Yesterday Was Ephemeral

Simply look upon the text and read it, dear.

The same as every other day, the rather large man in the azure suede overcoat gathered his items to head home. His footsteps echoed across the parking lot with a fragile smile held upon his face that one might think would be classified as obnoxious and arrogant. However the man was anything but what another would claim his outward appearance to shine insight upon his true self. He carried a drab briefcase, fumbling with it here and there, as if careful not to spill any contents or disrupt the peace. Despite his futile attempts, it was obvious that he was anxious to return home. The simple briefcase contained the various items it had always contained since he had begun working here in August of 1963, despite minor discrepancies that he decided to overlook, despite his apprehensiveness. He had not handed in a resume. Nor did he provide a showcase of exceptional abilities. He merely told the owner of the carnival "I'd like to have a job here." Since he did not appear haggard or possessed a gruff, unintelligible voice, he granted his wish, as meager as it was. And that was the way it had always been.

The simple beings (The ones not cooped in the homes they resided in) who knew this man only knew him as "The Balloon Man," and were rather fond of his laid back nature. Business wise he was "Mr. Fickle." He had no children, or close relatives within the perimeter of the town. He held a smiling face constantly, despite the circumstances that seemed to arise. He lived a simple life, nothing out of the ordinary. The rundown garden behind his tiny brick home lay broken, sentimental pieces scattered. Maria had been gone for twelve years, and with it she left her mark on the world; Rosy cheeks with that infamous velvet dress that always seemed to collect dog hairs on here way to church. She was a sublime beauty, no doubt about that. Her constant presence once lit up the now darkened rooms he resided within. However the smell of freshly picked roses no longer lingered, that velvet dress now tucked away in a quiet corner of his home. The tumor in her brain made her effortless beauty diminish daily, dimmed each memory, dulled each feeling. And eventually, being put on life support was too much for the beloved balloon seller to handle. He strove to make her existence simply disappear from his ill home, and perhaps make the memories of her dissipate elsewhere. Of course, they all went to no avail, and by the time her heart ceased to pump thin amounts of iron within her blood, she was nothing but a heap of bones that collected dust in such an impatient world ready to admit the next physically incapacitated. 

             July 1963: The day the roses died.

It had been a rather gloomy morning from the start. December. Near freezing, locked in solitude. A lone bird. That was what appeared. It balanced upon the wire overhead, and there had been a possibility that it was freezing. But perhaps the bird did not mind. It had lie perfectly still, holding the gaze of nostalgia. But a bird is merely a bird. It could not have possibly recalled such vivid emotions. Mr. Fickle continued his solemn walk to the carnival gates, and recollected his thoughts, dispelling the strange one about a warm-blooded, flying creature. 


Bird /bərd/ n.
  1. A warm blooded, beautiful creature. A member of the Aves. They range from a variety of appearances, some palm sized. Some carry images that cannot be unseen. Some merely live and die. 

                               The bird unfolded it's wings and fluttered into the distance.
                                     And although it appeared to be divine, the rest 
                            of the events that unfolded seemed to be just the polar opposite.


The remaining events of the day are the latter, and are periodically state as follows.

 Mr. Fickle had begun packing up around a quarter to seven. The faded pieces of what remained of blue tarp heaved in thoughtfully, exhaling with exhaustion. The sun cast its gaze downwards, an orange halo surrounding it outwardly. Each person quietly existed the carnival, the occasional mother exasperated due to the fact that her child refused to leave. The sky began to take on a deeper shade of blue, light colors quickly fading, giving way to a more menacing darkness. In due time, he would be the only one left within the perimeter of the carnival. Torn pieces of cotton candy lay scattered across the tread upon dirt, a crimson color, much like that of dried up blood. He gathered his things, and headed towards the entrance, only to recall that he had forgotten his jar of money collected for the day. It was never much, but it was what he had learned to live off of, and due to the minuscule amount of pay in such a day and age, it swallowed up his whole attention. The money was used solely to divide equally towards the bills and his next meal, even though they had always been such dwindling portions by each passing day. It had begun to grow darker, and the walk back soon became a much lengthier distance than it had appeared. Before reaching his destination, he felt a strange aura of unease, a fabric of air that did not belong. He stopped out in the open, breathing steady amounts of oxygen into his lungs. And quickly his life ended in that moment. Who he was, who he had been, and who he could have been faded in that moment. His memories consumed, no chance of regurgitation to occur; spill out the vile contents and leave them broken for others to pick of the pieces and place them back onto a crooked shelf. No remorse in the world. None had witnessed the murder. He had left this world abruptly at ten-thirty three eastern time. No last few words, just a gasp of breath, not eloquent and no sharp hammer to the ground. A graceful fall, a simple defeat. A spectator would have witnessed a gentle collapse to the ground, an embrace to gravity itself. And all it had taken was a gut. A slice against his jugular. Nothing spectacular. However to the thief of the man's life himself, a precious sight to witness - the escape of one's soul set free outwards into the open world - he felt no guilt. He had already proceeded to mutilate the poor soul. The glazed over look set on his eyes made him appear more haggard than he already was. Still, no remorse lingered. His body was drug by the murderer along a series of amusement like trails. His chuckles ricocheted throughout the quiet carnival. His sweet, lonely companion lay still upon the ground. He bared his teeth at the slight arise of an alarming noise, then slowly gritted them together to ease his nerves. The body soon lay dismembered, a lovely sight to see. His masterpiece, a sheer work of art. Lusus Naturae. The madman crept away from the beauty he had crafted, and it lay stuffed inside of the cart where the Balloon Man had always performed his living. But alas, it had transformed into something much less profitable. And by that time, the lonely hands of guilt had sulked away, for it knew that it was far too late to become a captor. 

Reviews

[John Holmes]

Okay so I have a fair bit to say on this piece. I hope it is of use.

Firstly at first i wondered where this peace was going (I actually almost stopped reading it) but I continue don and found myself intrigued. The slow build up works incredibly. instead of having my blood pumping with excitement and anticipation at the thought of death and murder. My response was "What the f**k?" something i suspect MR. Fickle would have expressed had he not had his throat slit. In this regard the story is perfect, I relate to the event perfectly and i am pulled into this world of mystery and subtle anticipation. This works to your advantage and i suspect will be a recurring theme if the story continues.

Okay Critiques, I assure you they are all structural. As i said previously, i almost gave up reading this and i suspect it is because of how the final section is laid out, the lines blur together and it discourages a reader, change this and i suspect you will get more reviews.

I was also tempted to say the beginning was too long, but i suspect this is unfair, it is most likely what i stated previously, so maybe edit that and if the reviews continue with this critique perhaps re examine some of the earlier scenes?

Furthermore I do not quite understand the point of the bird reference/section? i could simple be being dumb but i thought i would mention it (if this is a part of a larger book is it a recurring theme etc?

Finally their are a few spelling/grammar mistakes, existed instead of exited, things like that. tbh just give it another read over and you will spot all of them. maybe have someone read it out? But again, we all do this so that isn't so much a critique as a friendly reminder.

All in all a beautiful piece of work! keep it up.