Sombre Carnivàle Démoniaque June 10th ~ Writing Event!

You are invited to take part in an incredible event. Come witness the magic and the mystery of the Sombre Carnivàle Démoniaque. This is a special Satan and Sons/Suns event that only takes place once a year! From June 6th - June 16th!! We invite you to claim your ticket and join us on a whimsical journey of creepy delights and celebrations!
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guesswho
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Waiting for Reynard

After numerous failed attempts I am finally ready to hear the Zombie Clown's story. I've seen the dark blue of the sky, so surreal. Siioow silhouetted against it, with shovel in hands, digging. I've seen his eyes, so vividly. I can see the lines around them and the cracks in his vintage white make-up as he grins widely at me.

I see the zombie clown haul his body up out of the hole that Siioow has dug. The black light is still illuminating him. He is, naturally, covered in dirt. His clown outfit is torn and tattered, reflecting the sadness of the zombie clown at discovering he has been lost to the world. So much time has passed by. He is an old world clown. His make-up is vintage like Siioow's. His wig, despite being misshapen from being in the ground, sticks out in a way that resembles a crown.

The zombie clown sits on the edge of the hole, legs dangling in it. He looks at Siioow. Siioow invites me to sit and I do. I join the Jester and the Clown sitting on the edge of the hole with our legs hanging over the side. It isn't that large of a hole, Siioow and I are on one side, the zombie clown on the other, and there is barely a foot between us. We sit and we are silent. I try to start the dialogue. I ask the clown if he has a name he would like to share. He rasps out a garbled name. It begins with "R". After a few attempts, he clearly says, "Reynard." Again, we sit and we are silent. With only the music I have put on as an offering and accompaniment in the background.

Both the Jester and the Clown seem to enjoy the music. After a bit, there is some movement in the black light, and there are two doll-like clowns dancing off to the left side of the hole, it is as if there is a spot light on them as they dance. It starts off very innocent, then as one piece of music ends, the dance ends and the dolls start a pantomime that is very adult. They fade away as I wonder where this is all leading. It is not the zombie clown's story. That is very apparent. They are like the opening act. Not a very good one.
Again, we are alone in the graveyard, sitting on the edge of the hole. We are silent and still. The zombie clown barely moves. He just sits there, gazing back at us, as we wait. I remind myself to wait, he will tell his story when he wants to. Siioow has other ideas as he breaks the silence, "We've spent a lot of time, sitting here, waiting for you."

Though the Jester does not take his eyes away from the clown, this is not addressed to the zombie, but to me.

"I apologize," I begin, speaking to the zombie clown. "I have had some difficultly with the process of getting to this point. You see, I am not in the habit of sneaking up on strange men digging in a graveyard. I have a much greater sense of self-preservation than that or I would not have lived as long as I have.

"I know better," I continue, as the zombie clown's face takes on an expression of bemusement, "than to approach someone digging a hole. It doesn't matter if they are digging to bury something or to find something. Either way, they aren't likely to want to be discovered. Plus, they have a shovel and they obviously know how to use it.

"So, under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be here. It is only because this is an exceptional situation that I have tried getting here as many times as I have, despite my better judgment. Siioow knows which clowns are the greatest and have a story to share. You must be. And you have one, and that is why I am here." I reach forward and place my right had over the clown's left hand, which is resting on his tattered knees. I give his hand a gentle squeeze to indicate that I am in earnest. "I would very much like to hear your story, Reynard." After a moment, I let go of his hand and sit back, waiting to see what he will do now.

Reynard stands. Much to my surprise, he doesn't start to tell a story. Instead, the black light becomes a spotlight upon him. And he is transformed. He is no longer the decaying, time-worn zombie, that labours to get to his feet. He is a spry clown at the top of his game. His make-up is fresh and his wig, like new. His clown outfit is whole and bounces with life as he begins to dance to the music that is playing. It is a modern piece. Music he would not have known when he was bringing joy and happiness to the crowds of his day.

My words can not do Reynard the Dancing Clown justice. I will say that what I witnessed brought a smile to my face, joy to my heart and I was full of wonder. Reynard had moves that the man who played the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz could only dream of being able to execute. Many clowns of his day must have wept at the sight of his performance. The briliance and whimsy of his improvisation, as I mentioned the music would have been completely unfamiliar to him. Yet he selected that music to share his performance with Siioow and I. As I watched, I understood how this clown was the greatest. The talent, the gift. Truly, being able to illicit laughter and smiles from the combination of timing and placement of limbs and body is a gift. One that is grossly underestimated and underrated by those who do not possess it.

All too soon, Reynard's performance was over. Siioow and I were now also standing and applauding. Reynard gave us a huge grin and sweeping bow. As his bow finished, the black light faded and Reynard changed back into the zombie clown that had climbed out of the hole.

I was so excited about the performance. But at the same time I was wondering. How on earth am I going to share this? My brain could barely keep up with every move that Reynard made, much less translate them in writing into something that another person could read and appreciate. A story, sure, you can share a story. But this was a performance! Gah!

So, while I can in no way guarantee that you will see in your mind's eye what I was shown, I have been told that it is okay to share the music that was part of the performance and that anyone who wishes to is invited to say "Reynard" while it is playing. Again, I cannot and do not guarantee results. I'm just sharing what I am able to share.

[youtube]LZwWp7CeCLQ[/youtube]
This is why the Mantis Shrimp is my new favorite animal,
because in the presence of such extraordinary light and beauty it embraces

DARKNESS,
It extols DEATH with the luminescent brilliance of a
DYING STAR

. . . The Mantis Shrimp is the harbinger of blood-soaked rainbows


- The Oatmeal
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guesswho
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Sorry for the double post, the embed doesn't seem to be working so I will try a link and the name of the piece and artist so you can find it if you are interested. So sorry for technical malfunctions.

Requiem of the Night - Dansonn Beats

" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;
This is why the Mantis Shrimp is my new favorite animal,
because in the presence of such extraordinary light and beauty it embraces

DARKNESS,
It extols DEATH with the luminescent brilliance of a
DYING STAR

. . . The Mantis Shrimp is the harbinger of blood-soaked rainbows


- The Oatmeal
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Eilana
Lady of Monsters
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guesswho wrote:Sorry for the double post, the embed doesn't seem to be working so I will try a link and the name of the piece and artist so you can find it if you are interested. So sorry for technical malfunctions.

Requiem of the Night - Dansonn Beats

" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;
No problem at all about the double posts, I fixed it for you ^-^ <3
:death: :death: :death:

~ Burn the ships to take the island. ~

Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.
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Kharybdis
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((Better late than never! Finally had time to sit down and let this story flow out of me.))

“I was not always... a clown,” the voice speaks, broken and crumbling like the form from which it sounds. It is a voice still getting accustomed to speaking, a voice hampered by dirt and dust and the crushing weight of time. The throat clears, and the zombie stands up straighter--one arm crossed behind its back, one arm crossed in front, the posture of a noble.

“Once, I was a mighty prince. Everywhere I walked, people were quick to bow and scrape at my feet; wherever I went, I left a wake in my path that ensnared countless others... and I was not ever aware of their presence. They were background noise, automatons with little purpose other than to serve.” He pauses, and his arms slowly slump back to his sides as the hollow sockets where his eyes once were gaze deep into another time. “I lived my life without care, but I was not carefree. Everything was... so dreadfully serious. Those that mocked me felt my wrath, as did those that whispered in the shadows, thinking I could not hear them. My reach was long and terrible.”

“I made enemies, yes. Thousands of them. Innumerable, countless, like grains of sand on the endless shore. Still, I did not care; my power was not in question. My goals were absolute. All that mattered was the pursuit and maintenance of power.” A dry, scoffing laugh escapes him, and his lips twist into a smile. “I was a fool. There is always a bigger fish.”

He stretches his arms wide, and I see visions of vast armies, unruly mobs, revolt and rebellion. I see him as he was, cowering in fear as his world fell to pieces around him. He is hidden away with children and one elderly woman that seems half-dead already. How young was he? He cannot be much older than the girl that stands only as high as his hip, and yet his eyes look so world-weary, so worn. The little girl takes his hand between her own, and gets him to look at her. He scowls, broken and furious... and she makes a silly face at him, sticking her tongue out and crossing her eyes.

“’What are you doing?’ I asked the child,” he says, empty eyes looking onto the scene that plays out between his hands. “’Do you not realize that all of us are soon to die?’ She only shrugged her shoulders and smiled at me. One of her horns had gotten chipped in the frantic retreat, I noticed, and tiny droplets of blood were beading along the fracture. ‘If we’re going to die, we should die happy,’ she said.”

“Ah, but I did not understand, then,” his voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat once more as he allows his hands to drop. “I pushed her away from me, and it was not long before we were surrounded. They killed her--and all the others, even the ancient woman that had once protected the creche. All of them died smiling--and I was broken, a miserable coward. Death, they said, would be too good for me. Instead, I was stripped of every title, torn from my birthright, and left to wander the streets, bitter and alone.”

“The bitterness served me well. I began to make jokes, sarcastically commenting on foolishness I saw on my travels--and people loved them, their faces immediately lighting up no matter how dreadful their circumstances were,” he says, a smile creeping across his desiccated face and showing how few teeth still remain in his jaw. “I remember the first time someone called me ‘funny.’ No one calls a prince such things, you understand. He was young, far younger than I, and my surliness amused him. ‘You’re funny,’ he says, one day after I sneer about the conditions of the tavern we found ourselves in. ‘You think that’s funny?’ I reply, torn between smiling and snarling. ‘How about this: your mother’s more twisted than a Mutilation freakshow and smells worse than the bottom of a mad Necrosis’ cellar.’”

“Oh, how he laughed. It was music, sweet music... But I never lost that edge, never fully embraced the joy buried beneath my layers of seething indignity,” he says, face slowly falling stern once more as Siioow watches, intent. “At least... not until the very end.” His fingertips play with the frayed end of a noose I had not noticed before, still wrapped around his neck. He lets out a rattling sigh, and his posture slumps.

“It is rather ironic, how well we remember unimportant details while all of the ‘big things’ fade away over time. I do not remember why I was there, waiting my turn on the gallows. I do not remember what day it was, nor what time. I do not remember how long I had been waiting. All I remember...” his eyelids close, shuttering empty sockets, and he takes in a deep breath--as if the air will invigorate, inspire, allow him to reproduce the moment exactly as it was lived. “...is a little girl in the crowd, gently sobbing as someone she loved waits for the rope to tighten around their neck.”

“She was heartbroken. Sadness radiated off of her thicker and deeper than Leviathan’s black waters, and I could not take my eyes away from her even as I made smart little quips to the person standing beside me. ‘The rope is so shoddy, it’s sure to break,’ I joked, and they smiled. ‘Hangman probably never won a game of it in his life. They’ll call out a letter, and he’ll have to triple-check the spelling.’ A few titters, from both my fellows and my audience. But the little girl did not smile. She only sobbed, clutching her hands together over her chest.”

“What could I do? I had to reach her, somehow. I was no longer bothered by my own impending death. No, that had been a given many ages ago. All I wanted, in those final moments... was for her to smile again,” he says, tilting his head back and looking toward the horizon at the last fading speckles of sunlight that dapple the deep blue of the sky. “So I whistle. I call out. Wiggle my fingers and my toes. She finally looks at me, those wide eyes filled with tears... and I make a face at her. Her crying stops, just for a moment, and she looks at me, confused. ‘With a mug like this, you can understand why I’m up here, huh?’ I say, pulling another face and letting my tongue loll out. A smile twitches at her lips. ‘Say, maybe they should’ve bagged me. I’m gruesome enough alive, who wants to see me dead?’ I twist my features again, puffing out my cheeks and crossing my eyes, and she finally lets out a laugh--a small one, but it was there. I heard it.”

“They were getting pissed, now. Wanted me to shut up, stop acting the fool. But it was then that I realized that the world needs a fool. Deep down, that’s all any of us ever are--just fools, pretending like we’re important, like we’re better than anyone else,” he says, his voice growing fainter as his body begins to sink toward the ground--but he is fighting it, he is not finished speaking, and Siioow’s gaze is sharp as we both lean closer to hear him.

“They’re about to pull the lever, let us all drop. I jump up, do a little twirl on the rope, spitting out every joke I can think of. I see his hand tightening, see the bunching of his muscle before he pulls--and I stop, shouting: ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! I give you the greatest show in the world! For we all must die, but it is a rare one that can die with STYLE!’ I snapped the bonds around my wrists just as the floor fell out from under me, and my body fell with a spectacular flourish of the arms. I maintained eye contact with them as I died, as the rope slowly strangled--I was right, after all, the hangman was an absolute dullard--and, while I still had the ability to do so... I smiled, even as I felt my tongue trying to poke out from between my lips.”

He is now halfway back into the grave, his eyelids drooping, heavy, as he looks toward me.

“We all must die. Try... to die happy,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I will never... forget the applause... still ringing in my ears as my blood... ran... cold...”

Siioow nods, looking to me, and a strange smile plays about his features as he picks up the shovel once more. As the first sound of metal hitting soil echoes through the air, I find myself turning and walking away, drawing my robes just a little tighter around myself. The heavy gates break the monotony of the midnight-blue sky... and I smile, letting my eyes close for just a moment. There is joy to be found in everything, after all.
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