Anomaly City Chapter Two

In the whimsical circus world of Anomaly City performers are everything, and it is Seventeen-year-old Aretta Donatello's last year to make the prestigious level of Elite or stop performing forever.

 

STAGE 

No one knows where the audience comes from, and no one has ever asked. All we know is that on work days " usually Saturday or Sunday they come. We stand behind curtains with anxiety in our stomachs and anticipation in our hearts. Take deep breaths and then… we simply perform. I guess I never really thought about it but it is performing-what we do. To us it’s our life, our heritage, our hobbies and our joy. To them, the audience and all their mysteriousness, it’s breathtaking.  

I watch the audience from behind the black curtains. I want to get a feel of their mood before I am up. Their cheer is constant and their vocals high. Everything sounds good. I wring my gloved fingers as I watch. My heart throbs and my knees quiver with the urge of action. I can see a slither of light from the curtains as the hula-hoop dancers trounce across the stage in their leotards.   

If you are not perfect the end product of the performance does not matter. You wear that mistake the entire afternoon, repeating it over in your mind. How I could have made it better, what I should have done.    

 “Trying to catch some Amps?” someone asks from behind and I turn to see the Coordinator standing behind me, his smile bright and perfectly white. He holds a clipboard in one as he holds out his arms for an embrace. He’s a bland, lean guy with his black hair slicked back. He’s also got a bit of a temper and a booming voice to match, which is good because he can easily capture the attention of any Anomalite nearby.  

“Hey!” I say leaving the curtains. 

“There’s my girl,” he says with wide arms. I smile as he embraces me in a quick hug then stands back to look me over. “Okay, so you got your hair done and your make up,” he says as if he’s going through a mental checklist. One of the Helpers did my makeup. She darkened the areas above and around my eyes and put mascara and white powder for the foundation to make my face paler. My character tonight is deafly ill and this will be her final appearance before she dies. The Stylist Helper also pulled my hair into a high ponytail that whips all the way down to my shoulder blades. My leotard is just as extravagant. It’s form fitting, black with ruffles from shoulder to shoulder that morph up into a turtle neck. Black, laced gloves cover my hands and dark stockings cover my legs.  

There is pride in the Coordinator’s eyes. “Knock ‘em dead, kiddo,” he taps my chin with his fists in a pretend punch. A sudden buzz makes him jump and he presses his hand to the headset in his ear and says, “Yes.” Glancing down at me he says, “Yes, she’s here.” He motions for me to stand by the curtains again where three of my partners gather and wait for our cue.  

I stand behind them and concentrate on my shoes. Clenching and unclenching my fingers, I close my eyes and breathe, nice and slow like I’ve rehearsed. Just concentrate. I’ve been doing this for years, I tell myself. This is my passion. It’s who I am. The applause dies down and I am left with nothing to distract me but the sound of my own heartbeat.  

"The amazing…" the announcer’s voice rumbles through the microphone. "The Crooooww Callerrrrs!" That’s us. 

The Coordinator holds back the curtains and ushers us out. Violet fabric streams from the ceiling to the ground and I drift onto the stage with the other aerialists in long, exaggerated strides. My heart races and a draft chills the moister on my palms. We stand in the center of the stage floor, where the spotlights shines the brightest, nervous and ready. The applause thins out, shifting into an uneasy silence as I stand in position behind my fabric. The light is so bright everything else takes on a shadowed tint. I stand erect and confident, with the neck of a swan. The music starts and the violins begin; sad and slow. Showtime.  

The light dulls as I drop my head with a dramatic bong of a drum, adding in a little bounce for that hanging effect. The music sinks low and then starts up again, a dramatic symphony from the heavens, constantly arising. A majestic voice rises and falls with the music, harmoniously. The light flashes brighter, but this time over the entire stage and a white fog trickles from backstage and covers my feet. I have to ignore it.  

All at once another bong echoes throughout the stage signaling the birds from either side of me, the latches of hidden crates fly open releasing a whirlwind of black feathers throwing themselves against the air the crows break from their wooden cages, staged at my sides. Their wings flutter as they fly overhead. We look up as one. I want to gape up at them, stare at their beauty but I’m supposed to look straight ahead. Ignore them, ignore them…  

I extend my arm far to the left and lean that way, elegantly moving my gloved fingers out to some distant land just beyond my reach. I twist my wrist around the fabric and drop, allowing the tissue to spin me.The birds follow my arm, the violins play faster and the drums thump to my heartbeat. Extend to the right, the birds swerve and circle us.  

Together we climb as one. We dance in the air, entangling ourselves in the tissue and escaping again. It is all very technical, every movement precise, but it is also very much a dance. Out of the corner of my eye I can see we are all in sync. I raise both arms up and drop my head back to strikingly loud violin chant, which tells the birds to circle us. They surround us in a flurry constructing a tornado of black feathers. It is both suffocating and invigorating. They break the light around me into flashes of the stage, flashes of their feathers as they fly, enclosing me in a cocoon of night and day. My hair catches their wind and lash at my cheeks and my neck.  

I twirl, my movements slow because I’m dying. The tornado breaks and the birds make a ring above my head like the dark ominous clouds that emerge before a storm. I’m dying and every muscle in my face shows it; the worry, the agony, the regret. The music becomes both lamenting and exhilarating. It sounds like a weeping widow as I sink back to the ground. The birds perform well, cooperating with me. They dance with me, all around me. And then, I stop, stomping at the ground with my foot. Fog rises. I feel my lungs with air and grip my rubs as though something has suddenly taken over me. And it is agonizingly painful.  

The music ends. I grip my heart and wince in pain and allow my body to crumble, as I collapse into the fog. Sliding away on the glossy stage floor I clover my eyes and fall still. I hold this position even though I want to peak at the audience’s reaction. The crows return to their crates. Lights go black and I scurry off the stage and behind the curtains. I hear the audience cheer and clap and it makes me feel good, like I’ve made their stay entirely worth it.  

At the end of it all we assemble before our spectators once more. Hands gathered we take our final bow on stage all at once. The cheer is exhilarating, every clap, every whistle is pure vindication and like a sponge I soak up every morsel. Their applause courses through me with electric excitement. The feeling of utter is overwhelming, and yet coupled with a pangs of sadness because our performance has come to a close. We have worked so hard to arrive at this point, and to know they enjoyed it so is worth crying for. I breathe in and their energy is like a breath of cool mint, chillingly refreshing. An abundance of emotions whirl around inside me. My cheeks hurt from smiling and my breaths are deep and short. We’ve trained so hard for this moment, so thoroughly and now it is over. And it all worth it in the end. It is both amazing and horrible at once. 

The curtains are slow in shielding us from our viewers, and even as they create a wall in front of us, their cheer can still be heard. I release the hands of the dancers standing between me and our group scatters backstage. There are hugs and clapping of our own once it is all over.  

A Helper wraps a towel around my shoulders and I thank her for it. My leotard sticks to my arms with sweat and my loose bun has come undone allowing strands of hair flow to as they please.  

Backstage, Carousel and Parsifal are the first to greet me. My heart still races and my hands are still so excited they tremble. Carousel’s still in her tutu and tights because that’s what she always wears. She let her wavy hair down, though, and removed only the sparkles in her purple eye shadow. “Yeah, Arty, you killed it! Your voice was amazing!” I soak up the complement like a sponge.  

I don’t like when people call me Arty, but I let her. She hugs me tight too and I tell her that her acrobatics were stellar-even though I was scared she might fall. I’m always scared she might fall. But Carousel’s like a cat, always landing on her toes.  

Parsifal says I look scary in all black, and that my eyes look like one of Mother’s felines, so when the makeup comes off I’m more than happy to look like myself-and to have color in my face again.  

After the congratulations, hugs and complements the others have gone home, so I should too. I grab my bike, gripping the rusted handles hard, and pedal through the crowded dirt road. The city’s full of beautiful colors and playful tunes and every home is a slim townhome outside of Anomaly Town Square, but it’s so crowded. It’s always crowded after a show like tonight. I’m careful not to hurt anyone and they’re careful to move out of my way as I pass. 

Townhomes stacked close together with just enough room for the four to a home rule. I stop peddling when I reach my house; the crème house with the black shutters, I let the bike rest against the wall and kick up the stop.  

When I arrive home Mother is trying diligently to tame her newest project in the living room. The tiny tiger sits perched up on a foot stool as she tries to keep his head lifted erect, coaching him with raw meat. My younger siblings, Casity and Bodie are here as well. Casity sits on her legs as she strokes the fur on the tiger’s back, humming to it softly. She glances up at me and examines my costume, looking longingly at it. I wonder if she envies me for the show I just had, but deep down I know she can only be proud.  

Even though I love her like a sister, sometimes I forget Casity was transferred here from the other side of town after she was discovered. She now qualifies to be a performer in training instead of a Helper. She was assigned a home, our home, three years ago, when she was nine and she is an incredible fit.      

This is why she resembles neither Mother nor I. She tucks a lock of her short honey colored hair behind her ear and resumes her petting.  

Bodie sleeps on the couch, his faint snores filling the room, and a shrunken blue lollypop clenched in his small fist. He’s a Tot, which means he performs at a level for children age’s five to seven. Unfortunately he did not graduate last year and is eight now. No one has taken him out of his overalls and the red circles painted on his face have not been washed off yet. I love Mother to death, but I fear Bodie would be allowed to run wild if I weren’t here.  

“Where’s his cape?” I ask my Mother, kicking off my sneakers and sliding them on the floor out of Murry’s grasp. No matter how many times I’ve asked Mother not to, she insists on keeping that dreadful spider monkey in the house. All eyes and fur, he loves to chew on my things and I can’t tell you how much that irks me. Mom turns, her ginger dreadlocks swiping at her back. She smiles when she sees it’s me and lets the tiger cub have the meat.  

“I decided it didn’t fit.” She says and she bends down to scratch the cub’s cheek and neck. “How was the show?” she asks.  

I tell her it went well and that I don’t think her little protégé is going to be ready by her next performance but she tells me three days is plenty of time and to never doubt the intelligence or her cubs. I laugh. She’s right.  

 “He fell asleep before I got here,” Mother says when she notices me eyeing Bodie. I part his deep black hair from his pale face, made all the more colorless by the white foundation applied to his skin. I know Mother feels bad for not having this taken care of by the time I arrived but it’s no hassle to me. I take him into my arms and he’s heavier than I expect. I carry him upstairs and, after Bodie is tucked into bed, his face cleaned and his lollypop properly disposed of, I make sure his stories are read to him and he’s fast asleep before I leave his room. Back when Dad was here, he was always the storyteller. And now that Mother is swamped with student work to look over, she sometimes forgets to tuck Bodie in at night and brush his hair, make sure he’s clean and he’s had his lunch. Those things were handed down to me a long time ago. Not that I mind.    

I begin to shut the curtains that drape over Bodie’s door and drift down the hall to my own room when I stop for one last look at him. He’s tucked in tight, his head slumped peacefully on his pillow and his eyes closed with all the serenity in the world as though he’s already asleep. Silently, I tiptoe to his dresser, ready to blow out the candle of his lantern when I hear his soft voice.  

“Aretta,” he says.  

He’s caught me right in the middle of leaving so I stop at his doorway curtains and turn around. “Yes?” He hesitates to respond, as if I may mock him in some way. But he knows I’ll do no such thing and continues.  

“What was dad like?” he asks, his eyes full of a childish innocence.  

Bodie might be just young enough to have forgotten our Father. But me, I was older when he passed; his memory is still fresh in my mind. Father would’ve been so proud of the person Bodie is becoming. I leave the certain of his doorway and kneel beside his hammock. “He was wonderful,” I say, “A great story teller, a great game player. He was always laughing, always trying to get people to smile…” These are the things I will remember of him always. Bodie’s eyes light up as though he is imagining these things. In a way it is good that he does not remember, he holds less sorrow that way.   

“Do you think I’ll make it to Hub this year?”  

Bodie is an acrobat, a floor tumbler and a silent comedian. Or at least, when he performs on the stage with his class (as Tots rarely have solo acts) there is always a lot of laughter. If I am being truly honest, Bodie is not a star performer, not yet anyway. He often forgets his routines and I constantly have to coach him from the audience what part he has next. But with practice I believe he will grow out of that. Perhaps he does not believe he can be an Elitist but I know he could be someday. Hopefully. I suppress a smile, trying not to let the doubt show on my face. Bodie works harder than any Tot I’ve ever seen. I just don’t know if that is enough.  

I part a strand of hair from his cheek so I can see those big blue eyes. “You’ll be the youngest Elitist in all of Anomaly,” I say softly, “Father would be so proud.” Bodie swallows hard as he stares at me, his eyes grow glass and his lip quivers. He slams into me with a tight hug and buried his head into my shoulder. For the world he tries to be tough, but for me he’s just my little brother.         

Author's Note

Please tell me what you think of the characters, the set up of the world an plot, thank you.

Reviews

[Flarare Weet]

I was fairly gripped during the performance. The vivid description made me feel the moment, as if I were there myself. The atmosphere created was intense.
The family characters appear real enough, where the mother has other priorities, leaving her oldest offspring to take care of the others - especially when you involve an orphan character. As long as you comprehend what you're writing, then I can say that the world you've created is convincing so far. In other words, I haven't read any logical flaws, or rather I don't understand what kind of world it is yet. I must say that I don't understand the plot, but it seems like your just going through the life of an entertainer.