”Come closer everyone! Gather around and fixate your mind on the wonders about to be witnessed! Glorify in the shaking of our natural shackles!”
Dressed in red-and-purple-and-green liveries, the magician pranced around his make-shift stage, flicking his cape, donning and undonning his velvet top hat.
”Venture into unkown realms, learn to abhor the divisions of dimensions! Wade into the mirror and discover reality as it has never before been imagined!”
He was drawing a somewhat shifting audience, the air reeking of rivalling doubt and curiosity. Sensing the tide was beginning to wane, the magician abruptly quit his prancing and stood unmoving in the center of his collapsed cardboard box. His one hand was fixed to the brim of his hat, the other fluttering his cape as if a dramatic wind kissed the tattered fabric. The sudden change in the magician's demeanour drew his audience closer, mutters playing around on lips.
He began, in an intimate stage whisper. ”I warn you in advance, my humble and well-intending audience, what you set your eyes upon today,” he scanned over the up-turned faces, noting their eyes, ”cannot be erased from your inner vision at any time of any convienence, should it be desired or not.”
The magician drew his cape above his audience in a smooth, all-encompassing motion and they were in a volumnious tent. He unhitched the wall of the tent from around his neck and stepped clear of it, his polished shoes clacking on the ivory stage beneath him.
”I do rightly and honestly confess. Some of the visions you will witness in the following moments might deprive you of your safety, strain your sanity to nightmarish depths. But hark! These visions, they are indeed merely visions. Mental manifestations without the physical bulk to cause any severe damage.” The magician tapped his nose slyly. ”At least not physically.”
This drew scattered laughter from his audience. There was nothing strained about the voices, but the magician had the scent of suspicion squarely clogged in his nose and just had to be sure he held firm sway over his crowd.
”Fester your eyes upon these!” he cried and a flock of pigeons blinked into existence in mid-air, looking slightly more confused than the audience.
”Seen this before,” shouted a lone, clearly unimpressed voice, ”they were in his sleeves!”
The magician frowned at the eruption of mutters, then snapped his fingers, cutting through the disgruntled noises. The pigeons plummeted towards the stage, their tiny little hearts arrested, feathery bodies slack in death. The magician held up his hands in front of him, fingers finding silent keys in pristine space. With a clearing of his throat, he struck up a hearty rhythym, the lapels of his sleeves flickering. The pigeons bobbed and dipped in time to his imaginary key strikes, howling around him in a vortex of limp plumage.
The crows ooh'd and aah'd, and the magician smiled self-consciously. Carefully, grandiosely, he turned his palms skyward, gradually slowing the pigeons' circular motion. When they hovered stationary above the stage, held like the breaths of his audience, their protruding tongues and tendonless necks reflected on the polished surface, the magician lifted his hands. The birds rose haltingly, their bodies twitching and shifting as nature tried to exert its dominion over them. The magician would have none of that.
He fixed their essence in his mind with iron-hard conviction. Their forms flickered and shambled, but they kept rising, now steadily, steadily. With a snarl of exertion, the magician brought his fingers crashing together, the pigeons accelerating to follow his clenched fist. They slammed into each other and erupted in a blast of feathers which rained on the delighted audience.
From within the depths of the fluttering rain, the magician stepped out, now garbed in blue dark. His top hot was noticeably missing and his slick, oiled hair rose in spikes about his skull. He bowed low, his flourishing hand scraping the floor to thunderous applause.
”I thank you as you thank me, my humble audience!” The magician straightened, blowing a feather off of his shoulder. ”Pigeons in flight and out of flight are merely the beginning in our journey through these restraints you place on reality. Alas, I do not bring judgement upon your desicions! I merely seek to implore the observation of truth!
”The genuine truth is an elusive mistress, one courted only with unconditional heart shattering regret.” He paused, as if to accentuate the heaviness of this realization. He then continued in more subdued tones. ”I have your most prominent best interests in my mind as I fervently hope you possess the stautness of mind to steel yourselves against the images about to be imprinted on your lost, lamb-like eyes.
”Now, hark and heed, my loyal audience! Observe!”
***
The magician re-fastened the clasps of the tent wall around his neck and stooped to grasp the edge of it. He shifted a heavy-set man to the side with a nudge. The movement caused the man's eyes to to twitch and roll in their sockets. The magician sighed and drew his cloak back around his body. The space in front of his cardboard box was devoid of anything, the stark desolation of the area causing passer-by's to unconsciously shift their steps clear of it.
A mental push from the magician and nature stopped complaining. People dared to step closer to him, some casting curious glances at him. Without a moment's hesitation, the magician leaped back into his prancing steps, his tattered livery flashing.
”Allow your feet to carry you where your curiosity wills! Unravel the navels of mysteries unbreathed! Feast upon knowledge clearer than the holiest of waters, twice blessed and once removed!”
A person stopped to look. Then another. Slowly, slowly, a crowd accumalated. The magician pranced on his cardboard stage and wished them strength. His cape fluttered behind him and his top hat bounced atop his head.
”Curses twisted onto their heads, their juggling prowess vastly improved by the lack of anything reasonable! Step lively and humbly crowd closer!”
A/N: The difference between a good writer and a great writer is that the latter would have filled in the space I skipped. If I ever become a great writer, I'll patch that part up; as I stand now, I lack the skill to live up to the hype, hence the fill-in-the-blank. Sorry. Hope you enjoyed regardless. :)
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Well, I have to say I love the idea. I agree with Twit when he says that knowing what happens inside the tent builds an atmosphere of mystery that reminds to Lovecraft's style. It creates suspense and it leaves us with questions that can only be solved by the reader and his imagination (I love this kind of stories, in which the right questions are left unsolved so the reader can speculate about them, becoming a participant of the creation of the story itself).
I also enjoyed the writting itself and the dialogues. The dialogues of the magician are, in my opinion, well written. It felt like a old-fashion showman, with this kind of fake personality that hides a purpose (again, this helps creating the atmosphere).
I don't think you should fill that space you left; however, I do think you should have enhanced a little bit more the end of the first part. With some clues about the real purpose and meaning of the magician (as Twit said), the mystery might increase; and, with a more shocking ending for that first part, the second part will feel more adequate, more intriguing, for the story would be repeating itself.
Still, I liked a lot the story as it is and what I'm saying are mere suggestions for the day you may wanna edit it or rewrite it; or for your next story.
Oh, and one last thing: there are no good writers nor great writers. There are writers... and public opinion.
Hi WaitingForLife!
“Undonning” isn’t a word, and it sounds rather strange. The image of this phrase along with “prancing” is that of a crazy pony doing the sand dance. Maybe try some other wording?
This makes it sound like he only has one hand—maybe just say “one hand”?
Wait, I don’t understand. His tent became the cloak? His tent was the cloak? They entered the tent under his cloak?
I’m thinking you mean “feast your eyes”? Wounds and envy fester. Also “pidgeons” should be “pigeons”.
Should be “rhythm”. I always rely on the spell-check for this one. ^_^
Where is the heavy-set man? Inside the tent, outside?
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Hi!
First off, I think not actually stating what went on inside the tent is better than stating it out right. It reminds me of HP Lovecraft’s stories, where he creates suspense by hints and fleeting images. That said, you shouldn’t shy away from writing anything because you think you don’t have the skill for it. How are you going to get that skill if not by pushing your boundaries?
Overall, I did really like this, but I feel like you could have done more with the idea. Who is the magician? Why does he want the people? What is the significance of the pigeons? The air of mystery about him works very well, and it makes me very curious, but I’d like a little, just a very little more about him. You show very little of his character, and I think that should be shown more, even though details like his name should remain secret. He seems a very confident performer, but he smiles self-consciously when the audience applauds his tricks, so I’m not sure what kind of man (or otherwise?) he is. A scheming devil who steals the souls of his audience for fun? A desperate man who sells them in trade for something very precious to him? Does he feel he’s doing them good, enlightening their minds and expanding their hearts?
So while I love the mystery, I think some things need to be clearer so there’s a better picture of what the story and the magician are actually about. I don’t mean tell us it outright, as that would ruin the lovely aura of secrecy and otherness, but a little hint here and there could make this far darker and more twisted, and push it from good to great.
PM or Wall me if you have any questions!
-twit