Smoke and Sawdust

Dystopian society characterised by strict political regime, police enforcement, famine, and bright circuses, cities, and restaurants.

The circus was something unimaginable. It bloomed like a rose in a single second, with the brightness of dynamite exploding inside a black starless sky. It was a chemical reaction, that started in your chest, and ran through your veins, and excited your senses. It was dangerous and different and awe inspiring.

I remember everything about it. The horns that blared, and struck the air. Fiddles crying and whining, and the crashing of gold metal against each other. The cloudy scent of sawdust littering the floor was addictive. And the lights, the lights burst the stage into flames of glory. Stripes, and spots. Glitter and fur. greasy black mustaches and curls of platinum blonde. It was overwhelming, and exhilarating. And i was just a little girl. Only a child among the crowd of faces, these voices polluting the air like sweet, baffling gases. I absorbed the culture, my hands were ingrained with the callouses of rope burns and sweat. Peppermint swirls of red and white tattooed each tent, like a stamp on a card. And my heart felt heavy and light at the same time, as if a flower had mingled with a fist.

Dirt and grass drank the rain like wine. I worried the world was flooding that day, the clouds seemed too heavy to breath under. Hair stuck against blistering cheeks like claws, and a ripped shirt hung on bony shoulders as it would a metal hanger. My skin glowed like snow, whips of cold bit like belts. That summer had been wetter than any before it, and the buildings seemed to soak up the water and grow stiff and black, just like the strands of my dirty blond hair. I was one of the trash cans in the alley, plain and gray, and unnoticeable. Mother was too. Piercing white eyes stood hapless in her eyes, she didn’t turn her head to watch the soldiers march, she didn’t seem worried by the growling of hungry dogs. Her hands laid at her side, uncovered. Mine were stuffed under my arms in a fit of cold, she hadn’t brushed the freckles of snow from her cheeks.

I remembered when i thought Mother was immortal. She seemed indestructible. Always fighting for us, she could always scrape together something to fill our mouths. Even if she had nothing. The hounds tore at her, twitching maws and matted fur. They pulled her over, and she fell, into the mud motionlessly. I writhed where i sat, screaming. I had grown too weak to stand, and now my lips broke and bled from my distress. Vicious teeth bit into me too, i was indistinguishable from a corpse, except for the inhuman sounds escaping my throat. Bloody bones were erected bare by the time they were finished.

We sat on the wooden floor of the trains, the rustling of cans and squeaking of motion had become a comforting theme music to me. Feathery boas and striped suits hung limp on racks, scrapey chests and heavy boxes were our couches, while new and old posters decorated our walls. The hollow sound of a bottle clanged as it spun. She was beautiful, blonde hair curled like old paper over her forehead, and porcelain pale skin that ignited under the lights. Pink lips stretched into an amused smile, she wore a white leotard with big brass buttons under an ebony shawl.

      The bottle mouth gaped at my bare dirty feet, when it came to a stop. Her blue eyes twinkled. Grabbing my chin in her smooth fingers, she pressed her painted lips against my cracked purple ones. I didn't move, I let her kiss me, but my mind was wrought with confusion.

Author's Note

No real direction with this one, just something I wrote out of inspiration.