The Carnival

[Malloriel]

Here's the beginning of a short story I'm working on. What I'd like to be the focus is the language, the feelings evoked, the atmosphere of the piece, and the level of interest potentially generated. That aside, any critique is welcome, but those are my major points of interest. So here we go!

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It was not dead, precisely, nor exactly forgotten, but abandonment sewed the Carnival together out of various scraps of memory and dream until an inelegant tapestry of the bizarre drew in the unwary as they slept in utter ignorance. Painted in shades of neglect, age, and disuse, only the velvety grass and the surrounding trees, in their unearthly silence, stood out with anything resembling colour. All else seemed to have forgotten what being a colour entailed, or gave up on trying long before the memory's significance could fail them, as if to preserve the memory of being a colour was to give up being one all together.

She awoke on her feet at the vale's edge, the Carnival unnaturally silent for all that it was meant to impose a bustling, cacophonous milieu of impersonal distraction upon those who could find it. Even the fairgoers produced no cry of surprise, fear, or delight that she could hear, though she knew they wandered the grounds as surely as she knew the night's chill upon her bare arms. With doleful determination, white lights burned on the lone Ferris wheel as it towered above the stagnant midway games and various other pavilions and tents, more of them closed to the patrons than not, and no thrill-seekers wandered near those closest to her now. She stood at the end furthest from the public's' playground, two dreary tents ignoring her.

Without memory of movement, but a thought toward the smaller tent's contents, she stood within the opening closest to the dingle's ridge, where above stood the coniferous prison guards, their blind watch the most comforting aspect of the fair so far. Packed earth comprised the floor, so worn and well trodden as to be swept clean. The only object of note within the vertically striped interior, its dingy tan and burgundy walls failing with honours at even being faded any more, was an odd wagon wheel propped against its side. In the centre stood the supporting rod, plain wood as featureless as any common dowel, which didn't appear to be quite as old as the two carnies facing her from the opposite entrance. They bore the postures of men once engrossed in deep conversation, but their disquieting silence and hollow stares stated clearly that she was a most unwelcome interruption. The one on the left, his clipboard turned somewhat toward his companion, even left his finger hovering in the air over some especially interesting point on the single sheet it held, and neither twitched so much as a brow, nor stirred the air between them so long as she remained.

Beyond them, some feature managed to tickle her gaze, enough to peel her eyes from the mute hollow-men, though her heart leaped at the effort. A makeshift awning, made from the much longer flap of the larger tent behind them, stretched over the carnies' heads. Beneath that, an old, battered plank of a sign, its body scarred and stained and its lettering illegible, leaned out from the larger tent's entrance. At least in this it wasn't age that prevented the sign from being read so much as the fact that the lettering itself failed to be in a language she could even identify as being anything more complex than scribbles and curves. As final compliment to the bold scrawlings and broken façade was a creeping stain; soaked in blood, the wood absorbed as much as it could to decoratively disfigure its appearance with a gruesome gradient no painter could provide.

The glow from within the other tent beckoned her quietly, as if in offering rather than compelling demand, uncertain that she would accept, and afraid of rejection. She looked to the men within their self-imposed stasis, and backed out from the building, if it could be called such. Her own motions felt so mundane, so casual and natural as to throw everything else around her into stark relief for its failure to incorporate the average. True, no face the Carnival yet presented could be called normal by any means, the sensation of walking made it that much more pronounced a failing than to phase from one location to another.

Rounding the tent to draw abreast of the awning-covered path connecting the two structures, she looked back, half expecting to find the men still frozen in place, or else staring at her once more. Instead she saw only the tent's interior from a new angle. Even as her eyes searched what she could see, her path around the exteriors being slightly lower than the ground upon which the pavilions sat, her mind reached out to seek them. Possibly the memory of their intent as she left the entrance to circumnavigate their barricade, left an impression in their wake, which she then picked up in passing. It felt to her that they sought their employer to tattle about her presence where no one logically should have been able to trespass.

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Dun dun DUN (hopefully is the feeling you get).

I know what comes next, I'm just sleepy and haven't written it out in this reworked version. It's basically the third sweep in that I've written the information twice before up to this point, but it's predominantly unedited past the third paragraph, so be gentle. ^_^

I hope it's enjoyable.

 

[Kith]

The following is all opinions, yadda yadda yadda. Take and leave what you will.

It was not dead, precisely, nor exactly forgotten, but abandonment sewed the Carnival together out of various scraps of memory and dream until an inelegant tapestry of the bizarre drew in the unwary as they slept in utter ignorance.

This sentence comes across as far too long, especially for an opener. The rest of the paragraph follows the same sort of suit; it is incredibly dense and difficult to get into, although I do like the concept of the Carnival. Maybe you could prune it down a bit? In the above, for example, I think you could happily get shot of "in utter ignorance" to make the sentence more manageable.

With doleful determination, white lights burned on the lone Ferris wheel as it towered above the stagnant midway games and various other pavilions and tents, more of them closed to the patrons than not, and no thrill-seekers wandered near those closest to her now.

At this bit, I initially thought the ''doleful determination'' was refering to the newly introduced character. Why are the ferris wheel lights dolefully determined? This is also another reaally long sentence. I think you could separate the last bit, concerning the thrill seekers, into its own sentence.

The only object of note within the vertically striped interior, its dingy tan and burgundy walls failing with honours at even being faded any more, was an odd wagon wheel propped against its side.

Here, again, the sentence feels a little strained to the edges. When I got to the "failing with honours at even being faded anymore" it kind of felt like I was struggling through. The fact that the interior is so faded it can't even be called faded felt a little superfluous to me, especially as you've already pointed out that the Carnival is all muted in colour.

At least in this it wasn't age that prevented the sign from being read so much as the fact that the lettering itself failed to be in a language she could even identify as being anything more complex than scribbles and curves.

This is another example of one of the the sentences that felt like hard labour the first time I read this piece. I think part of the problem is that the language is very rich and very dense, so that the long sentences feel kind of inaccessible - they're too packed with information and ideas, so that half way through them I'd be thinking 'wha-?'. Does that make sense? In most instances, I think it is just a case of rejigging and pruning back a bit. I think you could probably work with the murkiness of the long, winding sentences as a part of the Carnival's atmosphere, but even if you did that it still needs tightening.

Beyond them, some feature managed to tickle her gaze, enough to peel her eyes from the mute hollow-men, though her heart leaped at the effort.

This read rather strangely. I feel like you don't need to qualify a reason why she's looking away from the men. The piece doesn't fully read a part of her pov anyway, so going straight into the next paragraph would probably work ok anyway.

Even as her eyes searched what she could see, her path around the exteriors being slightly lower than the ground upon which the pavilions sat, her mind reached out to seek them.

Even as her eyes searched what she could see? ... I figure this is probably one of things you'd have ended up editing yourself, but I thought I'd point it out anyway.

Possibly the memory of their intent as she left the entrance to circumnavigate their barricade, left an impression in their wake, which she then picked up in passing. It felt to her that they sought their employer to tattle about her presence where no one logically should have been able to trespass.

I didn't get the 'dun dun dun!?' although I can see the intention for it. There doesn't seem to be a sense of urgency, especially from the character. This needs to be punchier. If the world of the Carnival revolves around thought, and she suddenly realises the creepy men have gone, then maybe it should sort of react to her? If her thoughts begin to scatter, if she becomes panicked, what happens then? Maybe she begins to zip to different parts of the Carnival? "Possibly the memory of their intent..." is a along winded, laid back way of phrasing it.

I'm not sure if I'm being very clear on this ... mostly I think the tone needs to change at the end in order for the 'oh no' sense to really work. It needs to be punchier, quicker, and more fraught.

To address your questions:

Language: As I said, very rich and very dense. In a way I think the decadence works well with the idea of the Carnival, but the flow could be improved (especially sentence length).

Feelings/atmosphere: Creepy. Perhaps almost perverted. Like something out of the Twilight Zone. It actually feels quite cinematic.

Generation of interest: I like the concept. I am curious to know where it is going, but not ravenous, though I think that would be improved with a tighter rewrite. I'd like to see a little more of the character and her emotions and thoughts, perhaps even tying that to the way the world reacts and the structure of the language and piece itself. Since you're dealing with a very strange, dream-like world verging on horror, I think you have plenty of room to really explore.

Hope that helps at least somewhat.

 

[WafflesToo]

I'm glad to see this one made it back from the dead. I like the concept and it certainly piques my curiosity enough to want to read more of it.

At least in this it wasn't age that prevented the sign from being read so much as the fact that the lettering itself failed to be in a language she could even identify as being anything more complex than scribbles and curves.

I would drop the 'At least in this' from the beginning of the sentence. The latter part of the sentence feels like it's rambling. Maybe try it this way:
It wasn't age that prevented the sign from being read so much as the letters themselves looked like nothing more than scribbles and curves to her.

As final compliment to the bold scrawlings and broken façade was a creeping stain; soaked in blood, the wood absorbed as much as it could to decoratively disfigure its appearance with a gruesome gradient no painter could provide.

I like this part, but I think you can drop the 'soaked in'. I would also break the sentence in two at that point. My suggested fix is:
As final compliment to the bold scrawlings and broken façade was a creeping stain; blood. The wood absorbed as much as it could to decoratively disfigure its appearance with a gruesome gradient no painter could provide.

Sorry to report a complete lack of Dun, dun, DUN! at the last part. I have to agree with Kith that it continues to have a macabre, dream-like feel to it, but no sense of urgency.

It looks like it's been cleaned up a great deal from the last draft you submitted (may it rest in peace v_v). Looking forward to reading more of it.

 

[Malloriel]

Thank you to both of you. I had been feeling that the sentence length predominantly leaned toward the end of "too long". And there really shouldn't be a sense of urgency yet as the main character acknowledges the atmosphere, but is mostly unaffected by it so far.

I'm glad you wanted to see it again, too, Waffles. ^_^ When I've got the energy back up, I'll fix it and post the continuation.

 

[Malloriel]

With doleful determination, white lights burned on the lone Ferris wheel as it towered above the stagnant midway games and various other pavilions and tents, more of them closed to the patrons than not, and no thrill-seekers wandered near those closest to her now.

At this bit, I initially thought the ''doleful determination'' was refering to the newly introduced character. Why are the ferris wheel lights dolefully determined? This is also another reaally long sentence. I think you could separate the last bit, concerning the thrill seekers, into its own sentence.

I'm trying to give the entire Carnival the feel of being subtly alive, as though even inanimate objects can have emotions, though all of them are in various stages of sadness or resignation. The lights, therefore, are determined to do their job, as they must, but it's a forlorn, melancholic sort of determination to do so.

Even as her eyes searched what she could see, her path around the exteriors being slightly lower than the ground upon which the pavilions sat, her mind reached out to seek them.

Even as her eyes searched what she could see? ... I figure this is probably one of things you'd have ended up editing yourself, but I thought I'd point it out anyway.

Well, the whole thing I've edited myself. That's what we do. In any case, I'll admit the language could use some deeper analysis, but the idea is that what she can see is not the end of the story. That there's far more to be known than what they eyes can see, so the idea is "as her eyes searched what was physically present . . ."

If the world of the Carnival revolves around thought, and she suddenly realises the creepy men have gone, then maybe it should sort of react to her? If her thoughts begin to scatter, if she becomes panicked, what happens then? Maybe she begins to zip to different parts of the Carnival? "Possibly the memory of their intent..." is a along winded, laid back way of phrasing it.

Well, this is one of those situations where the plans are laid, I'm just putting words to them. For this one, it's not a story that has the freedom to explore itself, I'm afraid. Your suggestions are perfectly useful, but I can't employ them in this venture. As for "the memory of their intent", it's like an imprint left behind, like a hand print in memory foam, which she's able to pick up by reaching out with her mind to find any residual energy or intent.

I'm not sure if I'm being very clear on this ... mostly I think the tone needs to change at the end in order for the 'oh no' sense to really work. It needs to be punchier, quicker, and more fraught.

I think the dun dun DUN was mostly for me. She doesn't feel tense herself, or nervous even. It's more like the curiosity of being left alone in a friend's house and having permission to explore for the first time. It might be weird, and you're not sure you have permission to look everywhere, but by golly you'll do it. She acknowledges the weirdness, and in a while she'll acknowledge how much "dear lord, don't let this actually be from MY psyche" it gets, but there's only a couple of moments for her where she gets actually weirded out. You shall see. I just have to be patient enough to type it out. ^_^

To address your questions:

Language: As I said, very rich and very dense. In a way I think the decadence works well with the idea of the Carnival, but the flow could be improved (especially sentence length).

Thank you, thank you. I was hoping it would, as I tend not to be quite so elaborate and purple in my normal prose, but I wanted it to be more evocative. My first draft was much more telling, which is fine in the case of a short story, but I wanted to use words that better painted a picture for the reader, using words and phrases that inspired a certain mood (see below ^_^). I agree about the sentence length, and am working on it even now.

Feelings/atmosphere: Creepy. Perhaps almost perverted. Like something out of the Twilight Zone. It actually feels quite cinematic.

Perverted is a perfect description. It's something I did want felt, but didn't intentionally work in as I was writing it. All of that pleases me. ^_^ Thank you.

Generation of interest: I like the concept. I am curious to know where it is going, but not ravenous, though I think that would be improved with a tighter rewrite. I'd like to see a little more of the character and her emotions and thoughts, perhaps even tying that to the way the world reacts and the structure of the language and piece itself. Since you're dealing with a very strange, dream-like world verging on horror, I think you have plenty of room to really explore.

I'm also glad it comes across as dream-like verging on horror, as it's meant to be, most definitely. As it progresses, I want to insidiously weave a sense of discomfort into the reader, the kind that totally sneaks up on you. You're reading a story that's interesting, that keeps you going and generates enough interest to pull you to the end, but by that end you're going "NOBODY TURN OFF THE LIGHTS!!"

 

[Malloriel]

A bit of reworking, and some more actual progress. Let's see how it goes. ^_^ I think I might be on the verge of "too tired" to get any further just now, but we'll see. Enjoy, I hope.

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It was not dead, precisely, nor exactly forgotten, but abandonment sewed the Carnival together out of various scraps of memory and dream. An inelegant tapestry of the bizarre drew in the unwary as they slept in utter ignorance. Painted in shades of neglect, age, and disuse, only the velvety grass and the surrounding trees, in their unearthly silence, stood out with anything resembling colour. All else seemed to have forgotten what being a colour entailed, or gave up on trying long before the memory's significance could fail them, as if to preserve the memory of being a colour was to give up being one all together.

She awoke on her feet at the vale's edge, the Carnival unnaturally silent for all that it was meant to impose a bustling, cacophonous milieu of impersonal distraction upon those who could find it. Even the fairgoers produced no cry of surprise, fear, or delight that she could hear. Though she knew they wandered the grounds as surely as she knew the night's chill upon her bare arms, no hint of their presence could be heard. With doleful determination, white lights burned on the lone Ferris wheel as it towered above the stagnant midway games and various other pavilions and tents. More of them remained off limits to the scattered patrons than not, and no thrill-seekers wandered near those closest to her now. She stood at the end furthest from the public's' playground where stood two dreary tents, ignoring her.

Without memory of movement, but a thought toward the smaller tent's contents, she stood within the opening closest to the dingle's ridge, light without a source falling short of the coniferous prison guards above. The blind watch the trees provided was the most comforting aspect of the fair so far. Packed earth comprised the floor, so worn and well trodden as to be swept clean. The only object of note within the vertically striped interior, its dingy tan and burgundy walls strangely dignified, was an odd wagon wheel propped against its side. In the centre stood the supporting rod, plain wood as featureless as any common dowel, which didn't appear to be quite as old as the two carnies facing her from the opposite entrance.

They bore the postures of men once engrossed in deep conversation, but their disquieting silence and hollow stares stated clearly that she was a most unwelcome interruption. The one on the left, his clipboard turned somewhat toward his companion, even left his finger hovering in the air over some especially interesting point on the single sheet it held, and neither twitched so much as a brow, nor stirred the air between them so long as she remained. Long moments passed with the three locked in some awkward parody of a Mexican stand-off where the only weapons available between them pertained to the ability to win a staring competition. So far, she seemed at a distinct disadvantage. It wasn't that she necessarily needed to blink, but they no longer bore the signatures of life within, and everything she'd sensed so far said that that was considered a highly beneficial trait.

Beyond the mute pair, their hollow gazes unwavering, some feature worked its seduction over her peripheral senses until her eyes betrayed the competition by peeling away. Sinful enticement made a curiosity of the pavilions. She noticed now the makeshift awning made from the much longer flap of the larger tent behind them. Stretched over the carnies' heads, it looked to be pinned to the roof of the tent they all shared, however unwillingly. Beneath that, an old, battered plank of a sign, its body scarred and discoloured, and its lettering illegible, leaned out from the larger tent's entrance. Age did not prevent the sign from being read, so much as the lettering itself failed to be in a language she could even identify as being anything more complex than scribbles and curves. As final compliment to the bold scrawlings and broken façade was a creeping stain; the ancient patina of long dried blood. The wood absorbed as much as it could to decoratively disfigure its appearance with a gruesome gradient no painter could provide.

The glow from within beckoned her quietly, as if in offering rather than compelling demand, uncertain that she would accept, and afraid of rejection. She looked to the men within their self-imposed stasis, and backed out from the tent. Intent and curiosity did not carry her this time. Her own motions felt so mundane, so casual and natural as to throw everything else around her into stark relief for its failure to incorporate the average. True, no face the Carnival yet presented could be called normal by any means, the sensation of walking made it that much more pronounced a failing than to phase from one location to another.

She hadn't noticed before how the grass around the pavilions grew lower than the ground on which they had been assembled. Walking the perimeter within the night-deep shadows, she looked back over her shoulder, expecting to find the men still engaged in imitating statues, or else facing her as she moved. Neither option proved true. Emptiness greeted her searching gaze as she looked the tent over. What she could see of the interior proved abandoned, but a slithering tendril of extra sensory perception delicately probed the air they had vacated just moments before. Intent, like a hand print in memory foam, lingered in their wake. Residual energy left its signature behind, and this she read as one might a flier. Like loyal hounds, they returned to their master to reveal her presence where no average patron logically should have been granted trespass, and so far as she could tell, none had ever managed until her arrival.

From the larger pavilion's side spilled another rectangle of light, an opening which offered itself willingly to her in sacrifice to the curiosity it also inspired. As before in the smaller structure, she could see no light source, yet illumination comparable to an even distribution of 60watt bulbs revealed the jumbled contents beyond the narrow egress. Light simply existed here when needed, and disappeared when not. For a world so clearly birthed from Darkness, the ease with which they enslaved the Light felt both odd and strangely proper. What Dark being would not appreciate the ability to use light as it saw fit and no longer fear its retribution? The reverse existed, though, which said that neither should have much sway over the other in order to maintain balance. A race of Dark beings, though that was not entirely the impression she received from the energy surrounding, could conceivably –and evidently managed to –gain enough control over the more fundamental aspects of Light, but that didn't shake the feeling that it wasn't quite right for it to be so.

Stepping within the tent, she became enveloped by the warmth of someone's well loved home. The open entrance behind her, which had allowed admittance, could not let pass even the faintest trace of the night's indifferent whisper. Absent analysis worked over the warm-verses-cold ratio, and concluded a spell must be in place to allow it, but as her attention wandered the labyrinthine stacks of haphazardly organized articles, the analysis never earned enough thought to truly gain life.

To her left, boxes apparently cardboard in nature climbed a metal-link fence like ivy, their contents spilling out and crawling over each other in escape attempts fated never to see fruition. Motionless, hanging dead at eye level above the crowded containers, a child's crib mobile listed desolately to one side. However simple in construction, it was a perversity to which she could not fathom subjecting an infant. The armatures, nothing more than two rough hewn beams in miniature tacked together at their centres, flaunted at each corner a crude little caricature whose face would have served better as an omission. Instead, black yarn depicted each feature with nothing more elegant than lazy bisecting lines. An X for each eye, and a set of four below them to offer sad semblance of a smile. Discoloured yarn that may once have been white bound the hapless figures to their pendulous prison. She did not relish the thought of meeting such parents as would treat their babes to a cradle gift as this.

Neither did she bear much envy to the child who earned the pianist below. Atop the gallimaufry of garbage beneath the unwholesome shadow of the crib toy, she noticed it. The piano itself was of admirable construction, its seams well bound, each key distinct from the others, obviously sewn of separate parts, yet seamless as a whole. The only yarn upon it was used as an aesthetic embellishment around the top of the up-right, where the lid would be on a full sized model. For all the technical beauty the piano possessed, its player triggered remorse within those bold enough to look upon him. His head hung over the keys, his little back hunched as in defeat, yet his face, the same crude stitchery giving him expression as the others, was turned toward the observer, a plea somehow evident within the expressionless yarn of his features. What was more, the round nubs that were to be hands held fast to the keys beneath bold strokes of yarn; a captive to the silence of his music.

As she set the tragic musician back amid his fellows, she couldn't shake the sensation that the doll represented a life, yet in cruel irony rather than honour.

Moving within the tent, its serpentine path between the variously stored items just wide enough for easy passage, she let no finger stray far among the boxes and shelves. Little stood out the further her progress took her, until a shuffling arose from the other side of the metal-link fence drawing her eye up from the dismal displays and over to the tent's other half. Most of the tent, it seemed, was left open, accessible only from the side the two men had obstructed earlier. No litter occupied the floor, but a small, limp forest of chain-link vines grew from the canopy of fabric above, their lengths intermittently violated by some small bundle wrapped in filthy scraps of burlap.

The sound that disturbed her silent browsing had seemed a furtive shuffling, and as her gaze drifted between the dangling lengths of sometimes-burdened chains, she found the source. He stood to the tent's left side, or rather the portion of the tent to her left as she faced him, his features obscured beneath the grimy, black cloth of an executioner's hood. Sweat slicked the surface of his bare chest and arms, as though he'd just come from a sauna, and he watched her in much the way the hollow-eyed men had not so long ago. There was something different about this man, though. Where the others stood frozen like statuary, waiting for their chance to make a move unobserved, this one watched in a way that suggested uncertainty.

A golem of a man, his will was bound to that of his creator, yet he didn't feel constructed. He had no more ability to think for himself than a beast so trained to its task that the unusual only earned a blank stare.

--------

I apologise for the ragged ending here. It's not a convenient spot to stop, exactly, but again, I'm feeling pretty worn and I'm starving, which is something of a distraction. I do hope it's both entertaining, and perhaps a bit more engaging. Tell me what you think. ^_^

 

[Kith]

Liked this version much better. Only a couple of minor niggles, really.

an opening which offered itself willingly to her in sacrifice to the curiosity it also inspired.

^ Bit confusing.

Light simply existed here when needed, and disappeared when not. For a world so clearly birthed from Darkness, the ease with which they enslaved the Light felt both odd and strangely proper. What Dark being would not appreciate the ability to use light as it saw fit and no longer fear its retribution? The reverse existed, though, which said that neither should have much sway over the other in order to maintain balance. A race of Dark beings, though that was not entirely the impression she received from the energy surrounding, could conceivably –and evidently managed to –gain enough control over the more fundamental aspects of Light, but that didn't shake the feeling that it wasn't quite right for it to be so.

I wasn't sure about this bit, mostly because it starts to feel like light/dark - good/evil, and I don't think that's what you're going for. Hmmm... all I can say really is that this stuck out a bit for me, but I'm but I'm not sure exactly why! It does feel slightly repetitive - you say that the darkness having control over the light is unsettling but somehow right, expand on that a bit, and then basically say the same thing again.

As she set the tragic musician back amid his fellows

You don't mention, else I hadn't realised until this point, that she picks the piano toy up, so this bit jolted me out a bit (since it didn't mesh with the image I had in my head at the time).

As I said, much prefered this version. The bits that I had problems with before feel much smoother, and the whole flow of the piece feels better too.

My favourite bit was the description of the piano and its pianist; that was chilling, and it feels almost like he is supposed to represent a real life outside of the dream world. If that's the case, it ties really nicely with the fact that she's not supposed to be there (at least in a seeming flesh and blood, conscious form). I also feel like the fact the piano and mobile are crudely made from cloth works really well with the earlier reference to the Carnival being like an inelegant tapestry.

 

[dreir]

It was not dead, precisely, nor exactly forgotten, but abandonment sewed the Carnival together out of various scraps of memory and dream. An inelegant tapestry of the bizarre drew in the unwary as they slept in utter ignorance. Painted in shades of neglect, age, and disuse, only the velvety grass and the surrounding trees, in their unearthly silence, stood out with anything resembling colour. All else seemed to have forgotten what being a colour entailed, or gave up on trying long before the memory's significance could fail them, as if to preserve the memory of being a colour was to give up being one all together.

This is where I disagree with Kith. The first two sentences don't work when they're split like that. I agree that too many long unwieldy sentences is bad, but the first sentence is also the most important one in setting the mood. The original is perfecty acceptable, I think. Especially since you already follow it up with a shorter one. I agree with the sentence-chopping that you've made in the rest of the paragraphs, but not in this one. Yeah, for some reason I feel very strongly about it, lol..

She awoke on her feet at the vale's edge, the Carnival unnaturally silent for all that it was meant to impose a bustling, cacophonous milieu of impersonal distraction upon those who could find it. Even the fairgoers produced no cry of surprise, fear, or delight that she could hear. Though she knew they wandered the grounds as surely as she knew the night's chill upon her bare arms, no hint of their presence could be heard. With doleful determination, white lights burned on the lone Ferris wheel as it towered above the stagnant midway games and various other pavilions and tents. More of them remained off limits to the scattered patrons than not, and no thrill-seekers wandered near those closest to her now. She stood at the end furthest from the public's' playground where stood two dreary tents, ignoring her.

Maybe the above really are two paragraphs? I found the transition of thought from the fairgoers to the Ferris wheel a little jolting. Just a little. You could also start the third paragraph with 'White lights burned with doleful determination on the..' to give it that extra 'glare' (by mentioning the lights first) and avoid from the readers automatically trying to associate the 'determined attitude' with the narrator. And you can also use the extra space to tell us more about the dreary tents, perhaps by emphasising certain attributes that make them give off the sense of indifference towards the narrator in a better way.

Without memory of movement, but a thought toward the smaller tent's contents, she stood within the opening closest to the dingle's ridge, light without a source falling short of the coniferous prison guards above. The blind watch the trees provided was the most comforting aspect of the fair so far. Packed earth comprised the floor, so worn and well trodden as to be swept clean. The only object of note within the vertically striped interior, its dingy tan and burgundy walls strangely dignified, was an odd wagon wheel propped against its side. In the centre stood the supporting rod, plain wood as featureless as any common dowel, which didn't appear to be quite as old as the two carnies facing her from the opposite entrance.

I like the changes you made here since the first version (as commented by Kith, that 'failing with honours at even being faded' bit really was too much, hehe). Perhaps the last sentence could be split into two. 'In the centre stood the supporting rod, plain wood as featureless as any common dowel. It looked old, but not quite as old as the two carnies staring at her from the opposite side of the tent' (slight word changes for cadence).

They bore the postures of men once engrossed in deep conversation, but their disquieting silence and hollow stares stated clearly that she was a most unwelcome interruption. The one on the left, his clipboard turned somewhat toward his companion, even left his finger hovering in the air over some especially interesting point on the single sheet it held, and neither twitched so much as a brow, nor stirred the air between them so long as she remained. Long moments passed with the three locked in some awkward parody of a Mexican stand-off where the only weapons available between them pertained to the ability to win a staring competition. So far, she seemed at a distinct disadvantage. It wasn't that she necessarily needed to blink, but they no longer bore the signatures of life within, and everything she'd sensed so far said that that was considered a highly beneficial trait.

I find that the above paragraph has too much of the narrator's opinions - or maybe attitude - colouring it that it's detracting from the atmosphere. The depth of her impromptu analysis of the situation here just feels a little out of place compared to the other paragraphs. Maybe you could go with something lighter like 'Long moments passed with their dead eyes locked onto hers, neither of them blinking.'

Beyond the mute pair, their hollow gazes unwavering, some feature worked its seduction over her peripheral senses until her eyes betrayed the competition by peeling away. Sinful enticement made a curiosity of the pavilions. She noticed now the makeshift awning made from the much longer flap of the larger tent behind them. Stretched over the carnies' heads, it looked to be pinned to the roof of the tent they all shared, however unwillingly. Beneath that, an old, battered plank of a sign, its body scarred and discoloured, and its lettering illegible, leaned out from the larger tent's entrance. Age did not prevent the sign from being read, so much as the lettering itself failed to be in a language she could even identify as being anything more complex than scribbles and curves. As final compliment to the bold scrawlings and broken façade was a creeping stain; the ancient patina of long dried blood. The wood absorbed as much as it could to decoratively disfigure its appearance with a gruesome gradient no painter could provide.

'Betrayed the competition' sounds out of place. That whole sentence beginning with 'Sinful enticement' also has no place in there. You probably like the phrase too much to leave it out (something that I'm guilty of a lot, too, hehe), but you can use it better somewhere else, I think. I also have a small problem with 'shared'. To 'share' implies intimacy or at least a reasonable period of time. In this case, maybe '..it looked to be pinned to the roof of the tent they all found themselves in..' would ring truer under the unexpected circumstances. Comma not needed after 'from being read', I think. Others: Maybe 'its surface scarred' instead of 'its body scarred'. Maybe take out 'its lettering illegible' since you then go ahead and say that it's actually readable only not in a recognisable language. Maybe 'broken facade' is not needed, too - it sounds too grand for the old plank and comes off more obtrusive than it should.

The glow from within beckoned her quietly, as if in offering rather than compelling demand, uncertain that she would accept, and afraid of rejection. She looked to the men within their self-imposed stasis, and backed out from the tent. Intent and curiosity did not carry her this time. Her own motions felt so mundane, so casual and natural as to throw everything else around her into stark relief for its failure to incorporate the average. True, no face the Carnival yet presented could be called normal by any means, the sensation of walking made it that much more pronounced a failing than to phase from one location to another.

I noticed that you changed 'backed out from the building, if it could be called such'. Yeah, I had a big problem with that earlier, lol. Hmm, the last sentence here doesn't seem to get its message across to me. I can see what she's trying to say, but I sort of don't share her perception as strongly as I should. Not sure what to do with it, though.

She hadn't noticed before how the grass around the pavilions grew lower than the ground on which they had been assembled. Walking the perimeter within the night-deep shadows, she looked back over her shoulder, expecting to find the men still engaged in imitating statues, or else facing her as she moved. Neither option proved true. Emptiness greeted her searching gaze as she looked the tent over. What she could see of the interior proved abandoned, but a slithering tendril of extra sensory perception delicately probed the air they had vacated just moments before. Intent, like a hand print in memory foam, lingered in their wake. Residual energy left its signature behind, and this she read as one might a flier. Like loyal hounds, they returned to their master to reveal her presence where no average patron logically should have been granted trespass, and so far as she could tell, none had ever managed until her arrival.

'Neither proved true' should be better. Also, 'slithering tendril of extra sensory peception' sounds too technically-grounded for her to be thinking of, if you see what I mean. In other words, she's beginning to sound like a scientist who's been researching on ESP. Perhaps this is intentional? If not, then maybe 'a part of her mind probed the air they had vacated..' would work better.

From the larger pavilion's side spilled another rectangle of light, an opening which offered itself willingly to her in sacrifice to the curiosity it also inspired. As before in the smaller structure, she could see no light source, yet illumination comparable to an even distribution of 60watt bulbs revealed the jumbled contents beyond the narrow egress. Light simply existed here when needed, and disappeared when not. For a world so clearly birthed from Darkness, the ease with which they enslaved the Light felt both odd and strangely proper. What Dark being would not appreciate the ability to use light as it saw fit and no longer fear its retribution? The reverse existed, though, which said that neither should have much sway over the other in order to maintain balance. A race of Dark beings, though that was not entirely the impression she received from the energy surrounding, could conceivably –and evidently managed to –gain enough control over the more fundamental aspects of Light, but that didn't shake the feeling that it wasn't quite right for it to be so.

Agreed with Kith on the first sentence. Despite the word 'sacrifice', the sentence itself doesn't seem to contribute much to the atmosphere. As to the Light vs Dark bit, the thing that struck me most was that the narrator now seems to have a more well-developed idea of her surroundings than I expected. The ideas she's putting forth at this point are too concrete ('a world so clearly birthed from Darkness', the enslavement of the Light, the Dark beings gaining control of the fundamental aspects of Light, etc.) to fit in with her earlier thoughts.

Stepping within the tent, she became enveloped by the warmth of someone's well loved home. The open entrance behind her, which had allowed admittance, could not let pass even the faintest trace of the night's indifferent whisper. Absent analysis worked over the warm-verses-cold ratio, and concluded a spell must be in place to allow it, but as her attention wandered the labyrinthine stacks of haphazardly organized articles, the analysis never earned enough thought to truly gain life.

'Indifferent whisper'? The conclusion of 'a spell' being in place is also a little jarring and over-quick. Especially after her reference to a 60watt bulb earlier. If I was in her situation I'd leave the warmth/cold disjunction to the general strangeness of the place for now.

The sound that disturbed her silent browsing had seemed a furtive shuffling, and as her gaze drifted between the dangling lengths of sometimes-burdened chains, she found the source. He stood to the tent's left side, or rather the portion of the tent to her left as she faced him, his features obscured beneath the grimy, black cloth of an executioner's hood. Sweat slicked the surface of his bare chest and arms, as though he'd just come from a sauna, and he watched her in much the way the hollow-eyed men had not so long ago. There was something different about this man, though. Where the others stood frozen like statuary, waiting for their chance to make a move unobserved, this one watched in a way that suggested uncertainty.

No need for the 'as though he'd just come from a sauna', I think.

A golem of a man, his will was bound to that of his creator, yet he didn't feel constructed. He had no more ability to think for himself than a beast so trained to its task that the unusual only earned a blank stare.

The narrator speaking too much for the man, here, but you were starving, so I'm gonna give this one a pass

Overall I think you've managed to capture the right atmosphere for this piece (as Kith says, creepy and perverted), but it's worthwhile to keep in mind that constantly long sentences (this refering mostly to the first version) or the constant colouring of each scene with the narrator's thoughts are not always necessary to maintain the mood - sometimes these just clutter up the reader's mind and make it harder for him/her to absorb the eerie strangeness on his/her own terms. In a way, the narrator's feelings or perception should influence the reader's in a subtle way, not be imposed to him/her in immutable concrete. With regards to words or sentences that were chosen to convey implicit as well as explicit messages to the reader (such as the ones implying that the carnival itself is alive), I agree completely with the intention but it can easily make you go overboard as well, so you'll have to be careful about that. A few hints here and there might be sufficient instead of a constant barrage.

Btw, I love the the piano guy, too.

Well, okay, sorry for the long post. I must've been feeling especially nitpicky tonight, lol. Hope it's been useful to you, Mall - it certainly has been to me (as I've always said, I do this for my benefit just as much as for others'). And just because I'm critiquing your piece doesn't mean that I've stopped adoring you!

- Dreir -

 

[Malloriel]

D'aww. And just cause you've picked at my piece doesn't mean I adore you any less either.

There are of course some points I disagree with, but that doesn't mean I don't see the validity in them.

Part of this is that it was actually a dream of mine, so I'm doing a balancing act while I write, wherein I try to keep the language somewhat consistent throughout while walking myself through the carnival again, taking in those observations and the overall feeling. I'm distanced from it now, though, so I can't always tell if the language I'm using gets the creepiness and indeed perversion across, and so when Kith and now you assert that it's there, I'm very, very pleased.

I find that the above paragraph has too much of the narrator's opinions - or maybe attitude - colouring it that it's detracting from the atmosphere. The depth of her impromptu analysis of the situation here just feels a little out of place compared to the other paragraphs. Maybe you could go with something lighter like 'Long moments passed with their dead eyes locked onto hers, neither of them blinking.'

and

'Neither proved true' should be better. Also, 'slithering tendril of extra sensory peception' sounds too technically-grounded for her to be thinking of, if you see what I mean. In other words, she's beginning to sound like a scientist who's been researching on ESP. Perhaps this is intentional? If not, then maybe 'a part of her mind probed the air they had vacated..' would work better.

I acknowledge that I can put more in to make them more natural things to experience within the piece, but again, it was me and I'm trying very hard to describe what it is I did. As is the nature of dreams, some information is just known, other bits are picked up as you go along, and some things you have to seek out yourself. Within a dream, you can receive a great deal of understanding with very little effort, so perhaps I should emphasis that a little bit more, but I'd hoped to give the implications of a dream before revealing it as fact.

'I also have a small problem with 'shared'. To 'share' implies intimacy or at least a reasonable period of time.

What I'm going for is a conflict in emotions. I like the idea of an implied intimacy with these two unnerving characters who obviously don't want her there, and she certainly doesn't want to "share" anything with them, but that's one of the reasons I went for that phrase.

Maybe 'its surface scarred' instead of 'its body scarred'. Maybe take out 'its lettering illegible' since you then go ahead and say that it's actually readable only not in a recognisable language. Maybe 'broken facade' is not needed, too - it sounds too grand for the old plank and comes off more obtrusive than it should.

I don't disagree with "surface", but I preferred "body" for that "the Carnival is alive" angle. You are right in that I don't want to over do it, but I want it felt by the reader that it's some how subtly breathing just beyond perception.

'Indifferent whisper'? The conclusion of 'a spell' being in place is also a little jarring and over-quick. Especially after her reference to a 60watt bulb earlier. If I was in her situation I'd leave the warmth/cold disjunction to the general strangeness of the place for now.

The inclusion of modern references was intentional, and only placed in after much thought. It is meant not specifically to jar, but to insinuate further that this world is not the truth, and that the world you know exists, just not here right now. Spell might not be the right word. I did think about that later because it really didn't feel like a spell. It was more like the atmosphere imposed on the area outside the tents just hadn't been imposed inside the tents. The whole feeling was that they made it resemble the waking world, but didn't put a whole lot of thought or effort into making it actually reflect the waking world in function. Just appearance. Like their effort had been as shoddy as the entire composition of the Carnival itself.

No need for the 'as though he'd just come from a sauna', I think.

But he's REALLY sweaty!!! I thought it helped the imagery along, personally.

Thank you so much for taking a look, Drier. I very much appreciate it, and it helps me look forward to further refining it. There is a bit more now that I'll add below, sans the body to this point.

 

[Malloriel]

A golem of a man, his will was bound to that of his creator, yet he didn't feel constructed in the way of golems. He had no more ability to think for himself than a beast so trained to obey that the unusual only earned a blank stare, and when set to task would see it finished before simply waiting for his master to give him something new. In this way, a golem was the only thing he could be. Pity would have found a place for him in her mind had she thought him capable of growth, of such kind the beast he so resembled might be capable, but rather like a lobotomised patient of the 1940's, he was patently unable to be saved, or further improved.

Determining she posed no threat to his chore, the reason for his animate presence, he let the whip's tail tumble from the fingers that had so well hidden it. She watched with the same distant calm she'd observed everything so far as his arm pulled back, and with rare expertise made the lash to sear the burlap figures, as silent and motionless as anything else she'd witnessed this night. It was that distance that served as a buffer, allowing her to watch and to listen, to seek without bias or fear, and it was that distance that trembled on the verge of disintegration as the curse of her E.S.P. revealed to her the contents of the gritty wrappings.

No dream of mine . . . her mind whispered faintly as the filaments of perception limped back in shock. This is not my world. It was self reassurance. She couldn't be certain, not while unable to wake herself, but no part of her essence could bring itself to believe her psyche, her energy, her very soul ever capable of designing a world in which the tattered corpses of infants could be flogged by a golem within the haggard imitation of a merry summer fair. This is not my dream.

She turned from the sight, unwilling to give it any more acknowledgement than she could help, as that comforting distance settled around her once again. The shield bore chinks, the armour was tarnished and trembled at the effort of sustaining itself, but the dream had not ended and so it needed to remain in order that she might finally see whatever it was she'd been summoned to see.

So it was that not far off, to the right of the spiteful little pack-rat's route, a large and lonely doll caught her eye.

 

[dreir]

No problem, Mall

I just found 'sauna' too un-dreamlike and by imagining it I sort of had to jump out from the mood for a half second. Maybe something else as sweaty but not so removed from the feel?

As I said, I was being very nitpicky for some reason. Upon re-reading of my critique (right after I posted it), I found there were one or two comments in there that I thought were overdone myself, but I decided to leave them there since I knew you're a good enough writer to ignore what needed to be ignored.

I must say that you've taken on a rather big challenge by writing this piece. Reading as myself and knowing you for who you are (in a sense ), I had no problem seeing past all the contradictions to realise what you were attempting, but when I read to criticise I basically put myself into the shoes of an average reader or busy editor who may read on or stop reading merely from first impressions. Dreams, by their very nature, defy convention, and your decision to hold off on the revelation that it was a dream, instead hinting at the fact only via the narrator's somewhat disjointed thoughts and metaphors, means they'll have to continue reading amid growing uncertainty as to why the narrator keeps going off on a tangent about Light and Dark, ESP, walking vs 'phasing' and such things. As you said, perhaps you need to emphasise certain things more - maybe give stronger hints to the reader that it is a dream, or make the narrator think a little more on the strange mechanics of a dream and how it's affecting her thoughts.

I suspect that single phrase, 'No dream of mine...' would've made a casual reader feel a lot more at ease with everything that's been happening before. My only concern is that most readers might not get that far to appreciate it.

I think you understand what I'm saying. Sometimes you seem to understand what I'm trying to say even more than I do, lol.

- Dreir -

 

[MistingWolf]

Wow, the second post of the first part was by far easier to follow. NOW I really wanna read more! Also, I, too, really like the pianist ^^ Such good descriptions! I just have some small stuff.

She awoke on her feet at the vale's edge, the Carnival unnaturally silent for all that it was meant to impose a bustling, cacophonous milieu of impersonal distraction upon those who could find it. Even the fairgoers produced no cry of surprise, fear, or delight that she could hear. Though she knew they wandered the grounds as surely as she knew the night's chill upon her bare arms, no hint of their presence could be heard. With doleful determination, white lights burned on the lone Ferris wheel as it towered above the stagnant midway games and various other pavilions and tents. More of them remained off limits to the scattered patrons than not, and no thrill-seekers wandered near those closest to her now. She stood at the end furthest from the public's' playground where stood two dreary tents, ignoring her.

On this one, I find that the last sentence feels a little out of place. Maybe move it? Perhaps to the next paragraph. Would be slightly less jolting.

She stood at the end furthest from the public's' playground where stood two dreary tents, ignoring her.

No apostrophe after the "s" in "public's".

The only object of note within the vertically striped interior, its dingy tan and burgundy walls strangely dignified, was an odd wagon wheel propped against its side. In the centre stood the supporting rod, plain wood as featureless as any common dowel, which didn't appear to be quite as old as the two carnies facing her from the opposite entrance.

I think I'm the only one so far who finds the first sentence awkward. My rewrite would go: "The only object of note within the vertically striped interior was an odd wagon wheel propped against its side, its dingy tan and burgundy walls strangely dignified."

The one on the left, his clipboard turned somewhat toward his companion, even left his finger hovering in the air over some especially interesting point on the single sheet it held, and neither twitched so much as a brow, nor stirred the air between them so long as she remained.

Small rewrite here, just to make the scene a little clearer: "The one on the left, his clipboard turned somewhat toward his companion, his finger paused and hovering in the air over some especially interesting point on the single sheet it held. Neither twitched so much as a brow, nor stirred the air between them so long as she remained."

Stepping within the tent, she became enveloped by the warmth of someone's well loved home.

Just needs a dash in well-loved. It's a compound modifier and links the two words.

There was something different about this man, though. Where the others stood frozen like statuary, waiting for their chance to make a move unobserved, this one watched in a way that suggested uncertainty.

Another small rewrite, again to clarify: "There was something different about this man, though. Where the others had stood frozen like statuary, waiting for their chance to move unobserved, this one watched in a way that suggested uncertainty."

All in all a great story so far. I can't wait to read more!

 

[WafflesToo]

Finally have a moment to sit down and read this! Been trying to get to it all week. Glad to see you're still working on it . My mind is currently the consistancy of pulled taffy so I hope you can pardon any stupid remarks on my part (lol).

She stood at the end furthest from the public's' playground where stood two dreary tents, ignoring her.

I'm a tad confused by this sentence, I'm assuming that you mean that it's the tents ignoring her and not the 'invisible' carnival goers.

...Mexican stand-off where the only weapons available between them pertained to the ability to win a staring competition.

The 'weapons' reference I found to jar an otherwise well done section. I think it would flow better with a more direct reference to victory in a staring contest:
...Mexican stand-off where victory was decided by thier mutual staring contest...
Just a thought.

Age did not prevent the sign from being read, so much as the lettering itself failed to be in a language she could even identify as being anything more complex than scribbles and curves.

Still don't care for the description of the sign's lettering...
But you left it alone so I may be missing something more important.

The glow from within beckoned her quietly, as if in offering rather than compelling demand, uncertain that she would accept, and afraid of rejection./QUOTE]
I absolutely loved this sentence.

...expecting to find the men still engaged in imitating statues, or else facing her as she moved.

I would personally drop the 'engaged in' from this sentence.

Neither option proved true.

I would remove this sentence and tack 'It was emptiness that...' to the next sentence.

...but a slithering tendril of extra sensory perception delicately probed the air they had vacated just moments before

I would remove 'extra sensory' from the sentence as explaining just a bit too much.

She hadn't noticed before how the grass around the pavilions grew lower than the ground on which they had been assembled. Walking the perimeter within the night-deep shadows, she looked back over her shoulder, expecting to find the men still engaged in imitating statues, or else facing her as she moved. Neither option proved true. Emptiness greeted her searching gaze as she looked the tent over. What she could see of the interior proved abandoned, but a slithering tendril of extra sensory perception delicately probed the air they had vacated just moments before. Intent, like a hand print in memory foam, lingered in their wake. Residual energy left its signature behind, and this she read as one might a flier. Like loyal hounds, they returned to their master to reveal her presence where no average patron logically should have been granted trespass, and so far as she could tell, none had ever managed until her arrival.

Except as noted, I really enjoyed this paragraph. Feels spooky

...yet illumination comparable to an even distribution of 60watt bulbs revealed

Not sure I like this description, too specific in my mind. I think a simple reference to 'a perfectly even distribution of lighting' would fit the scene better. I thought the next two sentences were really well done in this respect.

Neither did she bear much envy to the child who earned the pianist below. Atop the gallimaufry of garbage beneath the unwholesome shadow of the crib toy, she noticed it. The piano itself was of admirable construction, its seams well bound, each key distinct from the others, obviously sewn of separate parts, yet seamless as a whole. The only yarn upon it was used as an aesthetic embellishment around the top of the up-right, where the lid would be on a full sized model. For all the technical beauty the piano possessed, its player triggered remorse within those bold enough to look upon him. His head hung over the keys, his little back hunched as in defeat, yet his face, the same crude stitchery giving him expression as the others, was turned toward the observer, a plea somehow evident within the expressionless yarn of his features. What was more, the round nubs that were to be hands held fast to the keys beneath bold strokes of yarn; a captive to the silence of his music.

As she set the tragic musician back amid his fellows, she couldn't shake the sensation that the doll represented a life, yet in cruel irony rather than honour.

Just, wow... This is a great little passage

...black cloth of an executioner's hood. Sweat slicked the surface of his bare chest and arms, as though he'd just come from a sauna, and he watched her in much the way the hollow-eyed men had not so long ago.

The bit about the sauna doesn't feel right. I think the description is perfectly strong without it.

GHAAAA! Cliff-hanger ending!!!
Look forward to seeing more of it.

 

[Malloriel]

Well, I'm currently working some revisions to the piece, top to bottom, as well as incorporating more of the story, so I hope you'll all bear with me when I post it beginning to end again with all the changes. Thanks so much for all your help so far. I've appreciated every bit!

-Mally

 

[Malloriel]

The Carnival: Bigger and Badder Than Ever

I shall clearly mark, for those less interested in reading it top to bottom (again) where the new section begins by highlighting the first sentence of the new paragraph in red. For everyone else, please see if what's here is even better than before. ^_^

(We're up to 3518 words now!)

-------

It was not dead, precisely, nor exactly forgotten, but abandonment sewed the Carnival together out of various scraps of memory and dream, its inelegant tapestry of the bizarre drew in the unwary as they slept in utter ignorance. Painted in shades of neglect, age, and disuse, only the velvety grass and the surrounding trees in their unearthly silence stood out with anything resembling colour. All else seemed to have forgotten what being a colour entailed, or gave up on trying long before the memory's significance could fail them, as if to preserve the memory of being a colour was to give up being one all together.

She awoke on her feet at the vale's edge, the Carnival unnaturally silent for all that it was meant to impose a bustling, cacophonous milieu of impersonal distraction upon those who could find it. Even the fairgoers produced no cry of surprise, fear, or delight that she could hear. Though she knew they wandered the grounds as surely as she knew the night's chill upon her bare arms, no hint of their presence could be heard. Her mind cleared itself in a fashion similar to one blinking away a haze from their eyes, and expanded slowly to better absorb her new surroundings.

Isolation clung to the trees surrounding the depression from which the Carnival grew. She could feel no end to their numbers, yet she couldn't shake the sensation of being inside some capsule, removed from every other reality even while access to those realities remained. One other sensation slowly writhed across the length of her spine, licking at each segment to ensure her attention, which indeed it had. It was the sensation of being watched. An eyeless, formless awareness observing her from afar with no intention to intervene. A multitudinous presence in passive consideration. The trees remained motionless, the question of their sentience seemed answered by the mute symphony of their collective gaze.

As she allowed herself to wake more fully beneath the forest watch, surfacing from the murk of some forgotten dream, details tempted and sang out to her with a voiceless siren's cry.

White lights burned with doleful determination upon the lone Ferris wheel, towering above the stagnant midway games, as sinful enticement made a curiosity of the pavilions. More of them remained off limits to the scattered patrons than not, and no thrill-seekers wandered near those closest to her now. She stood, gaze fixed, some several paces back from the Carnival's end, an area entirely removed from the public's playground, where stood two dreary tents quietly ignoring her.

Without memory of movement, but a thought toward the smaller tent's contents, she stood within the opening closest to the dingle's ridge where light without a source spilled across the ground at her feet, but fell far short of the coniferous prison guards above. The blind watch the trees provided was the most comforting aspect of the fair so far. Packed earth comprised the floor, so worn and well trodden as to be swept clean. The only object of note within the vertically striped interior, its dingy tan and burgundy walls strangely dignified, was an odd wagon wheel propped against its side. In the centre stood the supporting rod, plain wood as featureless as any common dowel. It didn't appear to be quite so old as the two carnies facing her from the opposite entrance.

They bore the postures of men once engrossed in deep conversation, but their disquieting silence and vacant stares stated clearly that she was a most unwelcome interruption. The one on the left, his clipboard turned somewhat toward his companion, left a finger hovering in the air over some especially interesting point on a single sheet of yellowed paper. Neither twitched so much as a brow, nor stirred the air between them so long as she remained.

Long moments passed with the three locked in some awkward parody of a Mexican stand-off wherein the victor was determined not by a hail of bullets, but by unparalleled ocular strength. In other words, a staring contest. So far, she seemed at a distinct disadvantage. It wasn't that she necessarily needed to blink, but they no longer bore the signatures of life within, a fact which she believed would grant them the upper hand.

Beyond the dumb pair, their lacunal gazes unwavering, some feature worked its seduction over her peripheral senses until she allowed it her full attention. A makeshift awning, made from the much longer flap of the larger tent behind them, stretched over the carnies' heads. It looked to be pinned to the roof of the tent they all shared with uncomfortable intimacy. Beneath that, an old, battered plank of a sign, its body scarred and discoloured, leaned out from the larger tent's entrance. Age did not prevent the sign from being read, so much as the letters' failure to be in a language she could even identify as being anything more complex than scribbles and curves. As final compliment to the bold scrawlings and broken façade was a creeping stain; the ancient patina of long dried blood. The wood absorbed as much as it could to decoratively disfigure its appearance with a gruesome gradient no painter could provide.

The glow from within beckoned her quietly, as if in offering rather than compelling demand, uncertain that she would accept, and afraid of rejection. She looked to the men within their self-imposed stasis, and backed out from the tent. Intent and curiosity did not carry her this time, as it had in introducing her to the smaller tent and its occupants. Step by casual step, she made her way around the little structure and on toward the larger, yet to move, to walk, contrasted sharply against the far simpler travel-by-thought method that felt far more natural and normal here. True, no face the Carnival yet presented could be called normal by any means, the sensation of walking made it that much more pronounced a failing than to phase from one location to another.

She hadn't noticed before how the grass around the pavilions grew lower than the ground on which they had been assembled. Walking the perimeter within the night-deep shadows, she looked back over her shoulder, expecting to find the men still imitating statues, or else facing her as she moved. Neither proved true. It was emptiness that greeted her questing gaze as she looked the tent over. What she could see of the interior proved abandoned, but a slithering tendril of perception delicately probed the air they had vacated just moments before. Intent, like a hand print in memory foam, lingered in their wake. Residual energy left its signature behind, and this she read as one might a flier. Like loyal hounds, they returned to their master to reveal her presence where no average patron logically should have been granted trespass, and so far as she could tell, none had ever managed until her arrival.

From the larger pavilion's side spilled another rectangle of light, an opening which offered itself to her as a sacrifice to the curiosity its existence inspired. As before in the smaller structure, she could see no light source, yet an even distribution of light revealed the jumbled contents beyond the narrow egress. Light simply existed here when needed, and disappeared when not. For a world she felt could only be birthed from some inner darkness, the ease with which they enslaved the light felt wrong in nature, but in the oblivious way Man once went about taming sundry creatures. The animals filled a void Man decided needed filling, and whatever the cost, the taming was made. There was no thought of right or wrong when it came to such non-human entities, and so too it felt the opinion of the people living here toward the capture and abuse of the light, forcing it to glow and chase away the shadows at their whim.

Stepping within the tent, she became enveloped by the warmth of someone's well-loved home. It unset her balance to feel the contrast, not merely between temperatures, but in locational auras. No home was this, tucked far away in the sunken bowl of a valley, its blanket of diamond stars as false as the trees and the grass surrounding it, however aware they might be. All the trappings of the waking world with half the effort, it was as if the cold had been made to exist outside simply because outside was cold, and inside was not, for no trace of the night's chill whispered beyond the entrance.

To her left, boxes apparently cardboard in nature climbed a metal-link fence like ivy, their contents spilling out and crawling over each other in escape attempts fated never to see fruition. Motionless, hanging dead at eye level above the crowded containers, a child's crib mobile listed desolately to one side. However simple in construction, it was a perversity to which she could not fathom subjecting an infant. The armatures, nothing more than two rough hewn beams in miniature tacked together at their centres, flaunted at each corner a crude little caricature whose face would have served better as an omission. Instead, black yarn depicted each feature with nothing more elegant than lazily bisecting lines. An X for each eye, and a set of four below them to offer sad semblance of a smile. Discoloured yarn that may once have been white bound the hapless figures to their pendulous prison. She did not relish the thought of meeting such parents as would treat their babes to a cradle gift as this.

Neither did she bear much envy to the child who earned the pianist below them. Atop the gallimaufry of garbage beneath the unwholesome shadow of the crib toy, she noticed it, as with fingers hypnotized she gently lifted it for a better view. The piano itself was of admirable construction, its seams well bound, each key distinct from the others, yet obviously sewn of separate parts. The only yarn upon it was used as an aesthetic embellishment around the top of the up-right, where the lid would be on a full sized model. For all the technical beauty the piano possessed, its player triggered remorse within those bold enough to look upon him. His head hung over the keys, his little back hunched as in defeat, yet his face, the same crude stitchery giving him expression as the others, was turned toward the observer, a plea somehow evident within the expressionless yarn of his features. What was more, the round nubs that were to be hands held fast to the keys beneath bold strokes of yarn; a captive to the silence of his music.

As she set the tragic musician back amid his fellows, she couldn't shake the sensation that the doll represented a life, yet in cruel irony rather than honour.

Moving within the tent, its serpentine path between the variously stored items just wide enough for easy passage, she let no finger stray far among the boxes and shelves for worry what her trailing touch may find. Little stood out the further her progress took her, until a shuffling arose from the other side of the metal-link fence, drawing her eye up from the dismal displays and over to the tent's other half. Most of the tent, she could see now through an unobstructed portion of fencing, was left open, accessible only from the side the two men had clogged earlier. No litter occupied the floor, but a small, limp forest of chain-link vines grew from the canopy of fabric above, their lengths intermittently violated by some small bundle wrapped in filthy scraps of burlap.

The sound that disturbed her silent browsing had seemed a furtive shuffling, and as her gaze drifted between the dangling lengths of sometimes-burdened chains, she found the source. He stood to the tent's left side, or rather the portion of the tent to her left as she faced him, his features obscured beneath the grimy, black cloth of an executioner's hood. Sweat slicked the surface of his bare chest and arms, and he watched her in much the way the hollow-eyed men had not so long ago. There was something different about this man, though. Where the others had stood frozen like statuary, waiting for their chance to move unobserved, this one watched in a way that suggested uncertainty.

Perception touched him.

A golem of a man, his will was bound to that of his creator, yet he didn't feel to her to be constructed in the way of golems. He had no more ability to think for himself than a beast so trained to obedience that the unusual only earned a blank stare, and when set to task would see it finished and then patiently await his master's next whim. In this way, a golem was the only thing he could be. Pity would have found a place for him in her mind had she thought him capable of growth, of such kind the beast he so resembled might be capable, but rather like a lobotomised patient of the 1940's, he was patently unable to be saved, or further improved.

Determining she posed no threat to his chore, the reason for his animate presence, he let the whip's tail tumble from the fingers that had so well hidden it. She watched with the same distant calm she'd observed everything so far as his arm pulled back, and with rare expertise made the lash to sear the burlap figures, as silent and motionless as anything else she'd witnessed this night. It was that distance that served as a buffer, allowing her to watch and to listen, to seek without bias or fear, and it was that distance that trembled on the verge of disintegration as the curse of her E.S.P. revealed to her the contents of the gritty wrappings.

No dream of mine . . . her mind whispered faintly as the filaments of perception limped back in shock. This is not my world. It was self reassurance, a stone-walled tower within the flurry of panic's ethereal army of wings buffeting her now. She couldn't be certain, not while unable to wake herself to reality, but no part of her essence could bring itself to believe her psyche, her energy, her very soul ever capable of designing a world in which the tattered corpses of infants could be flogged by a golem within the haggard imitation of a merry summer fair. This is not my dream!

She turned from the sight, unwilling to give it any more acknowledgement than she could help, as that comforting distance settled around her once again upon mentally entering that tower. The shield bore chinks, the armour was tarnished and shook with the effort of sustaining itself, but the dream had not ended, and so it needed to remain in order that she might finally see whatever it was she'd been summoned to see.

So it was that not far off, to the right of the spiteful little pack-rat's route, a large and lonely doll caught her eye.

Consumed by the dream's disjointed waltz once more, as much as she could allow it to take her, she moved closer to observe. Tilting her head to reflect the doll's angle, she gave in to the urge to investigate it thoroughly. An artist's table supported the enormous head on its raised and slanted platform, its stilted legs elevating it just high enough to stand even with her chest. Simplicity defined it, its splintered and unfinished surfaces warding off all but the most daring of artists, and it looked to her as though the only thing preventing the whole assembly from collapsing was the snug encasement of careless debris surrounding.

The little architect, as she began to think of him, dozed upon a stool tall enough to tuck his stunted legs just beneath the lip of the design table. Limp, lifeless, nub-capped arms hung down his sides, his round little feet melted into the shadows below, and he slumped, face down, against the jagged work surface. Jaundiced lengths of braided silk curled back on themselves to create the appearance of hair, but better resembled an old shag carpet that hadn't seen a wash since the 70's. Her fingers slid into their midst effortlessly, disappearing beneath the pupal mess, the soft and subtle texture belying the imagery of carpet, but enhancing that of underdeveloped insects as it settled around her hand, nestling it within.

A firm grasp found itself against his scalp as, with a mind of its own, her arm slowly drew him back. Close scrutiny narrowed her eyes as inch by yellowed inch revealed the clinging chrysalis-like tendrils. Around the side of his head where a wide-weave linen should have served as the face, as it had been with the smaller toys, an unrelieved landscape of sickly yellow coils dangled instead.

Unlike the toys at the pavilion's entrance, this doll had a tented profile, one that suggested it may once have been . . . .

It tumbled from her fingers and fell back down against the desk. Her heart frantically fought against her ribcage, and for a moment her vision wavered within the fog of terror. Internally, she paused in confusion. Her body rebelled from the scandalous caress of fear, its degenerate touch still fresh against her skin, yet her mind had raised no accompanying alarm, no clamorous ringing cry for escape. Alarm or no, this doll required her attention now, and rebellious body or no, she would see it given proper due. Letting her fingers glide once more to his scalp, she lifted the head some few inches above the table's surface.

Tented curiously in the centre, his entire face was covered in the strange twisted braiding, enshrouding him as a membranous cocoon or birth caul might. As her head tilted at the oddity, her eyes further narrowed. It was as if the head belonged to . . . .

He slipped from her grasp and hit desk once more. Her heart screamed and begged for her retreat. Drained of strength and tingling slightly, her limbs were momentarily rendered all but useless, and some part of her baulked at the thought of one moment more in the weird light of the tent. Irritation claimed her mind even as, knees trembling, her eyes began to water. What on earth was going on here? What, exactly, had her body, or even subconscious discovered that it wouldn't share with her mind? If it ever hoped for escape, it was simply going to have to let her in on the secret, or suffer repeated attempts at discovering it herself. With a huff of a breath just waiting to be born, she gripped his head once more, and with an unceremonious tug, pulled him back into view.

Above the tenting in the centre lay a slight indentation, where the fabric curved back in as though to partially fill the cavity of an eye. It gently rose again to build the slope over what was probably the nose. The fabric reacted as fabric should when enveloping a face.

She blinked. A face.

The weight, abnormal for the head of a doll, no matter how disproportionately large to the body, pulled at her arm. The angle at which she held it put a small strain on her shoulder, which was odd enough for something that should have been filled with cottony fluff.

A face.

As though burned, her hand snapped back to collide with her body, which turned in on itself as though to avoid any and all contact with the abominations callously strewn about like unwanted holiday decorations. Slowly, as if buried beneath an ocean of realization and dread, she turned in place. Even the unstable shelter of her armour could offer little comfort as each object her eyes found cried out with the trapped souls of the people they once were.

A human head, her heart whispered with a sob. People . . . they were all people . . . living people! It was no wonder she could feel no certain exit from this plain! No end to the forest of wardens, its encapsulated existence, all designed to trap those chosen few. Why would exit be simple if their goal was to capture and transform? But what of the sleeper's poor body? What happened in the waking world if their souls remained trapped here in the ragged bodies of nightmarish prizes?

With no greater intent than to leave the labyrinth of horrors, she snaked between the monstrous piles, her hands held close to her chest this time, more afraid than ever as to what new miscreation she might find with an errant touch.

The night-dark exit awaited her, the rectangle of shadow beyond offering freedom and escape from this miniature Hell, yet upon arrival she found her flight delayed. Moving into the light spilling from the tent's only available exit, was a man. Sharply dressed, it was inescapably clear that she now looked upon the Carnival's ringmaster.

 

[WafflesToo]

Yikes! That was really well told. Huge improvement over the previous incranation.

Not sure I care much for the date references; "Lobotomized patient of the 1940's" and "washed since the 70's" seem to suck too much imagination from the reader. I think it would work better without them. I imagine most of us have probably seen "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Next" so simply stating that he was like a lobotomized patient would work. If the date references must stay then spelling them out might lessen the jarring when encountered in a cloud of text ("Lobotomized patient of the ninteen-fourties" and "washed since the seventies" respectively).

So when will we get another bone?

 

[Malloriel]

I'm supremely pleased that you enjoy it. ^_^ It's taken more actual work than most of my pieces take because it is so far removed from my comfort zone. So far, in fact, that it's been affecting my attitude and behaviour rather dramatically. I'm encouraged on the one hand to finish it because of the interest generated, but on the other, it puts me in a place with very dark energy (as you can imagine) that's counter to my usual state in that it's also rather negative energy. It's left me with a great disquiet inside. I can't bring myself to utterly destroy it, neither, though, can I bring myself to continue it, so I'm afraid this is probably the last you'll see of it.

Fear not, though, for I have many other stories to work on and post! Hopefully I can carry that sense of tension and interest into my other pieces. ^_^ We know I can, but it's also the genre.

So I'm very sorry to get you hooked and then pull away, but for my own comfort and mental health, I feel it best to discontinue its evolution.

 

[Interference]

Just to take the point of over-long opening sentences, I'd be tempted to go with:

It was not dead, precisely, nor exactly forgotten. It was abandonment that sewed the Carnival together.

and so on along those lines.

(I'm afraid, in this, I disagree with Dreir's disagreement with Kith's suggestion . Short, to-the-point opening sentences win every time with me, and with others )

I expect to get back a little later after I've read a bit more

 

[WafflesToo]

I'm encouraged on the one hand to finish it because of the interest generated, but on the other, it puts me in a place with very dark energy (as you can imagine) that's counter to my usual state in that it's also rather negative energy. It's left me with a great disquiet inside. I can't bring myself to utterly destroy it, neither, though, can I bring myself to continue it, so I'm afraid this is probably the last you'll see of it.

...
So write about pink bunnies and stuff on the side, it should balance out

 

[dreir]

(I'm afraid, in this, I disagree with Dreir's disagreement with Kith's suggestion . Short, to-the-point opening sentences win every time with me, and with others )

I agree with short opening sentences being better most of the time, and the new opening you're proposing is quite different from what I was responding to (although I also think it changes the meaning Mall is trying to convey a little). My comment came in after that rework by Mall where she split the sentence and if you read it again, I think you'll agree that that one just doesn't work. I guess my comment was more of an indignant reaction to that particular edit than anything (which is not even Kith's fault). So, my apologies to both Kith and Mall for not really thinking through that time before posting

- Dreir -