Utopian Circus

UTOPIAN CIRCUS

  City: A literary Concerto

  B00k:011

  Written by:

  C. Sean McGee

  UTOP1AN C1RCUS

  “love will only make us worse”

  Second Edition

  City: A Literary Concerto Book 2

  Santo André, São Paulo, Brasil

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 Cian Sean McGee

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, scanning or digital information storage and retrieval without permission from the author.

  Cover Design: C. Sean McGee

  eBook layout: C. Sean McGee

  Author Photo: Carla Raiter

  This Book was written under the influence of:

  Utopian Circus by Adam J. Keane

  and

  Aeon by Dead Can Dance

  For Keli, Nenagh & Tomás

  Chapter 0

  “I told you to hold his arms. This is so typical. I’m not angry, I really just wish you would listen to me you know” said The Fat Old Lady.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right, I know, I know” replied The Pudgy Old Lady.

  “Which way do you think he went?” said The Fat Old Lady.

  “I really don’t know. Well, he couldn’t get too far now could he? He has no clothes on. There’ll be things catching on his bits and well, you know…” said the Pudgy Old Lady.

  “We have to find him before the others do,” said The Fat Old Lady.

  The two old ladies helped each other off the sinking mud pile where they had found themselves entrenched when the spirit of a man threw them waveringly over themselves and cast their faces into the dirt.

  The man was theirs.

  And rightfully at that.

  They had followed his body upstream for half a day, trudging through thick bush and scraping their varicose veins on vines, twigs and jagged rocks as they steadied their way up this and through that. Their eyes had been tuned over the thick shrubbery to the black river where; under a faint shimmer of light, a long black bag had been floating unavailing on the water’s top, catching every now and then on the water’s residence but being swept along mightily by the river’s much pressed sense of ado.

  The Pudgy Old Lady was more limber than her older and more, top heavy, comrade. It was easier for her to contort her body to weave around and through the bush land and over the rocks to keep a steady eye on the floating thing as it made its way downstream.

  When they finally edged close to the shoreline, the black bag had been pushed up onto the muddy banks by the currents and was dragging slowly through the dead lift in the water; carrying forward solely on its own momentum.

  The two old ladies had fumbled excitedly for a scalpel to cut through the black plastic to see exactly what had washed up for them. They had known it was a body of some sort, but they expected something ravaged by era; like everything that was, stripped to the core and then discarded.

  When; after some discoursing and fumbling about, The Pudgy Old Lady had found the scalpel, she passed it to her friend with the currents of exhilaration swimming through her old blue veins.

  The old ladies giggled to each other as the more senior, The Fat Old Lady, had taken the weight of her desire and pressed upon the tip of the blade, piercing light onto the body that lay underneath the black plastic sheet.

  The two old ladies were in complete shock as they saw a young naked muscular man; to them in the contrast of their years; just a boy, lying unconscious; still breathing and his skin, so pink and alive.

  They could hardly contain themselves.

  The definition on his face was amazing. His skin pulled so firmly against his strong jaw line and there were no markings under or about his eyes. It was like his body had denied the rigors of Famine and was somehow kept in a state of absolute abeyance.

  “Maybe it was the black sheet” The Pudgy Old Lady had said.

  “The gods have given him to us. This isn’t plastic. It is the amniotic sack of the heavens. The gods have spoken to us” she continued as they stood over the man’s warm body admiring his physique; pulling the sheet back over the length of his body, exposing the contours to the light.

  The Fat Old Lady paid no conscious residue to the dotty words of her arguably daft comrade. Instead, she ran her bulbous index finger along the lines of the young man’s face, starting above his forehead at the touch of his hairline then down past the join of his ear and following the line of his strong jaw, her fingers running through the coarse hairs that pointed out from the beard on his chin.

  She imagined herself peeling off his face like a sticker; slow and gentle so as not to tear any skin, feeling every bump and tug as the muscles and nerves popped out from underneath.

  Her blood warmed her body and her toes tingled as this sensation cast its way through every fiber of her being making her feel young, vibrant and desirable.

  Her mouth salivated when she thought about the moment of removing one skin for another; undoing the clips behind her ears, under her chin, at the corners of her mouth, under her eyes and at the crest of her forehead; releasing the tight pull of the young girl’s face that stretched over her own, putting one hand to the centre and feeling the light breeze on exposed nerves as the borrowed skin folded away from the curves of her skeletal frame and folded onto the palm of her hand. Then, taking the face of the young man gently in the palm of her hand, she would lift it slowly to her own and press the warm skin against her face, no doubt fitting perfectly.

  As she thought about this - wearing the man’s face as her own with her pudgy comrade pulling tight on the skin dress and clipping it to the contours of her face - she slipped and her hand fell forward. The tip of the blade slid into the back of the man’s leg, cutting through the flesh and muscle and then waking him.

  The man’s leg kicked wildly, his knee striking The Fat Old Lady’s fist, sending her arm back towards her body; coursing the fine blade against the edges of her cheek.

  Shocked and dismayed, only by the cutting of her tapestry, The Fat Old Lady shrieked while the man opened his eyes wide and burst forwards, knocking the two old ladies over and before they could comprehend what had happened, he was off running through the thick bush land. The Pudgy Old Lady was quick, though, to get a lasting glance of a bright light shining upon his bare bum before it vanished into the lush green surroundings.

  “Now, when I said, hold his arms, what exactly did you understand? I’m not angry, well I am angry, I just want to know what you understood by, hold his arms. You see, if in your head, hold his arms translates to, stare idly at the man’s willy then the next time I need you to stare wide eyed at a man’s willy I’ll ask you to hold his arms. But what I need to know is, what do I need to ask you to hold his bloody arms down?” lectured The Fat Old Lady disappointingly.

  “I said I’m sorry. It was so dingily and dangly and, well, so there. I haven’t seen one in so long. They’re scary looking things they are. Would you really want to put that thing inside you?” The Pudgy Old Lady said with a shrill of concern in her rising tone.

  “I sometimes wonder why I ended up with you. Do you even comprehend what’s happening at the moment?” asked The Fat Old Lady.

  “This is a trick question?” said The Pudgy Old Lady.

  “No, it’s not a trick question. I literally want to know if you are lucid to what the jeepers is going on” said The Fat Old Lady.

  “I’m sorry dear. I’m with you. I’m not all bananas and nuts up here you know. We’ll find him before the others do; for his sake, and for our own” she said woefully.

  “Help me look for the scalpel. If I lose that we are in a world of trouble” said The Fat Old Lady.

  The two o
ld ladies bent their knees and arched their worn aged backs and pitched their sight to the mud below their feet, looking for a small silver blade that would easily catch the morning sun pit against the dark backdrop of the slippery, sludgy and saturated earth.

  As their feet sank into the ground, they both perched their hands on their hips and their backs, halting the inevitable creaking and croaking as their weary bones dared to slip out of place with every footing.

  Then The Pudgy Old Lady caught wind of a memory.

  “His arse,” she said, lifting an index finger into the air triumphantly.

  “What? Can you for a second stop thinking about sex. You’re a seven million year old woman, you shouldn’t even remember what sex is” said The Fat Old Lady.

  “No, not that. I mean, his arse, I saw his arse go into the woods” she said.

  “That’s great. While we are being picked apart by Mother and the other Elemental Ladies and living the rest of our time bare faced, you can think about the bum that got away” said The Fat Old Lady sternly.

  “No, listen,” she said urgently; “I saw something on his arse as he entered the scrub; a light; a reflection. Only one thing could do that. Do you think…” said The Pudgy Old Lady trailing to indecisive silence.

  “If he has the scalpel...” The Fat Old Lady said unable to finish her words. “Let’s just find him shall we? He can’t be too far” she said continuing.

  “If Mother finds him and she sees your scalpel; you, no we, we’ll lose our faces. And you know what that means?” she said frightened.

  “I know exactly what that means. You don’t live as long as I have and all of a sudden start warming your ass with naïve knickers. We have to find that scalpel and that face. That man dress is mine” said The Fat Old Lady.

  The two old ladies took each other by the arm and walked into the thick scrub pushing the branches back away from their bodies and digging their heels into the soil, taking one slow pained step after the other; their brittle bones continuing to hold up their massive upper bodies and shuffle them through the forest; the sound of ruffling trailing behind as the pudgy one dragged behind her the length of black plastic from where the man had escaped.

  “What do you want with that?” asked The Fat Old Lady.

  “If this is of the gods, if they’ve spoken directly to us. Maybe we don’t need to change faces anymore. Maybe the gods have changed the law” said The Pudgy Old Lady like an inquisitive child.

  “You’re crazy. Do you know how crazy that sounds?” The Fat Old Lady responded condescendingly.

  “It’s perfectly plausible. I mean, who would have thought that a man in perfect specimen would just, wash up; birthed by the sea; and so young, so incredibly young. How old do you think he is?” she asked excitedly.

  “I don’t know” replied The Fat Old Lady.

  “Less than a hundred?” asked The Pudgy Old Lady.

  “Maybe. Seems unlikely, but maybe” replied The Fat Old Lady.

  “Oh, this is so exciting. His hands were so strong, the underneath leathered, but they were so firm. They would be wonderful gloves. They really will look wonderful on you. You are going to look so pretty. I can just see now. Can I keep his dangily bits?” she asked.

  “What? Why would you want them?” asked The Fat Old Lady.

  “To frighten the other ladies, it’ll be fun” she replied.

  “You are a strange one. Sure, you can keep his bits” she said.

  “Dear, are you cut?” asked The Pudgy Old Lady concerned.

  The Fat Old Lady had forgotten or maybe she hadn’t noticed initially, but now it had come back to her. When the man had jumped into his body and out of the bag, the scalpel had pierced through her skin dress. She didn’t know the extent of the tear, but she thought it was probably by the chin. Her stomach felt heated and heavy. She felt stupid.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid,” she said slapping with her little purse at the back of her comrade.

  “What did I do?” yelled The Pudgy Old Lady.

  “Nothing; it was me. I tore the dress. Oh, I’m so stupid, stupid, stupid. Everyone’s going to notice. It’s going to look silly now. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid” she said, hitting the old lady repeatedly with her purse.

  “We can fix it. It will still look pretty. And it will work. You’ll be young forever” The Pudgy Old Lady said with admiration for her comrade.

  “This dress is the one, this man. They won’t reject me anymore.”

  “They’ll sing for you.”

  “They’ll dance for me.”

  “They’ll pray to you.”

  “They’ll fear me.”

  “You think? You really think they’ll make you an Elder? My comrade will be an Elder? This is so exciting” said The Pudgy Old Lady.

  The Fat Old Lady looked down at her feet as she pressed over the crooked rocks and past the stinging barbs of the leaves. But in her mind, the curtains opened to the theatre of her better self.

  Her eyes were to the ground, but her feet were no longer wrinkled and the flesh on her toes, no longer blotched and hanging loose like the skin on a small puppy.

  As the crown was placed on her head, she lifted her sight to see a thousand admiring eyes all falling upon her beautiful youthful self.

  Everyone started to clap, cheer and shed a tear, wishing they could be just like her and love her so much as their revered Elder, as their Mother.

  As she lifted her hands into the air, her tribe fell to its knees and bowed their aching backs forwards, stretched their hands out in front and prayed to their leader. The crowd cheered as the new Mother stood on her throne and held her arms high in the air.

  “Ouch. Careful!!” she screamed.

  “Watch your head” warned The Pudgy Old Lady too late as a branch swung back and hit The Fat Old Lady, catching on one of the clips that held the dress she wore on her face.

  “Sorry, sorry. Here, let me” she said, trying to pull and tug on pins.

  “Just leave it,” said The Fat Old Lady angrily.

  The two old ladies continued slowly through the scrub; the pudgy one keeping a steady arm under the fat one’s swaying upper body, holding her weight off of her buckling left knee.

  Their eyes scanned left and right as their feet sank in and pulled out of the mud with their toes; like antennas, curling around roots and vines, feeling the earth beneath to lift them up and forwards and to help map out their terrain which at sight was just endless canopy, leaves, brush and stabbing, stinging needles, but at their feet, changed from the soaking wet banks to a thick, slow moving muddy swamp, to moist, soft rolling soil that was littered with green leaves that were scattered about by the afternoon breeze and then to mushrooms, sprouting up from the first seasonal rains, squishing under their toes and taking them to the dry coarse sand under the thickest canopy where light failed to make its pertinence.

  Their toes worked as their eyes, guiding them through the forest, feeling their way over this and that with the complete consciousness of their selves, extended directly to the tips of their feet.

  “Stop here; stop here I said,” The Pudgy Old Lady repeated frustratingly.

  The two old ladies rested on the root of a giant tree that flowered somewhere in the height of the gods; serving as a table or maybe mere scrub to tickle at their feet.

  “Sorry, I think my dress is covering my ears. Could you have a look?” asked The Pudgy Old Lady politely.

  “I don’t even know how you managed to get this thing on,” said The Fat Old Lady.

  The Pudgy Old Lady sat with her belly facing low to the ground; her back flat like a table while her fat comrade pressed her knee flat against her. Her hands gripped the side of the dress she wore on her face and pulled tight; stretching the young girl’s skin to its limits, pulling the dress prim against The Pudgy Old Lady’s face and crossing over the ends in her hands, pulling them down to the length of her back and then tying them off against a small hook that protruded from her skin.

&
nbsp; “Now the clips. Don’t be afraid to stretch out the ears” said The Pudgy Old Lady.

  There were twelve clips around the line of her face; small metal studs driven into the bones in her face where the skin dress would tie. The Fat Old Lady pulled tight on the dress and clipped it firmly in place.

  The skin was too small for The Pudgy Old Lady and it stretched oddly across her face. She had had to cut larger slits around the mouth and eyes so that she could see and speak properly.

  It really wasn’t a good fit, but she had to make do with what she had. When she was finished, The Fat Old Lady sat down beside her on the tree’s root that sat like a bench above the cool loose soil. The two old ladies breathed heavily as the stresses of the morning caught up on them.

  “That really is an ugly dress you’re wearing,” said The Fat Old Lady.

  “I know. Yours suits you so much. The lady makes the dress you know; but you are so much more ladylike than the others more couture. I really wish I was like you” said The Pudgy Old Lady in need of approval.

  “You have to pay more attention. If your dress falls, you know what happens” lectured The Fat Old Lady.

  “I know, I know. I get a little careless sometimes. It’s just I know it’s not a good one, but I’m gonna get a good one and I’ll look after it so well and I’ll live as long as you, but you’ll live longer cause you’re beautiful and you’re so witty and if I could live as long as you’ve lived or maybe even half then…” said The Pudgy Old Lady trailing off into indecisiveness.

  “Focus dear. We need to find that man” said The Fat Old Lady pulling hard on a flap of skin below her chin; pulling it tightly down the length of her neck and to the left to stretch a small hole in the flesh fabric around a clip sticking out from her neck.

  When she did, the dress held firm against the nerves on her face. She could feel tingling through the length of her body.

  The dress she wore was delicate and the skin was soft and bouncy. She had been wearing this dress for a time in scores of centuries that to her felt only like days or weeks. It never tore or at least it hadn’t started to tear until now.

  When it held fast to her face, her body felt young and vital once more. Her varicose veins receded back under the blotchy white skin, pumping blood decrepitly through her ancient body and keeping her perpetually alive but unfortunately, doing nothing to avail the continued dissipation of her skeleton.

  “Shall we? Give me a hand” said The Fat Old Lady as her comrade lifted and extended her lumpish arm as a lever.

  The Fat Old Lady heaved and groaned as she extended her consciousness to her dated joints and swung her hips to pull herself to her feet. Her left knee slipped somewhat under the shifting weight and made a horrible cracking sound as it crunched out and then back in place.

  The two old ladies continued looking through their toes, feeling for shifts in the dirt and familiarity. There was very little choice for the man that had escaped them for the ground under their feet was all that the forest gave; a vein for the life to pass through its body.

  There was little direction outside of the thin line carved out by centuries of drudging feet stepping one after the other from the river through to the heart of the forest where the Elemental Ladies; or The Facers as their victims branded them, made their home.

  “A print. There’s more over here. It’s him. Come on” said The Fat Old Lady.

  The two old ladies pushed through the branches, sliding in and out of the young man’s footprints; their eyes dislocating obstacles at the stretch of their free hands and their wrinkled toes, defining their direction.

  “Oh dear,” said The Pudgy Old Lady, “this can’t be good.”