrows of my skin, smearing it around the protruding bones and into my eyes’ sunken pits. I braced myself with a grimace before carefully wiping the dried mucus away from the edge of the hole that was my nose.

The torture ended when I finally buried my repulsiveness in a towel. I held the soft cloth against my face as my other hand reached for the mask, slipping it back into place with a relieved sigh. I squeezed my dark hair free of water, then picked up a comb and worked it through the curls until they attained sufficient softness. I laid the towel and comb to the side and stepped over to the tiny wardrobe, withdrawing one of many black satin shirts and slipping it on. After dressing myself, I left my room and slinked down the stairs as a soundless shadow.

The empty tavern on the first floor simmered with the savory scent of shchi. This early in the morning, the only other soul awake was the ancient innkeeper preparing the first meal of the day. I scattered a handful of kopecks onto the bar, letting the clattering sound echo into the kitchen. A minute later, the shawled woman doddered forward and set a steaming bowl of cabbage soup and a chunk of crusty bread before me. No words or glances were exchanged, no questions were asked, as was our routine.

I suspected she found me strange—indeed, I have yet to encounter a soul who didn’t—but she seemed to tolerate me well enough. After her defective coal stove found itself repaired the day following my arrival, I was able to convince her to let me use her inn’s far room as a flat for several months. Unlike my fellow tenants, I paid precisely on time, never returned drunk or belligerent, and there was no risk of women being snuck into my bed. After all, what woman would be desperate enough to lay with a corpse, regardless of the payment offered to her?

With this bitterness lingering in my head, I ate my meal quickly and slipped out into the morning’s haze. It was a rare day; the air was pleasantly cool and the clouds had chosen to don a color besides their usual dismal grey. I assured myself that no one was watching before I lifted my head to admire the way the branches of trees cast their dark silhouettes against the paling sky.

The western quarter of Nizhny Novgorod was largely deserted, making it easy to dart through the city’s shadows unseen in my black attire. Once the day hit its sweltering peak, the cobbled streets would resemble the Volga river with rushing currents of wealthy merchants and colorful travelers from Europe and India and Persia. By that time, I would be waiting for them in my magician’s tent, where they would be shown more wonders than their feeble minds could possibly comprehend.

I rounded a corner and walked along the silent boulevard, until the trees bordering the street gave way to a wrought-iron fence. Beyond the fence, majestically imposing against the northwest horizon, stood the blinding white structure of the Spassky Cathedral. Pink wisps of sunrise stretched across the sky and barely kissed the golden spire atop its great dark cupola.

As I so often did on clear mornings like this one, I felt compelled to stop and gaze up at the splendid piece of architecture. My eyes danced over its fine pillars and elegant façade, admiring the expert carving and delighting in the exquisite use of symmetry and proportion. I had snuck inside once in the dead of night to glimpse its interior—what beauty! It lacked the scale of greater cathedrals, but in golden grandeur it did not disappoint.

There was a time when I had imagined building such great works myself. Beneath the creaky bed back at the inn lay several journals filled with sketches of the spectacular monuments I saw when I closed my eyes. The pages overflowed with details of magnificent marble façades and great towering pavilions, gilded figures in copper and bronze, ornate mosaics with details that dazzled the imagination. My architectural creations would be shrines of worship, not to any one god but to all forces that stirred the spirit and awakened man’s deepest emotions—art, geometry, magic, and most of all music. Oh, how I missed music.

Often this fantasy crossed my mind, and with every day and every kopeck in my purse, it seemed less and less like a child’s dream. After all, I was still very much in my youth…perhaps that day was still to come.

Once I had admired all I could bear, I tucked my masked face back down between my narrow shoulders and trudged off through the neighborhood of shops and teahouses. A smattering of humans were beginning to converge on the street that I walked: small groups of traders bickering in foreign tongues and leading wooden carts filled with wares to sell. Like me, they trampled up the soggy road to the shadow of the large red and yellow stone building, beyond which lay a great courtyard overlooking the bank of the Oka. It was here in the summer months that the great Markaryev Fair was held, where tradesmen and entertainers alike earned their gold.

I proceeded underneath the building’s archway and entered the city’s courtyard. Vendors were already busy erecting tents and unloading their goods in designated sections around the square. Past cotton bales and crates of tea and spices, I spotted the oval shape of the familiar black yurt tucked in its corner, untouched as always. I never worried about the tent’s safety during my absence, for a rumor of a deadly curse had found its way amongst the traders that effectively warded off potential burglars.

As I walked, a warm breeze wafted through the market’s open air, carrying a strain of musical notes to my ears. My heart jumped and I whipped my head towards the sound. On the other side of the courtyard sauntered a muzhik fiddler, beard scraggly and legs stumbling as if drunk, the bow screeching as it was dragged across the rusty strings. A couple passing by threw a few coins into the hat that lay at his feet.

Under the mask, my lips pulled back in a snarl. How dare these fools reward such a tuneless, insolent mockery of music! That drunken bastard did not deserve the right to place his filthy hands on an instrument and spoil its sacred beauty for the whole city to hear. My bony form seethed beneath its black clothing, but I successfully fought back my fervid rage and stomped off towards the yurt. I clenched my shaking hands at my sides, imagining the feeling of the man’s throat beneath my fingers; a sharp snap from his neck and those dreadful notes would finally fall silent.

A crunch against the stones. The heavy tumble of rubble against the ground dampens the sound of her skull cracking open…

I entered the dark tent and pulled the fabric flaps closed behind me, blessedly muffling the horrid noises. A deep breath steadied my hands, and with practiced precision I navigated the small space and lit candles tucked in little red lanterns, banishing the darkness and revealing the blood-red of the yurt’s interior. Swooping red curtains hung from the concave ceiling; samples of shyrdak hangings formed the walls, weaving in swirls of black and gold into the otherwise scarlet room. I kicked off my shoes and felt the luxurious softness of the thick Persian rugs buried beneath velvet cushions.

I ignited the small charcoal stove to boil water in the samovar for tea. While it brewed, I reclined back against the cushions and turned my attention to the long wooden box tucked near the back of the tent: the trick casket. My fingers deftly pranced over the mechanism to open the box, and I withdrew the materials for my magician’s performance: decks of cards, stacks of silver coins, hand-carved trick dice. I arranged them all in neat rows upon the central rug with a small grin.

I struck another match and lit a few sticks of incense to flood the space with their heady, sweet fragrance. I had learned over time that it was beneficial for the minds of my audience to be stripped of their defenses—that way, they found my tricks more dazzling and dropped more rubles into my bony hand. Sometimes this state of enchantment would make them too bold, and bring out their insatiable nature that they otherwise hid from their gods during prayer in the temples and cathedrals. They became ravenous, foolishly curious; they would grope for my mask and demand to see what lay beneath…

All she wanted was to see me.

My hands curled upon themselves, extinguishing the match’s flame between my fingertips. The wretched visions played through my mind again and numbed the burn on my skin.

A mirror shard clenched between the tips of tweezers…bloody hands furiously digging at the grassy dirt…the heavy clunk of a knife’s hilt as the belt dropped to the floor… It was difficult to understand why I remembered certain details so clearly, while others merely faded into murky shadows.

Over the course of three years, the girl’s living face had become fuzzy in my memory. Indeed, I had only dared to look at her a handful of times while living with the master stonemason. Every time I did, my chest would fill with an uncomfortable constricting sensation, and I would be forced to look away or else stop breathing altogether. Her eyes had a heat that scorched all the way to my soul. She was fire—bold, passionate, all-consuming—and I knew better than to risk being burned. Or perhaps I was afraid.

But it was the moment I finally gave her what she pleaded for, the moment I ripped off the mask—her expression of pure horror, anguish and primal fear, grief for love she had never truly felt. That image would always remain in my memory perfectly in focus.

I slowly opened my hand, and I stared down at the two spots of black soot left upon the pale skin of my thumb and forefinger. Temporary scars, easily washed away. That’s all these dreams were to me…but still the pain they carried hurt more than the deep wounds left on my body.

With a harsh huff, I flicked the remnants of the match away and reached over to the samovar to pour myself a cup of tea. The earthy liquid seared down my throat and revived my senses, kicking the brooding memories away in favor of my present enterprise. Outside my tent, I heard the growing clamour of the fair coming to life—my audience awaited me.

A familiar pang prodded at my heart. Was this all? Would this pitiful life, shrouded away in a performer’s tent, forever be my purpose? In my heart, I longed to use my skills to create the majesty that filled my mind: grand palaces, ingenious machines, symphonies without equal. If I had to be confined to mindless magic tricks for greedy imbeciles, then they would be the best magic tricks ever conceived. In a way, I thought to myself scornfully, I had not left that traveling fair…perhaps I never would. But at least things were different now. I was my own master, and no one would ever cage me again.

As the incense swirled its sickly-sweet aroma through the air, I slipped further back into my tent and drew a sheer red curtain across my masked form. I laid back in my trick coffin and heard several soft clicks as the mechanism closed the lid and cloaked me in darkness—the one place I have ever truly belonged.

Long ago, I had accepted my place as prince of darkness, and I would reign over my realm with proud finesse. So let them in now, the merchants and peasants from all corners of the world. Let them think they are the kings and I am their fool. Let them believe they know what it is like to be afraid.

Let them in, and let them look.