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a-light-bulb-for-thought · 7 years ago

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Midnight Moon

Cold wind howled menacingly, the skeletal branches shivered in the silvery light of the moon and in the distance strikingly coloured caravans surrounded a crackling fire, though slightly blurred by the faint fog. On the outskirts of London, a small crowd began to form as they trudged through the muddy field to the carnival. Women held up their dresses fearing their petticoats would get wet in the damp grass. The children’s faces were lit up in the amber glow, ignoring the calls from their parents. Hypnotic music from the carnival filtered to their ears and drew them even closer. Huge tents of red and white strips stood tall and proud before them, black smoke puffed out from the top. It mixed in with the pollution clouds from the industrial machines of London, obscuring the light from the moon. Buntings and flags shook rapidly, the wind was moving towards the tent, as if pushing the audience closer to the entrance.

Inside the tent the Ringleader sat on the front steps of his caravan, his top hat pulled low over his face, he peered at the children watching them watching him, and a slow grin came to his face. He tapped his fingernails on his pocket watch, they were right on time. With long spidery legs he stood and jumped off the porch, his tail coat flying behind him, landing right in front of them. Young sweet little children, their excited chubby faces, some still sticky with sugar. Hardly surprising when it came to the rich to spoil their youngsters with treats of deliciousness, some staining their lacy collars and trimmings with the sweet syrup from the candy apples.

The audience gazed up at their host, something about him was off putting but something else only moved them nearer. Maybe it was the charming smile that spread across his face, or the glimmer of his shiny ice blue eyes. His skin was pale and outlined his jaw and cheek bones clearly, his raven hair glazed down to his neck like a silky river. His length was tall and his width was thin, like a skeleton. His puffed sleeves hung shapelessly off his arms, his vest tightening the fabric to his chest, and an emerald cravat held it all together at the top. He tipped his hat and bowed low as the people approached.

“Welcome one and all” he exclaimed in an elegant English enunciation, his eyes never leaving the happy children staring at him with wide innocent eyes. “And good All Hallows Eve to you Madams, Sirs and children” The men gave nervous nods while the women fluttered their eyelashes and giggled. The Ringleader glared momentarily and sneered at the sight of one of the men’s gold embroidered vest while his own was plain white. “I am at your service for this frightful and delightful evening” He waved and fell in line behind them. Gesturing with his head and hands he directed the show; people rapidly ran past, and dwarves carried things here and there. Nothing was left to chance. This was a well-oiled machine and the net was closing in…

Posters had been stuck up round the cobbled street, giving the public a week’s notice of the travelling freak show, for the one year occasion of All Hallows Eve. ‘The Midnight Moon Traveling Freak Show, curious characters with curious acts’ was their slogan, and curious characters indeed there were.

The fortune teller, enigmatic and unfathomable. Her navy dress fell to her feet, silky and slender, strapless and sleek, her arms decorated in zodiac tattoos. Gasps and mummers were heard from the women in the audience judging her on her revealing arms and corset with no bodice or flower trimmings. She sat on a candle lit stage, the smoke she wisped between her fingers; it took the shape of an ox, and then shaped into two fish swimming in concentric circles. The cold wind soared and drove out the candles, plunging the stage into darkness.

The men eagerly stared at her with no such complaints. Her exotic eyes enchanted them, her blue iridescent hair made them hot, her smile made their throats dry. She kneeled down to one man, her open hair cascading over her bare shoulders as she whispered in his ear, gliding her fingernails lightly over his jaw line and neck. A shriek was heard from his wife, she swiftly grasped his wrist and tore them apart. Flirting cancelled, they reluctantly moved on. The children lost interest in her and ran to the next attraction, all under the watchful gaze of the Ringleader. Every now and then he would glance darkly at his heavy caravan looming at the back of the carnival site.

The parents paid more attention to pulling and tugging at their children keeping them at their best rather than the freaks. “Don’t dirty your riding boots! They cost money!” “Edger, stop running you’re messing your hair!” “Maggie! You’re covering your new dress in sugar! Aunty Jean will be furious!” the icy gust pushed it way through the crowd hard and rough almost knocking the audience off their feet. A mother yelled while holding down her skirt “Oh this wind will be the death of us!”

The Ringleader watched every move before hearing a loud sucking nose. Turning round he looked down upon a young child lapping at Edwardian Mint Rocks while she stared up delightedly at him. His smile widened as he stared back and kneeled down to her taking in every last detail. Her faded pink sweet dress, a ruffled white bonnet with a sugar white bow, and a gleaming parasol she twirled in her lace white gloves. He touched her cheek lightly, feeling the softness of her skin, and smelt her heavy mint breath. His expression was gleamingly cheerful as he titled his head.

“Hello little one” He moved his hand slowly up to her thick blond ringlets “Are you enjoying the show?” While licking the access sugar from her fingers she nodded “Would you like to stay here forever my lovely?” He asked leaning in closer to her “With me and my fellow freaks?”

“Merida get away from that horrid man!” Her mother yelled, grabbing her daughter roughly by her hand and took her from the Ringleader. He smirked to himself and ran a finger under his chin before picking up his pocket watch again. “My sincerest apologies Madam!” He called after her “I did not mean to offend” She merely huffed and stormed away with her child. Merida soon ran with her mother to a gathering crowd round the caged unfortunates.

A young man sat on the cold floor of his prison, his neck twisted awkwardly causing his head to tilt drastically to one side, his mouth wide open, a puddle of his drool had formed beside him, and onto the shoulder of his shirt. His hands were curled inwards revealing the absence of many of his fingers, the same condition had affected his toes and feet. Beside him, but in a separate cage the snake boy hissed round, slithering through the crowd allowing them to admire and stroke his colourful scales. He lashed out his forked tongue at some, causing the crowd to cry in alarm and bounce back.

A fire dancer skilfully danced round the fire, commanding and manipulating it into shapes and illusions that enveloped her, the flames licking over her exposed stomach and skin like an excited puppy. Her costume of shiny silver caught the light of the fire; she looked like a dancing flame herself. Only she wasn’t just a dancing flame, no one failed to see the other feature to her performance. Juggling fireballs and torches over eight at a time was aided by two extra arms thrusting out from the armpits. They were longer than the others with entwining bone like fingers; they could reach far behind her, catching anything she threw over her shoulders. The parents recoiled in horror at the grotesque unnatural movement of these arms. Her black wavy hair and Indian skin showed her to be the living reincarnation of Vishnu, the Hindu God with four arms, so her advertising banner claimed.

Children stared like gaping gold fish, their ice cream slowly dripping off the cone on their hands. As everyone stared enraptured, no one noticed the other freaks, slyly following the crows close behind, hiding nets and sacks discreetly behind their backs.

As the exhibits came to an end and the performers glanced at each other nervously, the dwarves handed each of the adults a drink. The children still ran tirelessly round the now dying fire, the clouds shielded the moon from the terrible things that were about to happen. The smile from the Ringleader had now disappeared and was replaced by a stony face; his eyes dared this way and that from the children, to the parents, and to the performers. Again, he glanced at his large dark caravan standing behind him, the wind once again soared in from behind, and he felt a familiar feeling.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you all for coming to look upon my freaks to admire their monstrous imperfection. Indelicate as they may be they are all glad that you have come. Let us drink a toast to the wonders of the Freak Show!” he called “May you sleep well tonight” he added under his breath. With that they all raised their cups and took a sip. One of the men looked round with a frown on his face “You carni-folk not joining in with the drinks?” No one replied, and the Ringleader slowly laughed with pleasure. He rubbed his lips and chin with his fingers, staring up at the ceiling of the tent as he heard coughing and choking, and the little shrieks of children. He sighed in relief, closing his eyes and clasped his fingers together humming softly to himself.

The Ringleader sat crossed legged on the bed in his caravan, his hands in front of his mouth as if he was praying. His top hat and tailed coat hung up neatly in his closet, his ice eyes glared in admiration and wonder over his collection of porcelain dolls, the beauty of each unique face shone back at him. The delicate feature of each doll was preserved in their making, their hair was carefully combed and arranged, the clothes were smooth and little faces held the memory of the child they once were. Gracefully he tapped his fingers together to a slow rhythm “Oh my innocent ones, there can be no shame with you, no shame, you move my heart in many ways and shield me from the disgrace that is of my freakish nature” Tilting his head to one side he looked down at an unfinished doll in front of him. He placed it gently on his lap, and started to hum the tune of ‘A Ring of Roses’.

“A-tish-oo, a-tish-oo. We all fall down”

With his skilful hand he the locks of blonde hair with needle and thread and sewed it into the holes of the porcelain skull. After twisting the hair into tight ringlets he proceeded to paint her glass eyes blue, and glued them into the eye sockets and dusted her cheeks with a little blush. Measuring out the trimming perfectly he progressed to stitching a bonnet for the little doll, pink with white trimming to match her dress. After dressing the doll he held her like a baby and kisses her forehead “Little Merida” He whispered to her “Now you are here to stay with me and my fellow freaks forever” He put her on the shelf and placed in her hand her parasol. He smiled proudly, and examining her to rest of his collection of children. Reaching into the pocket of his new gold embroidered vest, though faint red stains were lurking in the lapels, he took out Edwardian Mint Rock, placed it on his tongue and smiled charmingly.

Written by A Light Bulb for Thought

#writing #own writing #fiction #fantasy #circus #show #gothic #horror #prose #freak show #doll #midnight #moon #short story

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a-light-bulb-for-thought · 7 years ago

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Black Eyes

The early morning sunrays crept through the window, reddened by the velvet curtains onto the wooden flooring. The warm fire crackled softly under the mantel piece, the flickers of flames danced up the chimney with its own individual glow. Pins revolving around a glass cylinder plucked at its teeth and out came a musical chime, a sharp lullaby while a wooden man and woman endlessly circled to its melody, sealed in a pink box, she was dressed in white feathers. First position, a grand jete, stretching the limbs, the lightness on the feet lifts me off the floor. Second position, demi-plié, half bent knees, third position, jump, upwards, to the side, a skip a cascading sweep. A swan taking flight, a butterfly moving its wings, a flower dancing in the breeze. Third position a landing on the floor, crack, Brisé, broken, breaking, the leg twisted up from the back, bone crunching and sockets popping. Fourth position, bending backwards till the skull touched the heels, the spine could bend all the way, a primrose would bounce back. Blotchy black blue and red appearing on the skin, the shoes soaked crimson, arms dancing mercilessly on their own, a frantic bird in peril. Shoulder blades had slammed against the wall and, head crushed on the floor, red dripped down to the lips. Hands against the wood, leaning up it bending the fingers, further, further, further, cracking, snapping, one to eight, broken. Fifth position, the toes of each foot reaches the heel of the other before lifting the body back up to its graceful elegance. Before this would have been impossible.

It would have killed me, I wouldn’t have even tried. My mortality would not let me. Yet now, I could bend back my spine, hearing each bone break out of place and as I straightened my back, each bone would fit back into place, but not before my back was scaled with bruises and bleedings like a poisoned reptile. My eyes are black and empty, blood pools in my shoes, toes blistered and crushed beyond repair. There’s blood under my fingernails, I wish I could say it was my own, but it seems a cruel twist of fate has cursed me.

Written by A Light Bulb for Thought

#writing #own writing #prose #fiction #gothic #horror #ballet #dance #body #bones #skeleton #opening chapter #I hope this can become something special in the future #ghouls #ghosts

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a-light-bulb-for-thought · 7 years ago

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A place where I grew up

The wind attacked the men at their most vulnerable points. Their fingers were numb and turning blue; their teeth chattered uncontrollably, their breath appeared to them as frosty mist in their faces. They hugged themselves tight, perched on benches clutching whatever belongings they had to their chests; heads bowed low shielding themselves from the chill. At first they had come down brimming with excitement and enthusiasm, matching uniforms, youthful faces, happily marching brothers in arms. Back home their families and friends applauded and threw flowers. They merrily clapped each other on their backs, cheering, laughing, singing, ready for the challenge they were going to face together. They kissed their old lives goodbye and left their homes as unconscious boys, blissfully unaware of the dark horrors that lay ahead, oblivious to the cruel nightmares they were about to be thrown into. Plunged into the pit from where they’d never escape.

Two years had passed since those days of excitement which promised so much, they crouched in their own small corner of an unfamiliar land; some muttered half-forgotten prayers like grotesque obscenities while others stayed silent. Some were close by one another; one boy had his head rested on another man’s lap, half asleep. The man stroked the boy’s head running his fingers between the locks of chestnut hair and over the boy’s cheek. Neither of them spoke but each felt the comfort of having the other nearby. Another man was holding a photograph to his face; tears gathered in his eyes as he stared at a smiling baby girl, he was smiling; he seemed oblivious to his surroundings. They were all a long way from home, buried deep in French soil, coffined in tightly together.

One lonely boy sat on his fire step squatted into a protective ball; his rifle was stuck into the dirt as he held it for support. It had rained the night before and the bottom of the trench was filled with mud. The planks of wood, specifically used to help the men walk, were beginning to sink. He rubbed the nape of his neck and crossed one arm over his chest, pulling his helmet low over his face and holding his rifle tightly, pulling it close to him. Jean Luc Barnette held his head down as he felt chunks of dirt clatter over the top of his helmet. His fingers loathe and cold, but the strong whisky burnt his throat, he liked the feeling, it gave him a sense he was still alive. His trench was overrun by rats and saturated in mud; the stench of death was everywhere.

They hadn’t come to collect the dead for days. The bodies from No-Mans-Land were usually placed side by side at the bottom of the dugout, but the number of the dead was far more than anticipated and the bodies were piled up high like hay stacks in August. Beside them were masses of Adrian Helmets, most punctured with bullet holes. Rats scurried in and out, chewing and nibbling on rotten flesh. Jean Luc watched one rat scamper by him; it carried an ear in its teeth. The putrid smell of death penetrated everyone’s noses and the sight scarred their eyes. Corporal Louvian’s arm was stuck out of the stack; Jean Luc had been staring at it for two days, he recognised his wedding ring. What would Margret think if she could see her beloved in such a state? Would his corpse make it back home to her? “God save us all, because no one else f*****g will” He looked up slowly at the sky and at the very edge of the trench, he could see a glimpse of No-Mans-Land, the ground had been churned up completely, there was no more grass. He used to live here, within three miles of this place, years ago, before they were evacuated when the war hit.

He lived here with his parents, older brother and sister. They used to go fishing in the River Somme, back when it was clear and reeds caressed the banks, small daisies hidden between the shrubs. He remembered Lisette sitting under the old willow tree making daisy chains with their mother, while he and Patrice were out by the edge of the water with their father, throwing their rods into the river, watching the colourful fish temp closer to the bait. In his memories it was always so sunny and warm, the grass was always lush; the trees were tall and mighty and the river shimmered in the light of the sun. Jean Luc remembered their last fishing trip, he had caught four trout that day, he remembered their cook Hilda making salt-crusted trout with lemon-dill beurre blanc in the evening, and he could still taste it on his tongue, the thought made his stomach ache. He remembered that night, his father read the local paper; he talked about the Russo-Japanese war and the Kaiser. He remembered Patrice listening intently, while he and Lisette were in the kitchens looking for Hilda’s secret supply of Bree. Perhaps it was because of Patrice’s interest in world affairs that made him the first to enlist from their hometown in the Somme valley. He was a hero to everyone, but no one more than Jean Luc wanted to enlist with him.

But now this land was a stranger to him. The Battle of the Somme had stained his home with the blood of thousands, Patrice’s included. He was somewhere out there was amongst them, but there was nothing left of him to be buried, no body to mourn over. The old river was thick and murky now, not shimmering anymore but black and gloomy like a swamp, poisoned by rusted barbed wire and shell cases, suffocating it. The once mighty trees were shattered by bullets and ripped from the earth, like the men who had marched over and never returned. The old willow tree was gone; its long thin leaves lost amongst the mud, there were no more daises now, no hint of their white petals.

It seemed impossible that in a few short years the place he has grown up had become a wasteland, a No-Mans-Land; this had been his land, his family’s land. His memories and childhood had been gunned down before him, now he could only see the slow mass of soldiers on their endless march towards the machine guns. Young boys mown down while the whistles were still blowing.

He had been told it was sweet and fitting to die in battle, that it would be an adventure and heroic to kill the Germans, but now he knew it was lie. War was nothing but a growing pile of dead boys, too many to count, too many to bury, too many to remember. The Somme was no longer his home; it was a massacre, thousands upon thousands of lives obliterated. Earth’s open graveyard.

The whistles were blowing sharply. The rumble of the guns shook the earth; the heavy soil began to crumble into the trench. Boys were beginning to shriek and scream. Light shattered in metal explosions, blasting the walls of the dugout. Dismembered limbs and blood splattered the trench soaking the mud. Raggedy mutilated bodies fell screaming, torn apart. The photo of a smiling baby was crushed underfoot, soaked in the thick blood turning red. The boy and the man, one minute ago in some kind of peace filled the trench with anguished screams. Shrapnel stabbed and clawed at their flesh, their own intestines scattered around them. Jean Luc picked up his rifle and put them out of misery, he stared once again at the sky, filled with failing burning stars. Everything seemed in slow motion he could only hear screams, the fear caught in his throat. Chaos confined round him in this small trench. In a desperate attempt to shield himself from the horror, he buried himself in the trench wall, clinging to his rifle, curling up in the fetal position. There was a burst of light against him, shrill metal cut his body, he screamed in pain and agony. Tears stung in his eyes as he stared down, his body was disfigured beyond repair. He turned away and gasped seeing the old willow tree standing tall, beautiful and bright in hell. He could feel no more pain.

Written by A Light Bulb for Thought

#writing #own writing #prose #fiction #world war 1 #trenches #war #memories #france #the somme #violence

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a-light-bulb-for-thought · 7 years ago

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Old Photos

There were once stories in colour, in rich red, blossoming pinks and royal blues that I did not know. There were names that were unheard of, and characters to discover. A barber brought the lovers together on a black and white horse from his stables. There was a nameless aunt who died in childbirth, a child who ran for miles for their favourite magazine, and a baby cut out from a photo. I loved the ones I knew and the family I wanted to know. But there was more to discover and see, but scorched away with grey and black ink, like the static on an old TV. Now I saw them in the old photos of an album, heavy like old bricks. The pages stuck together with age, water damage on the spine. I had found my history in a language I could not understand, no names or dates or locations, only guessing at still faces and forced smiles wondering if I had known them, would I had loved them?

Written by A Light Bulb for Thought

#writing #own writing #prose #life writing #memories #photos #remember

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a-light-bulb-for-thought · 7 years ago

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I Am

I am shy I am not speaking

I am Ramgarhia I am casteless

I am fair skinned I am told keep out of the sun

I am slender I am skipping meals

I am Uncut, long hair I am It keeps falling out

I am Hello, how are you I am Who is this stranger

I am someone’s unmarried daughter I am a graduate student

I am Traditional I am Modern

I am Indian I am a person

I Am Me

Written by A Light Bulb for Thought

#writing #own writing #poetry #indian #anxiety #punjabi #Just going through some personal things

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a-light-bulb-for-thought · 7 years ago

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Treasure behind keys

Down in the basement the marble floor was cold under her feet, like a frozen lake of permanent still water. Giant cabinets of drawers and compartments glistened over the walls in shining blue. The room was dark, lit by a single candelabrum in the corner, but Reena had a gold candle of her own she held close to her chest. She traced her fingers over each lock and fastener, every padlock and riddle. Each needed a different key and she had them all. She liked the sound her candle holder made as she placed it on the marble floor, a satisfying clunk, like a heeled shoe on the staircase. She lifted the candle up again and placed it down, clunk. Her bag was heavy, its thud on the floor was not satisfying, but inside lined hundreds of keys in all shapes and designs. Keys made of stone, keys covered in jewels, keys woven from silk and spider web. There were keys of numbers, keys of words and riddles and puzzles, even keys of bone and human hair. Reena’s favourite was the one made from bronze cogs and gears, they spun and clicked like the inside of a pocket watch, reshaping and changing every 10 seconds. She picked up the candle and rested the key on her palm as she searched for the matching lock. It wasn’t hard to find. It too made the same clicking and ticking noises, changing and moving every 10 seconds. She would have to wait for the key and the lock to match the same shape before she opened the cabinet. So she waited, staring at the lock intently, loosely holding the key in front of the lock, waiting to push it in. Reena’s mass of curly red hair kept getting in her way, even while she sat still, but she forced her gaze through the curls and concentrated. The key fashioned from butterfly wings escaped her bag and fluttered around the candle light.

The room was beginning to get colder, Reena felt her skin shiver beneath her thin white night dress which hung loosely off her shoulder, but she didn’t waver or flinch. Her green eyes gleamed; waiting for the pattern of the lock to match that was on the key. Her hand was fast as she thrust the key into the lock and quickly turned it before either the key or the lock had time to change again. The key twirled in her hand with ease and the cupboard sprung open. Reena smiled widely and rummaged through. There were loose diamonds scattering the shelves and tear dropped gold necklaces hung from the brass ornate hooks. Reena pushed them aide carelessly and found the real treasure hidden in the back. Under a piece of velvet was a small crumpled photograph with bent edges and scribbling on the back. Reena carefully took it out and blew the dust away. The photo showed two little girls standing side by side with matching blue dresses and curly red hair, each holding a black kitten. Reena laughed into the photo clutching it with two hands.

“Oh sister!” she exclaimed “I knew you were real!”

Written by A Light Bulb for Thought

#writing #own writing #fantasy #prose #gothic #treasure #hope I can turn this into something special one day

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