Life's Little Circus

Today would be her midnight. She'd ignore the sunshine and the bustling world surrounding her outside of closed blinds. The world's problems hit the outside of her bubble like baby moths leaving painful dust on a solar light's globe in a garden. A tenth coat of velvety amethyst-colored lipstick gave her otherwise nude torso covering. The shower still ran beside her, filling a stark bathroom with a heavy mist, which covered all but a hand-swept streak of a partially fractured mirror. She inspected herself with a cold stare, one that could be mistaken for the abhorrent burn saved for proper enemies. Her posture was impeccable like her alabaster skin, her pale pink nipples staring back at her at obedient attention, leading the way before an army of lean muscles and slender feminine curves. An abandoned popular magazine on the floor couldn't hold a candle to the powerful doll-like torso in the mirror, and yet scrutinizing shadowed eyes offered not a blink of concession to their own body's obvious radiance. Her spine tensed, squeezing every muscle from her neck down until her scapulae trembled, and in a breath, she swept out of the bathroom, the rusty squeak of the shower shutting down the room into silence.

Although the frills and glitter of a satirical caricature of a ballerina costume suited her no less than the laughter and bright lights that would soon find the body that the great goddess Athena had personally sculpted, this was her uniform. Where a suitcase or an end table would elevate a wallet and keys for any respectable working woman, instead a lone lacy parasol awaited a dispassionate grasp, meanwhile shedding the occasional tear of glitter from the previous performance. Standing before her worn apartment door, in a room lacking any color or excessive decor, she commanded her body to lower its guard just enough to yield to her only honest expression of the evening: a physical and psychological sigh.

With the flutter of a heavy traditional red-and-white striped curtain, the same body would emerge with the most magnificent act, glowing with glorious superficial rapture, her strong body curving to showcase a colorful, glistening fairy-like essence. Fluffing to life, her sidekick, a bipolar parasol, spread its tears of joy like a rainbow above her head. She perfectly disguised a lifeless corpse for another two-hour execution, and a full house of 500 mindless puppeteers applauded her act.

Scuba Diver

Suffocatingly heavy water snugly fitted its way around the focused scuba diver as he followed the beam of his flashlight like a sailor set on the glow of his home town's lighthouse. His determination was strong, even outweighing his concern to hold fast to personal belongings, such as the wallet sporting his closely-shaven face over the name "Jonathan McWilson," which was now enjoying a vacation of solitude on an unfamiliar surface until otherwise claimed. A gleam of metal caught the underwater explorer's eye, and like a moth who almost knew better, he was drawn to this particular flame. His gloved hand stroked the slimy growth from the side of this unfamiliar structure, which was lodged into a garden of coral. The heavy base of the gleaming box was painted in a delicious deep red striped with vertical cream-colored stripes, perfectly alternating and drizzled with the markings of a short time spent in Poseidon's realm. As his light hit the ceiling of the object, the metal reflected down to cast an enchanting glow on some floating swollen particles, rendering them reminiscent of fireflies. One of many moments of awe stole a moment's breath from the masked pioneer, as he gazed upon this familiar sight in a foreign territory. Recalling no recent circus or fair, his frow burrowed, revealing his curiosity as to how a popcorn machine had made it to the bay.

Obligatory Greeting

The Self-Proclaimed Gods of Bizarre Month Labels have generously granted November yet another excessive tradition, which may or may not be lost and forgotten as of next year. As it has been presented to me, November is "novel month", wherein the ubiquitous masses have been challenged to write a "novel", known to consist of an average of 90,000 words. Come writers, gather amateurs, collect thy crayons children of all ages, for it is time to write, and write we must!

... Before I get ahead of myself, dear reader, I will shamelessly break the fourth wall to set this epic dream on pause whilst I ready myself for my personal compromise to the early stages of "the American dream." (Hey, something's gotta pay the bills.) But fear not! I've already been starting some short creative pieces and brainstorms that can and will be posted in this blog. Were I to guess, I'd say that the reader will find no substance for a novel here, but rather, brief glimpses of whimsical writing. (I might optimistically maintain the goal of 90,000 words just for the fun of it, but we'll see what I can do with such limited time.)

Until next time!