| February 2008 |
All work copyright
the owner. No
reproduction
without consent.
the owner. No
reproduction
without consent.
FICTION
Circus Ship
by Calgary's T.L. Norman
Darkness, I love the darkness. The vast darkness from the cold reaches of outer space makes my heart
feel full and whole. It covers me with a warmth and desire, which my soul yearns.
This Circus Ship, full of strange animals, beasts from distant worlds and freak oddities, this has been my
home for over two human decades.
At every port the routine is always the same. It is that consistency which sooths me. I stay in my quarters
and prepare for the next show while the other travelers on this vessel go about their jobs. In the silence of
my quarters I hear the creaking metal of the rusted old ship. It is an arousing sound and helps me relax
while I get dressed.
Looking into my mirror, I recall a conversation I had with Ringmaster Volan. He once asked me, “Merceville,
why don’t you use the slave-wenches to assist you in preparing?”
“They do nothing for me,” I answered. “I must feel in order to prepare.”
Now, as I put on my make up with skill and precision, I tingle inside while massaging the pure white cream
onto my glistening blue skin. It is a feeling that no slave-wench could ever awaken in me.
My trophy wall reflected in my mirror draws my attention. Each trophy represents the face of every port this
Circus Ship has docked, each successful performance that I have carried out. Eighty-four of one thousand
and forty are mounted on my wall. The remainders are stowed in the cargo bay. But there is a space on my
wall, an empty spot that beckons to me to fill it.
Volan came to me earlier with a look of fear in his round green eyes. “Your fetish must be curbed. No more
trophies. The authorities are getting suspicious.”
He tends to over-react, and I know he means well, but if he could only feel what I feel, his view would be
different. Yet, stop I must. “Tonight will be my last; one final trophy.”
“No, Merceville, you must promise me you won’t.”
“Okay, I promise,” I said, and smiled. I always keep my promises.
Using the black eye pencil, I carefully outline my eyes. Slowly, gently, I blend it in. The effect makes my
eyes appear sunken, like my beautiful trophies.
To my left cheek I add a perfectly shaped teardrop, a representation of my last performance. Almost done, I
paint my lips my favorite color – red. It’s such an indulging color and the smell and taste of the make-up
sends warmth down my spine.
“You’re one of my finest performers,” Volan had said. “It would be a shame to lose you.”
“Why would I do that to you, old friend?”
“You know as well as I that you only perform to get your trophies. I know if you quit collecting trophies you
will stop performing.”
How he has come to know me over the past two decades!
“I will do my job for you one last time, Volan.” I hoped my words would ease the turmoil my friend was
feeling.
I place my hair on my balding scalp; the blue and blond streaked wig is soft to the touch. It contains strands
of hair from some of my favourite trophies. Wearing it always causes me to catch my breath.
My job is an art form for which I am revered. This port will be no different.
These urges deep within me are a pleasurable knotting in the pit of my stomach. It takes all the strength I
have to fight them. The need to take my trophies is what makes me who I am. To quit would be immoral.
Volan says the humans call it an addiction, an internal drive, uncontrollable. What do they know? They’re
only humans, but even so, I should quit, for a while. I did promise Volan, and I always keep my promises.
I await the knock on my door to tell me the show has begun. While I wait I take the time to admire my most
recent trophy. The purple skin is so smooth, like rhine-silk. The extra eye has a crystal-like iridescence that
emanates from it, even now, thirty hours after winning it. Its hair is golden brown and long. It contains a
beauty so rare; so pure it flows through it in the light. I may just add some of it to my wig.
I inhale deeply; the smell of success is like the sour-sweet smell of formaldehyde. It sends a warm chill
through me.
A double knock sounds on my door and expels me from my fervour. Slowly, I make my way down the
corridor, which leads to the station docking entrance. The dim red lighting of the corridor casts a relaxing
glow.
Deep within me I feel it; the pleasurable knotting sensation warms every blood cell. I close my eyes and
concentrate on my breathing, trying to coordinate an even inhale and exhale in all three of my lungs.
Through an unseen door down the next corridor I can hear the crowd; their raucous laughter adds to my
pleasure.
I hear Volan's deep booming voice. “Welcome now, an act beyond compare. Merceville, the circus clown,
will make you feel like you never have before!”
I wonder if he ever truly thought how ironic his introduction for me is. He has never mentioned his feelings
of my hobby, but I assume it does not agree with him. In fact he has never said anything to me about my
hobby until today.
My routine has been practiced to the point of perfection, my audiences have never known what to expect. I
always pick my trophy the second I walk into the spotlight. Tonight it will be…
No I must not. I promised Volan that I wouldn’t.
The crowd cheers in a cacophony so pure. This alien race is no different from the last; so stupid and so
gullible.
Yes there it is. A perfect specimen calls to me in the front row. It beckons to me with an innocence I cannot
resist. What a perfect addition to my collection it would be.
It’s such a shame that I made that promise.
I continue to play out my performance, my magic, to the oohs and ahs of the crowd. Throughout my
performance I never let the face out of my sight.
The feelings of pleasure keep rising, soon to peek. This would-be trophy taunts me. I must fight to control
this urge, this need to take what is mine. But no, I must wait. To make a mistake now would mean my
demise. I promised Volan, and I always keep a promise.
I must concentrate on my magic. I must concentrate.
I feel the heat from the lights overhead, the brightness is occasionally blinding. Performing so close to the
front row, so close to the trophy I picked, the feelings within me are becoming too great to fight.
Concentrate, I must concentrate. One more minute, I know I can do this. One more minute, I know I can
fight this. My show is almost over. My routine is nearly complete.
I have one more minute to go. One more minute… One more…
One more can’t hurt. Volan will never know.
The cheers from the crowd are deafening. My trophy’s eyes look on in astonishment, marvelling at my
performance, unaware of my soul-wrenching turmoil.
My performance comes to an end and this feeling inside me is like a volcano ready to explode. I need to
take what is mine. I must fulfill my need. I can’t stand it any longer.
I give my most theatrical bow to the crowd. The lights fade -- my queue to take what is mine. With my gloved
hand tight around its mouth I dash off to my quarters. It struggles momentarily but becomes still after a
quick snap of the neck.
I quickly drag my new catch down the dimly lit corridor to my quarters so that Volan does not see me. This
specimen seems heavier than it looked. I drop it on the floor of my quarters and lock my door.
Now to properly enjoy this new addition, this wonderful…
Oh no, this can’t be. No, it’s impossible! I never make a mistake.
Volan?
“Volan, you stupid, stupid being. You should never have been standing there. What were you thinking?”
What am I going to do with you?
“Think old clown, think.”
I must dispose of you. I can’t very well tell anyone I did this to you. Then they would all find out, then I will
have to stop for good. No, I can’t have that.
“I’ll wait until we are clear of the station authorities and I will eject you into space. No one needs to know. I’ll
make it look like an accident. It was an accident. I never meant to kill you. You were my friend.”
Now that empty spot on my trophy wall beckons even stronger.
I am a circus clown. Performing is my job. Collecting trophies is my hobby.
Circus Ship
by Calgary's T.L. Norman
Darkness, I love the darkness. The vast darkness from the cold reaches of outer space makes my heart
feel full and whole. It covers me with a warmth and desire, which my soul yearns.
This Circus Ship, full of strange animals, beasts from distant worlds and freak oddities, this has been my
home for over two human decades.
At every port the routine is always the same. It is that consistency which sooths me. I stay in my quarters
and prepare for the next show while the other travelers on this vessel go about their jobs. In the silence of
my quarters I hear the creaking metal of the rusted old ship. It is an arousing sound and helps me relax
while I get dressed.
Looking into my mirror, I recall a conversation I had with Ringmaster Volan. He once asked me, “Merceville,
why don’t you use the slave-wenches to assist you in preparing?”
“They do nothing for me,” I answered. “I must feel in order to prepare.”
Now, as I put on my make up with skill and precision, I tingle inside while massaging the pure white cream
onto my glistening blue skin. It is a feeling that no slave-wench could ever awaken in me.
My trophy wall reflected in my mirror draws my attention. Each trophy represents the face of every port this
Circus Ship has docked, each successful performance that I have carried out. Eighty-four of one thousand
and forty are mounted on my wall. The remainders are stowed in the cargo bay. But there is a space on my
wall, an empty spot that beckons to me to fill it.
Volan came to me earlier with a look of fear in his round green eyes. “Your fetish must be curbed. No more
trophies. The authorities are getting suspicious.”
He tends to over-react, and I know he means well, but if he could only feel what I feel, his view would be
different. Yet, stop I must. “Tonight will be my last; one final trophy.”
“No, Merceville, you must promise me you won’t.”
“Okay, I promise,” I said, and smiled. I always keep my promises.
Using the black eye pencil, I carefully outline my eyes. Slowly, gently, I blend it in. The effect makes my
eyes appear sunken, like my beautiful trophies.
To my left cheek I add a perfectly shaped teardrop, a representation of my last performance. Almost done, I
paint my lips my favorite color – red. It’s such an indulging color and the smell and taste of the make-up
sends warmth down my spine.
“You’re one of my finest performers,” Volan had said. “It would be a shame to lose you.”
“Why would I do that to you, old friend?”
“You know as well as I that you only perform to get your trophies. I know if you quit collecting trophies you
will stop performing.”
How he has come to know me over the past two decades!
“I will do my job for you one last time, Volan.” I hoped my words would ease the turmoil my friend was
feeling.
I place my hair on my balding scalp; the blue and blond streaked wig is soft to the touch. It contains strands
of hair from some of my favourite trophies. Wearing it always causes me to catch my breath.
My job is an art form for which I am revered. This port will be no different.
These urges deep within me are a pleasurable knotting in the pit of my stomach. It takes all the strength I
have to fight them. The need to take my trophies is what makes me who I am. To quit would be immoral.
Volan says the humans call it an addiction, an internal drive, uncontrollable. What do they know? They’re
only humans, but even so, I should quit, for a while. I did promise Volan, and I always keep my promises.
I await the knock on my door to tell me the show has begun. While I wait I take the time to admire my most
recent trophy. The purple skin is so smooth, like rhine-silk. The extra eye has a crystal-like iridescence that
emanates from it, even now, thirty hours after winning it. Its hair is golden brown and long. It contains a
beauty so rare; so pure it flows through it in the light. I may just add some of it to my wig.
I inhale deeply; the smell of success is like the sour-sweet smell of formaldehyde. It sends a warm chill
through me.
A double knock sounds on my door and expels me from my fervour. Slowly, I make my way down the
corridor, which leads to the station docking entrance. The dim red lighting of the corridor casts a relaxing
glow.
Deep within me I feel it; the pleasurable knotting sensation warms every blood cell. I close my eyes and
concentrate on my breathing, trying to coordinate an even inhale and exhale in all three of my lungs.
Through an unseen door down the next corridor I can hear the crowd; their raucous laughter adds to my
pleasure.
I hear Volan's deep booming voice. “Welcome now, an act beyond compare. Merceville, the circus clown,
will make you feel like you never have before!”
I wonder if he ever truly thought how ironic his introduction for me is. He has never mentioned his feelings
of my hobby, but I assume it does not agree with him. In fact he has never said anything to me about my
hobby until today.
My routine has been practiced to the point of perfection, my audiences have never known what to expect. I
always pick my trophy the second I walk into the spotlight. Tonight it will be…
No I must not. I promised Volan that I wouldn’t.
The crowd cheers in a cacophony so pure. This alien race is no different from the last; so stupid and so
gullible.
Yes there it is. A perfect specimen calls to me in the front row. It beckons to me with an innocence I cannot
resist. What a perfect addition to my collection it would be.
It’s such a shame that I made that promise.
I continue to play out my performance, my magic, to the oohs and ahs of the crowd. Throughout my
performance I never let the face out of my sight.
The feelings of pleasure keep rising, soon to peek. This would-be trophy taunts me. I must fight to control
this urge, this need to take what is mine. But no, I must wait. To make a mistake now would mean my
demise. I promised Volan, and I always keep a promise.
I must concentrate on my magic. I must concentrate.
I feel the heat from the lights overhead, the brightness is occasionally blinding. Performing so close to the
front row, so close to the trophy I picked, the feelings within me are becoming too great to fight.
Concentrate, I must concentrate. One more minute, I know I can do this. One more minute, I know I can
fight this. My show is almost over. My routine is nearly complete.
I have one more minute to go. One more minute… One more…
One more can’t hurt. Volan will never know.
The cheers from the crowd are deafening. My trophy’s eyes look on in astonishment, marvelling at my
performance, unaware of my soul-wrenching turmoil.
My performance comes to an end and this feeling inside me is like a volcano ready to explode. I need to
take what is mine. I must fulfill my need. I can’t stand it any longer.
I give my most theatrical bow to the crowd. The lights fade -- my queue to take what is mine. With my gloved
hand tight around its mouth I dash off to my quarters. It struggles momentarily but becomes still after a
quick snap of the neck.
I quickly drag my new catch down the dimly lit corridor to my quarters so that Volan does not see me. This
specimen seems heavier than it looked. I drop it on the floor of my quarters and lock my door.
Now to properly enjoy this new addition, this wonderful…
Oh no, this can’t be. No, it’s impossible! I never make a mistake.
Volan?
“Volan, you stupid, stupid being. You should never have been standing there. What were you thinking?”
What am I going to do with you?
“Think old clown, think.”
I must dispose of you. I can’t very well tell anyone I did this to you. Then they would all find out, then I will
have to stop for good. No, I can’t have that.
“I’ll wait until we are clear of the station authorities and I will eject you into space. No one needs to know. I’ll
make it look like an accident. It was an accident. I never meant to kill you. You were my friend.”
Now that empty spot on my trophy wall beckons even stronger.
I am a circus clown. Performing is my job. Collecting trophies is my hobby.
Eleventh Transmission is Calgary's
arts, culture, media, and activism
magazine. We feature the work of
emerging and established writers and
artists from Calgary and beyond.
Eleventh Transmission believes that
art involves awareness and
connection -- to the community, and to
what goes on in the world at large. We
have a special interest in work that is
socially engaged.
New issues debut the first Monday of
every month. Next issue March 3.
If you like the magazine, or any
content in particular, please take a few
moments to share the link with your
friends.
Feel free to join our Mailing list or our
Facebook group.
arts, culture, media, and activism
magazine. We feature the work of
emerging and established writers and
artists from Calgary and beyond.
Eleventh Transmission believes that
art involves awareness and
connection -- to the community, and to
what goes on in the world at large. We
have a special interest in work that is
socially engaged.
New issues debut the first Monday of
every month. Next issue March 3.
If you like the magazine, or any
content in particular, please take a few
moments to share the link with your
friends.
Feel free to join our Mailing list or our
Facebook group.