Angel (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} valarltd) wrote in ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} tq_nanowrimo,@ 2007-11-02 19:02:00 |
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4001 words today
Alive on the Inside is cooking along.
is my lousy photoshop of Nick and Torturo.
The Prologue
There had always been a Phantasmagoria.
Somewhere, in the dim dead remains of the past, it had begun: a juggler in Babylon or a dancer in Crete, a snake-charmer in Memphis or an acrobat in Palmyra. One by one they had come together, and the Phantasmagoria took on its own life.
It watched the Pyramids rise and Troy fall. It entertained as Alexander swept east and the Visigoths swept west. The dead carts rolled and the Renaissance revitalized Europe. And always, the Phantasmagoria was there.
The acts came and went, dwarfs and dancers, giants and storytellers, freaks and fortunetellers, but the show continued on.
The Enlightenment and Industry brought new techniques to the ancient show, and the Phantasmagoria carried these, as well as knowledge and disease wherever it traveled. To India, to learn the secrets of the fakirs, and China where pretty girls touch the tops of their heads with the soles of their feet. To Russia, amid fire-eaters and fortunetellers and into Africa, where men grew tall as trees.
In America, the railroad sped the travel and the Phantasmagoria learned and created anew the vaudeville and traveling carnival. Times changed and the Phantasmagoria roared through the twenties, horrified through the fifties and endured the arrival of movies and television.
But always, there was the show.
Always, there was the Phantasmagoria.
Nick and Torturo meet
When the tall young man came in through the door, Nick was too lost in thought to notice. But when the newcomer plopped a roll of posters on his desk and gave him a smile, Nick noticed. No one wore mustaches anymore, especially little pencil-thin Errol Flynn ones, just about three-days growth of beard like Indiana Jones and Don Johnson. He looked kinda like the great Flynn, too. Nick had loved old movies in his teens, and cartoons too.
Nick automatically smiled and went into his patter. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you? Looking for something in the way of wheels?”
The newcomer laughed. It was rich and throaty in a way Nick had never heard, as if he were inviting the whole world to laugh along with him. “Well, it's times like these I wish I could drive. Just for the pleasure of seeing what sort of flivver you'd sell me.”
Nick's eyebrows went up at the admission and the antiquated slang. “I thought everyone drove.”
“Not I. I go everywhere by train, or bicycle when the train is stopped.” He gestured to a well-polished old-style bike with shiny chrome and a leather seat. “But even so, I find myself needing a bit of help.” He tapped the roll of posters on Nick's desk. “I have free tickets if you could put these up for your customers to see.”
Nick looked them over, musing at the old-fashioned art work. “Hmm. Train. Was that you about 2 a.m. up in Peculiar? I live in the duplexes right there on the tracks.”
“That was us. I'm sorry, did we wake you?” His think mustchae quirked as if he were about to smile. He didn't look the least bit sorry.
“I woke up. Nice train. I'll have to come out for the show.” He looked up. “Been a while since I've been on a tilt-a-whirl.”
“And you'll come to my show?” The visitor's eyes were twinkling and his smile was inviting. “It'll be worth it,” he said, almost suggestively.
Nick distracted himself by looking at the poster again. “You have real freaks? Not just pictures? Cause I got scammed out of fifty cents when I was eight. All it was was a bunch of pictures.”
“All the freaks are real. I'm one of them, and I'm real, aren't I? I'm Torturo, the Pain King.”
Nick brought down the unruly eyebrow that was trying to climb his forehead. “Nick Harper, nice to meet you.” His right hand came up automatically to shake.
Torturo shook his hand, his grip firm, but he lingered just a second too long, as if reluctant to let go of Nick's hand. “Hello, Nick.”
Nick was looking into the large changeable hazel eyes, almost lingering, and didn't notice the delay in the grip. “I'll definitely hike out. Probably not tonight. I work late. But tomorrow.”
Torturo smiled a dazzling smile and produced four red pieces of pasteboard. “I'll see you tonight.” Nick wondered privately if he realized that sounded more like a date than a show. But everyone else was out to lunch, and he was minding the store alone.
Alive on the Inside is cooking along.
is my lousy photoshop of Nick and Torturo.The Prologue
There had always been a Phantasmagoria.
Somewhere, in the dim dead remains of the past, it had begun: a juggler in Babylon or a dancer in Crete, a snake-charmer in Memphis or an acrobat in Palmyra. One by one they had come together, and the Phantasmagoria took on its own life.
It watched the Pyramids rise and Troy fall. It entertained as Alexander swept east and the Visigoths swept west. The dead carts rolled and the Renaissance revitalized Europe. And always, the Phantasmagoria was there.
The acts came and went, dwarfs and dancers, giants and storytellers, freaks and fortunetellers, but the show continued on.
The Enlightenment and Industry brought new techniques to the ancient show, and the Phantasmagoria carried these, as well as knowledge and disease wherever it traveled. To India, to learn the secrets of the fakirs, and China where pretty girls touch the tops of their heads with the soles of their feet. To Russia, amid fire-eaters and fortunetellers and into Africa, where men grew tall as trees.
In America, the railroad sped the travel and the Phantasmagoria learned and created anew the vaudeville and traveling carnival. Times changed and the Phantasmagoria roared through the twenties, horrified through the fifties and endured the arrival of movies and television.
But always, there was the show.
Always, there was the Phantasmagoria.
Nick and Torturo meet
When the tall young man came in through the door, Nick was too lost in thought to notice. But when the newcomer plopped a roll of posters on his desk and gave him a smile, Nick noticed. No one wore mustaches anymore, especially little pencil-thin Errol Flynn ones, just about three-days growth of beard like Indiana Jones and Don Johnson. He looked kinda like the great Flynn, too. Nick had loved old movies in his teens, and cartoons too.
Nick automatically smiled and went into his patter. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you? Looking for something in the way of wheels?”
The newcomer laughed. It was rich and throaty in a way Nick had never heard, as if he were inviting the whole world to laugh along with him. “Well, it's times like these I wish I could drive. Just for the pleasure of seeing what sort of flivver you'd sell me.”
Nick's eyebrows went up at the admission and the antiquated slang. “I thought everyone drove.”
“Not I. I go everywhere by train, or bicycle when the train is stopped.” He gestured to a well-polished old-style bike with shiny chrome and a leather seat. “But even so, I find myself needing a bit of help.” He tapped the roll of posters on Nick's desk. “I have free tickets if you could put these up for your customers to see.”
Nick looked them over, musing at the old-fashioned art work. “Hmm. Train. Was that you about 2 a.m. up in Peculiar? I live in the duplexes right there on the tracks.”
“That was us. I'm sorry, did we wake you?” His think mustchae quirked as if he were about to smile. He didn't look the least bit sorry.
“I woke up. Nice train. I'll have to come out for the show.” He looked up. “Been a while since I've been on a tilt-a-whirl.”
“And you'll come to my show?” The visitor's eyes were twinkling and his smile was inviting. “It'll be worth it,” he said, almost suggestively.
Nick distracted himself by looking at the poster again. “You have real freaks? Not just pictures? Cause I got scammed out of fifty cents when I was eight. All it was was a bunch of pictures.”
“All the freaks are real. I'm one of them, and I'm real, aren't I? I'm Torturo, the Pain King.”
Nick brought down the unruly eyebrow that was trying to climb his forehead. “Nick Harper, nice to meet you.” His right hand came up automatically to shake.
Torturo shook his hand, his grip firm, but he lingered just a second too long, as if reluctant to let go of Nick's hand. “Hello, Nick.”
Nick was looking into the large changeable hazel eyes, almost lingering, and didn't notice the delay in the grip. “I'll definitely hike out. Probably not tonight. I work late. But tomorrow.”
Torturo smiled a dazzling smile and produced four red pieces of pasteboard. “I'll see you tonight.” Nick wondered privately if he realized that sounded more like a date than a show. But everyone else was out to lunch, and he was minding the store alone.
