Nika Harper's Blog, page 19

Evernight - Wordplay #6

The sky was dark over the crowd
Like clouds that gathered made of smoke
The cheers and jeers did echo loud
Across the alley, homes awoke

They held their written banners proud
These fed-up, restless common folk
Though nobody truly knew how-
This ever-night must soon be broke

A laughing moon without a sound
Drew pallid glares filled with reproach
Its mocking face would not be cowed
By weapons made of tin and oak

Through the town as light allowed
Not far from torches bright as yolk
The witch’s residence was found
As somebody yelled “Get the rope!”

Lantern oil dripping brown
Those weathered walls given a soak
Smoke and fire all about
Yet from inside, nary a croak

The curse was finally unwound
A thought that at last they could cope
The village would see daylight now
At least, this was their desp’rate hope.

An iambic poem written on the topics “Aching Body Parts" “Revolt" and “Shooting Daggers At the Moon" for the creative writing vlog, Wordplay #6.

Sharing Home - Wordplay #5

Most stories like this happen at night. Or it’s dark or they’re drunk, or there’s always some kind of reason. I think it’s stranger when it’s broad daylight. It’s safer there, you’re not expecting it, there’s so little to be afraid of except wasp nests and muggings.

Not all ghosts know they’re going to be ghosts. They just do what they had to do at the time.

I shouldn’t be scared. By all accounts, I don’t think we’re that different, or maybe that’s why it’s so frightening. I’ve always been the type to notice things when others didn’t, which is why I looked close enough to see the writing on the back of the closet door. Who would think to look there?

Who else would think to hide in the closet?

It’s my closet. It has my things inside. Sometimes it has me. I’ve been in this house for two years and I like it, everything feels like mine now and I’d be reluctant to tell anyone else or they might want to leave. I’m just happy to be in one spot. The house isn’t that old or spooky. Nobody else has bad dreams. Everything should just be okay, if I can just talk it out.

“Rupert Loves Homeschool.”
I didn’t understand it but it made me feel bad. Sick, a bit. Someone had left a sort of note where nobody would see it, or maybe just for themselves. I didn’t like bearing the burden of knowledge, especially since the house was new and I get scared of new places. Maybe that was Rupert’s problem too. I tried piecing it over in my head, again and again.
I went into the closet a lot, so I wanted to make peace with the memories hidden there.
His parents wanted him to go to school and he didn’t want to?
His brothers were cruel and he hid away from them?
Maybe Rupert was the name of an affectionate house pet. Possibilities rained but eventually the phrase became part of my secret scenery and I only mused in passing thoughts. I also did not go to school. My body didn’t quite work right for it, or so I was told when my parents kept wondering why I was sick so often. I did rather like it, being home, if I knew where home was. I wasn’t comfortable sharing a closet with someone who didn’t like it as I did.

Rupert was okay, out there in the world somewhere. He had grown into a life lacking angst, where no impulsive childhood graffiti would be remembered. I saw him in my mind. He didn’t know his short words would carry such weight in the future. No kid can see that far.

I was wrong though. I realized it when I heard a crash. It was midday and I was upset, this wasn’t terribly rare and I’d long learned how to handle myself when the world felt big and I felt small. I’d make myself small. I’d put myself somewhere to be smaller. The closet was a hidden world I never accommodated for, sitting amongst spent laundry and tucked away objects. If I had made it more homely, it wouldn’t have been somewhere I could disappear. It would be another place I could go. The essence of hiding is to be somewhere you should not. At that moment, I was in the right place, and I heard the crash.

It sounded close. I was startled and unready to face what was outside the closet doors. A bird crashed through the window? A ceiling fixture falling down? As I crept out, everything looked normal, and it was. Not a thing in the room had changed. But it sounded so close… I searched for an hour. Everything was fine.

I was doing schoolwork the next day. I should have been, anyway, but I was reading a book on my bed. I heard a crash at my window. I saw nothing, no change, just sound. I looked out the window, nothing there either. I went into the closet. I felt better then.

The noises happened midday when I’d just about forgotten they existed. It would go days or weeks, but nobody else noticed, and the room remained untouched. I would hear it from the second floor or sometimes if I was far away outside. It was always glass, that tinkling shattering sound, and I couldn’t tell if it sounded the same every time. Of course I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want to move.

I was working the first time. Head down in a book, not looking at the window, not paying attention to anything but my assignment, and I heard it close to me. I never stopped jumping, I still do. Nobody likes to hear glass break. I went through the motions of looking for the source, but this time I saw shattered glass on the floor, glistening beside the window. As I got closer to investigate, it was gone.

The next time was worse.
The glass, yes, but then I dared look out the window. The pavement below looked strange. There was something on it. I couldn’t quite tell, but I was scared of what it might be. I didn’t want it to be that.

It was.
Next, and many times after, there was the crash. It was sudden, it was in the middle of the day, and then I could hear a thud. It was a sick sound. Three stories down may not be too much, but it was enough. I told no one.

Sometimes I sat at the window, waiting. Other, more grim times, I waited outside. He was shorter than me, never looking more than a mere shadow, if shadows were made without darkness. Sometimes he looked like he jumped out the window. Other times it seemed like he was thrown. Rupert must not have liked homeschool.

You think you’d get used to it. I’m not. It’s not everyday, but sometimes it is. It’s not violent… but sometimes it is. I see his face more clearly in my dreams, when I cannot control what my mind ponders. I see it before it is oozing on the sharp pavement under a window. I’ve seen it many times afterward. He’s never given me indication of what or why. There are no mysteries to work out. The mystery is how I can handle being surprised with death so consistently. How can I read a book downstairs and hear that thud, and not react. How can I not see myself out that same window, because I do.

I do not want to escape the house, or the self-schooling. I do not want to go to doctors or therapy, or get wrapped up in Rupert and a life he no longer lives.

But then there’s a crash.
And then there’s a thud.
And I’m quietly crying again.

 

-A ghost story written on the topics of Defenestration and A Name On the Door That Nobody Knows, for the creative writing challenge vlog, Wordplay #5.

Chord Progression - Wordplay #4

"You’re going away again."
He stopped strumming, “Why would you say that?"
"It’s the way you look at me. I’ve seen it."
It was mild outside, they were enjoying the late summer warmth and the sound of cicadas in the trees. It was true, but he didn’t want it to be. “How am I looking at you?"
"Like you won’t recognize me next time," she said, her whole body resting down on her guitar, “and you won’t."
"That’s true. To me you’re still three years old."
"But I’m NOT, and you don’t see that yet!" She was getting upset, her voice reaching the trees at the edge of the yard now.
"Oh come on Jenny, when you think of me you probably think I’m still thirteen, right?"
"That’s stupid. I’m thirteen now."
"And I’m not."
"It isn’t fair," she sniffled into her hand, “you just got back and then you’re gone again. And we can’t talk to you. And you don’t come back for holidays and I don’t like writing letters. You can’t go away again, you just can’t!"
"Who said I was?"
"Your face does. I know you’re lying if you say no."
"Are you sure I wasn’t merely enjoying the moment?"
"Yes," and she sulked. “It’s just like you. Come back and nobody knows and then leave again. Mom and Dad don’t even know. What if they divorce when you’re gone? What if we don’t have a house next time?"
"Then we should make the most of it now."
”EXACTLY! You should stay and teach me to play, and help me with math stuff and threaten boys who won’t kiss me. It SUCKS!”
"It does," he replied, “but I have to do it. My job is special, you know that. It means I work really hard all the time."
"But you leave your family behind. I don’t even have a brother."
"Jenny, of course you do. I haven’t left you behind… not at all."
"Who’s going to teach me guitar? This stupid guitar which I always try to be good at?"
"I know Mom would pay for a teacher if you asked."
"Yeah well I know Mom would like it better if you taught me yourself," then she looked away, “what is so important to you that you leave us alone like this?"
"You’re not alone."
"You’re not here, I’m alone. I forget I have a brother."
"You do not."
"Sometimes I do. People talk about their brothers and sisters and how they all go out together or how annoying they are."
"I’m really annoying."
"No, you’re not even there." That one hurt. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and say what he really felt, but it wouldn’t have worked. Jenny was thirteen at last. They were no longer best friends.
She glared, “I haven’t seen you in years."
"Months."
"Feels like years. Feels like you don’t care either."
"Of course I care."
"Who was my first boyfriend?"
"Who indeed? I’ll kill ‘im."
"Jake. Jake was," and she wasn’t making eye contact anymore, “don’t make jokes about killing people, Mom doesn’t like it."
"Tell Mom I’m sorry."
"Whatever."
"Did you kiss him?"
"Stop, you’ll get me in trouble!"
"I’m gonna write a song about it."
"NOOOO!"
"Jen-ny girl, put her lips on a bloke!"
"Nuh uh, that isn’t what happened—"
"Ja-key boy, put his hands up her shirt!"
"STOP IT I’M GOING TO WRITE ONE ABOUT YOU!"
"They were so young and freeeee—"
"My bro-ther, he sings LIKE ASS!"
"Never expected a babyyyyy—"
"Opens up his mouth and IT’S JUST FARTS!"
"Keep your legs shut next tiiime, Jen-ny girl! Okay done."
"Oh my god you can totally go away now. Don’t ever sing that again!"
He played a quick chord, “Next song is about killing your boyfriends."
"Mom’s gonna hate it."
"Mom isn’t here!" he shifted his leg up to the chair, cradling the guitar again, “just us and our sordid secrets."
"I hate you. I miss you."
"I miss you too, Jenny."
The song never started, but the gentle strumming carried into the night, just louder than the buzz of crickets.

Dialogue written on the subjects of “starlight & an acoustic guitar" and “why you just don’t get it" for the creative writing vlog, Wordplay #4.

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typeface tales: Creature Feature

typeface tales: Creature Feature:

typefacetales:

Oatmeal.
Ketchup. Loads of ketchup. For the blood yanno.
Green paint. 2oz will be enough.
Mom’s coat. She won’t mind…. she won’t notice. She doesn’t even wear that thing.
If only Billy would cooperate.

"Ok now look scared!" but he didn’t, Billy just looks angry at me and demands…

Clean Your Plate - Wordplay #4

"I saw this thing—" he swallowed his pride and his words in one moment, “I thought about what would happen if the world was ending. You know? If I had three days to live, or something."
The stony glare across the table was worse than he expected it would be.
"So I thought, like, would my degree matter? Who cares about whether I was in accounting-"
"If the world ended, you wouldn’t have to explain the decision to your father." 
It was silent between them again, but he launched back in, “I mean, if I had a disease or cancer or something. Would this really be worth it? What would I be doing? And I thought, the first thing I’d do would be to travel and experience things."
"Do you have cancer?"
"No," he sighed, “Dad I don’t, it’s not about cancer—"
"You might want to explain more clearly."
It would have been easier without the weight of the stare on him. His words seemed to fall flat. “Dad, I thought about what I really wanted to do. I really did, and I thought about if I had no life left, would I want to be stuck in school? Would I want to…" the glare had not abated, he pushed on, “would I be happy with the decisions I had made in not seeing the world, past in books in magazines?"
"How much do magazines cost?"
"They’re not a substitute for the real world, though. They’re just documentations of it. I want to go and see it for myself. The world is fleeting!"
"Our mortgage isn’t."
"I just couldn’t bring myself to—"
"How long has it been since you went to class, David?"
"Halfway through the semester."
The sounds of the restaurant were so much louder in the silence of the table.
"Three months."
"Yes."
"Three months that you never told us that you were not attending. Three months that we paid an exorbitant amount of money for you to do nothing at all."
"I did things, Dad, I—"
"You squandered the gift that we gave you. You begged us, and cried at us, and you squandered it."
"It was a hard decision."
"What have you DONE with that time? Did you start a business? Did you discover a passion that makes your current schooling completely obsolete? How were you using your time?"
"I went traveling!"
"To where? With what money? We have been paying for an education you decided you were too good for!"
"Dad I’m sorr-"
His white napkin landed upon the table, disturbing bread crumbs on the appetizer plate. “Do you know the meaning of the word ‘sacrifice’? To sacrifice your livelihood for another, to have to budget your entire life with the hope that this was the right decision? We invested in you, and you were only invested in yourself. We have no chance of getting back that tuition for the months that you have not been using it. You didn’t bother to tell us. I expected more from my son." His wallet came open and his aged hands were shuffling through twenty dollar bills.
"I’m sorry, I thought hard—"
"You deliberated, you squandered, now you are a free spirit and we have an interest rate higher than your age. This is what we’ve given to you. I look forward to seeing what you will someday give back." A few bills hit the table as his father stood up, looming like he always did in David’s memories, “Tonight you pay your half. This is the beginning of when you learn to provide for yourself."
"I had to figure out what I truly want."
"I heard this before, when you asked to go to a college we couldn’t afford, for a career you no longer want. I thought, on your path to accounting, you would understand the concept of investment." He stalked away, among the islands of white tablecloths and fancy jewelry.

The main course was sure to arrive soon, two fancy filets and only one person there to eat them. David stared at the napkin, the bread crumbs, the empty glass across from him. The worn green bills thrown on the table that may as well have been thrown in his face. He was no longer hungry.

A dialogue written on the topics of “Dropping Out of College," “The World is Falling Apart - What Do You Do?" and “The Etiquette of Asking for a Check" for the creative writing vlog, Wordplay #4.

Stories matter.

Stories matter.
From the ones we’re told or overhear, to the ones we experience firsthand, or the tales that explode from our own imagination. There can be millions of them, or just one. And they mean something.

They give us entertainment, or educate us, or give us a new perspective, or inspire us… Most importantly they let us express ourselves, whether we’re the author or the reader.

It can be movies or comics or games or songs or newspapers or history books… the world is built on stories. There’s a story in everything. Why did you buy that car? What does your hairstyle say about you? Have you ever gone camping? Why did you pick your twitter handle?

When did you write your first story?

The great folks at The Office Of Letters And Light, the people behind National Novel Writing Month, are asking just that. They’ve been an incredible inspiration to me, they were the first to prove that writing doesn’t have to be perfect. It has to exist first. Then you can figure out what to do with it.

Amanda Palmer mentioned the theory of a creative blender, where we add parts of our lives or experiences, and we create something. ….I think, sometimes people are too afraid to turn that blender on. Or they’re too nervous to put any ingredients inside. We need to get past that need for perfection, we need to stop comparing our raw selves with a polished product. That comes with time. First drafts, alpha builds, sketches, four track demos, you name it. They have to exist before they can improve them.

I wrote a lot through my life, but I didn’t take it seriously. I wanted to be something new and different and creative every day, and I feel like “author” was only a passing fancy until I was writing in secret notebooks and on role playing forums, or songs with no melody and taking class assignments WAY too far.
The first thing I remember, truly remember writing… was an assignment in third grade, where we picked an emotion and described it in senses.

Of the five line poem, I only remember two lines of it, the first and the last. So I decided to go back and paint between the lines of what I think my then eight year old self would have considered the apex of happiness. The interesting thing is that this wasn’t a personal poem. I had written it objectively, or else the whole thing probably would have been about cats and dinosaurs. So here it is, Happiness… by Little Nika Harper.

Happiness is yellow.
It sounds like joyful laughter.
It smells like sun-warmed flowers.
It tastes like sweet, cold lemonade.
Happiness feels like a butterfly landing on your finger.

I took some liberties in re-writing it, but c’mon, I was eight. I’m shocked I still remember it. I remember that people liked it a lot. I remember being jealous of my friend’s awesome poem which was, suitably, on the topic of jealousy.

All of these things are stories. Interacting with stories creates new stories. We drown in stories, every day… and stories matter.

So I’d take NaNoWriMo’s advice and think about the first thing you wrote. You can talk about it, even rewrite it, and get other people thinking about theirs. If you want to share, you can hashtag #My1stStory or #StoriesMatter, and hopefully you’ll keep challenging yourself to express these things. That’s what my vlog, Wordplay, and National Novel Writing Month are all about. Get creative, get expressive, and Write On.

See this on Nika’s channel here.

typeface tales: Portrait

typeface tales: Portrait:

typefacetales:

He imagined her in pointillism like Seurat.

All dots and little bits of color. The green of her eyes not quite green. The darkness of her hair at battle with the light, such that it made her change entirely. She became different in changing lights, he noticed this, if nobody else did.
…

Story with No Name - Wordplay #3

I see the parts of people that most aren’t able to see: the top. My stature sets me above many, able to see their dandruff bald spots and finger-smudged felt crowns. I’ve been told to downplay it, but now it makes me who I am. Not “ungainly" anymore, but enterprising.

The door read “Kenneth Dodge, Private Investigator." Whoever that is. I kept my coat on for a while. It’s one of Kenneth’s signature looks, so I feel like I lose a part of him if I take it off. I tend to stay a bit overdressed for the office. Trench coats are part of the look, the hat on the desk is another. Mail is racking up, I see. Bills I’ve already paid, summons I’ve long since ignored, occasional meeting requests or threats. When you’re good at what you do, you’re bound to get targeted for it.
They never stand a chance.

I’m the most adept, secretive, successful investigator in the city. Everyone knows my name, but nobody knows my real name. Not unless they were a better investigator than me. So far, nobody has proven so. It isn’t their fault. I’m an investigator. I keep my personal life quiet and riddled with traps. They make the choice to come knockin’.

Speaking of that.

"Mr. Dodge?" said a voice by the door, as they always do, as though I wouldn’t be in there waiting for them when their fears take over.
"Yes?"
A slim figure maneuvered into the room, hidden under a large brimmed hat. It was old. Her dress looked more expensive than it was. Her shoes were worn, and the only good pair she had. She was trying to impress me. She should know better.
"I’m Eileen Beckett," she said, though I didn’t ask. It was probably a lie, so why would I bother? When this did not get a response, she jolted into conversation, “I witnessed a murder last night. I was in my penthouse and I saw Harold Clement die."
This part was true, Harold Clement was dead. The police had been all over the scene and had nothing but air up their sleeves. It was the talk of the town.
"You should tell the police," I said, making my voice sound a bit gravelly.
"It’s more personal than that, Mr. Dodge. I am… Harold’s lover. His mistress. I don’t want to go to the police, they’ll arrest the killer and our relationship will no longer be a secret. You see… the police couldn’t find Harold’s will."
This made me quirk an eyebrow. I shuffled my face back into a gruff shadow, saying nothing, not yet.
"I’m in the will, I know it, but my reputation is at stake. I do not need the money. I need you to find the killer, and destroy the will he stole." Her hands fidgeted with her gloves, the fingertips just a bit too long for her own, “Then, I need you to replace it."

She threw a folder on the desk, it fell with the weight of an elephant in a corner. She eyed me, but I did well to keep my face hidden. Only one of us had a real grip on how to keep mystery here.

My hand hesitated over the folder, “May I look at the contents?"
"I’d rather you didn’t," she said, “It’s mostly legal jargon anyway, with some minor changes to names."
"Is it similar to the actual will?"
"I don’t know." She was telling the truth about that. “I haven’t seen the original. He had spoken to me that I was involved in it, much as I begged him not to be."
"Sounds like grounds for murder."
"Why," Eileen leaned forward sharply, “would a woman kill a man who is giving her money?"
"Maybe she wanted to kill him because she wanted the money from the will."

She snorted, looking petulant. A far cry from her composed demeanor when she walked in, or the one she hoped she had. Eileen wasn’t getting what she wanted.
"This is why I didn’t go to the police. I saw a man in a coat kill Harold last night, and if I spoke up, it would somehow put me under suspicion! We need to exchange the wills, Mr. Dodge. It could ruin me."
"Or make you ruinously wealthy."
"At the price of my reputation? I’d think not."
"You saw the murder."
"With my own two eyes," she said, resting her hands on the corner of my dented desk. She lorded over the room now, fiercely defending her situation. The mark of an insecurity is to bluff it out.
"Tell me about this killer. What did he look like?"
Eileen took a moment to think, “He was of average height and wore a large coat, a bit like yours. There wasn’t much of a struggle. He snuck up on Harold and killed him at his desk. I saw the silhouettes. Then he searched desk drawers and left."
"Where were you when you saw them?"
"I live across the way," and she glared at me as though I had asked too much. Of course she had a lot to hide. She shouldn’t have brought this story to someone like me, someone who knows as much as I do.
"The building across the alley? Which floor?"
"I don’t see why that’s relevant."
"I need to know how much you saw. Were you directly across? Does the late Harold Clement like to keep an eye on his pets, Miss Beckett?"

Her eyes were needles contaminated with loathing, “Yes. Directly across. Will you do the job or not?"
"Miss Beckett, if I have my facts right, I think you have more to report to the police than that."
"What do you mean?"
My face never left half shadow, “Was this murder before or after the robbery to your home last evening?"

Just like that, she was a statue. Her body language betrayed nothing, guarded and stony.
I kept my voice deep and measured, “Jewels went missing in the adjacent apartment last night. Diamonds, three elegant strands. Pearls, singular. A jade brooch and antique tiara. The tiara will be hard to sell, they’re out of fashion, for one thing."
Still no response.
"Miss Beckett, you look sharp in those heels but you’re no good on your feet. I hope a jewel thief is much better with their hands. I’m not buying into this gambit of yours. I know it takes two. You’re lucky that nobody cares about a theft that happened the same night as a major murder."
She was a hushed whisper, “I saw Harold Clement’s killer." Her hand was on the folder she placed on my desk.
"Then you’d best report that to the police so they can track this fella down. But they won’t believe a story about a jewel thief who puts her name in a dead man’s missing will."
"I didn’t take the will," the mysterious woman said, turning towards the door.
"No ma’am, but you’re clever enough to see an opportunity when it knocks. A rich man dies, his legacy is up for grabs. A little part of that could be yours, along with those diamonds you’re hiding."
She walked briskly towards the door.
"I won’t turn you in. I’m not on the jewel case, miss. I turned it down. There’s a lot more going on with those gems than even you could want to know. Get rid of them."
She glared over her shoulder, the hallway light illuminating her features. She was young and the world still felt within her grasp. I felt sorry for her. I’d been that, once.
"Mr. Dodge," she said carefully, “I hope we never speak again."

I don’t think that will be a problem.
She wasn’t the only one who hadn’t gone to the police. She wasn’t the only one who had something that didn’t belong to her. She just happened to catch Kenneth Dodge on the last day of work as a private investigator and man-for-hire. At least, this name, this city.

In the suitcase is a thin folder containing things I was told not to know about. A small mess of clothing, a little dark makeup and concealer. Some sundries. A ticket to somewhere else.

All the trappings of a person who didn’t want to be trapped.

I did my job, for as long as I could stomach it. Now I have a real stolen will to exchange and I’m off to try my luck with some fresh blood money in my pocket and a chance at living a normal life. Maybe try out my real name and an honest living for once… no, doesn’t seem likely for long.

At the train station I’ll ditch the coat, but I’m keeping the hat. I’d miss it. I’ll miss these shoes too, heels never suited me. Makes hot pursuit a thing of the past.

The police are on the case. They’re looking for a killer. A professional.
One thing they’ll never look for is a lady.

A short, noir-themed story on the topics of “Girl With No Name," “Missing Heirloom Jewelry" and “Genderbending" for the creative writing vlog, Wordplay #3.

Faire: First Draft, First Section

 
Loudly buzzing spotlights spun around madly for a moment before coming to rest on a stage that was empty but for a metallic pole. The crowd hushed, punctuated by a few cheers and whoops from the vast audience of people who stood ready, but for what, they did not know.
 
It was difficult to place whether she was had made up herself considerably, or if she was that red naturally. Not just red, no, but glistening. Her hair fell short, not far past her shoulders, in lavish curls, and the light illuminated and reflected off nearly every curve she had, and down the swoop of her barbed tail which flicked as she strut out from the side of the stage.
Growly music began to play, sultry rhythm and menacing at once, and the tiefling began to dance.
 
It was not an innocent dance, not in the least, but her barely-covered body performed with such a broken grace that it almost seemed divine. Each twist, stretching skin against taut muscle and bends which put every slope of anatomy on display, one would swear this was a seduction rite, but never could it be performed so pure. She was a thrusting devil, then a pleading angel.
 
She slid down the pole as the music slowed, gliding with a tortured slowness that caused fists to clench. The song was over, the spotlights threatened to disappear from the body still stretched on the pole, heaving with breath. The lights spun away.
He swore, letting out a breath he’d been holding longer than he was aware.
"Gentlemen and most especially ladies, that was the magnetic RUBY!"
He almost forgot he was there on a job.
 
Henrick was a go-getter. Not that he was particularly ambitious, but employers would tell him a person’s name, and he’d go get them. It was never a permanent position, but it required more brawn than a typical, slick bounty hunter, and less brains than a detective. So they called Henrick.
Turns out, he had more smarts than he let on, but he kept it to himself. No use in complicating a simple job.
 
The Vaudevillian Guild was one of the toughest to crack into, being as the members were about as trained at thievery and deception as one could get with a legal profession. Slippery folks, Henrick knew, but he’d never worked with them directly, and with good reason. He never even went to the faire when it came to town, he preferred not to be robbed in public. Necessary precautions were taken this time, however, and his paltry pocketbook was tucked safely in with his crotch. Nobody getting to it without his express and lustful consent.
He checked himself to be sure, and…
Wait, even that was gone.
Motherfucker.
 
The famous suspension trapeze act had started, but he could hardly be interested. Heading through the outskirts of the bedazzled crowd, he shuffled towards the edge of the stage and around, where passage to the shabbily tented backstage area was available. He stepped through a space between two tents.
 
In the middle of the shantytown square, the pole had been moved. It shone in the moonlight, dimly reflecting electric lights that surrounded it on the walls, flickering as people passed by in the rush of theatrics and cue times. Wide berth was given to this pole, and right on it, as though the song had never ended, was Ruby.
Her gyrations were miracle. There was no rhythm but what she brought, slow and passionate as though the air itself was her trusted lover, and she writhed with gymnastic ease. Nobody paid her the least mind.
 
Henrick had stopped in his tracks, mesmerized. From such great distance as he had previously and currently encountered her, he knew no detail of her face, only the curve of her open mouth on the air illuminated from behind. He couldn’t tell her eye color or even if she might be missing one. The amazing part, he recollected, was that he didn’t care to know. No effort was made to close the distance between them. He was frozen, unable to think, just watch.
No wonder someone successfully stole from his codpiece, it was like all tensile sensation had turned off, all senses were rewired to visuals.
 
Then her leg was behind her head.
He stopped believing in the gods right then.
 
A pause in her dancing left her breathing on her back, and two smallish figures came to her, taking her hands and easing her into an upright position and scurrying her off to one of the tents. There was a patience about the halflings as they brought her in their stead. Perhaps this was something they encountered often.
 
Henrick had forgotten what he came there about. Something told him that stealth was involved. There went that idea.
He had the name. Low-Crow. Funny sounding name, but he was in the middle of thespian central and could hardly judge. For all he knew, it was a requirement of the guild to have a flamboyant moniker, and he himself had only just escaped being named ‘Tourniquet’ when he was born, due to his ignorant mother thinking it sounded respectable. Low-Crow, he thought, you’re the boss.
 
"How can I help out this handsome fellow who has found himself in our midst?"
Henrick turned to see a dashing young half elf man staring at him politely with the air of a genial host.
"I was looking for someone," Henrick started, knowing that his lying would be of no use in this crowd, “by the name of Low-Crow."
The Elf looked puzzled for a moment before he resumed his gentility, “Ah yes, I know of that one. Would you mind accompanying me to where we may discuss the matter? We appear to be getting in the way." His voice was rich and buttery, the practiced art of dramatica flowing from him as though every syllable was scripted. He nodded to a brightly lit and less shabby tent to the immediate right. Nothin’ to lose, Henrick figured,and followed him in.

"Might I inquire as to your name, sir? Do call me Charlemagne." His host barely let him answer before he was brushing myriad dust from tables or straightening a shabby pillow and quickly speaking, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, but regrettably if there has been any loss of possessions or treasure then regrettably I cannot-"
"It isn’t about that," Henrick said. Not directly anyway. On second thought, he wouldn’t mind having his wallet back.
"Well that is a relief. So often I hear of such deplorable acts in the crowd of our fine show! We are merely the players, it is a pity that ruffians will take advantage of a rapt audience, and we occasionally get caught in a swarm of displeased patrons," he sighed and sat himself down, “Low-Crow himself had often been accused of such acts, hence my defensiveness, you must understand."
"Right." The grandiose language was infecting Henrick, if he didn’t catch himself he might reply as properly as this man in front of him
Charlemagne motioned him to sit opposite him in a rickety chair that looked equal parts bolts and driftwood, and one hundred percent uncomfortable. Settling his large frame was a tentative act made more awkward by Charlemagne looking on with unabashed interest.
"So do tell me," Charlemagne crossed his legs, “what brings you into the midst of our humble Guild faire?"
"You the boss here?"
"Far from it, my friend, but do consider me the welcome wagon, as it is said."
"Good, bosses don’t like me. Low-Crow has some property that belongs to someone I know."
"Would this someone be an employer?" Charlemagne raised a theatrical eyebrow.
"You’re a quick man, Charlemagne."
"Appreciated, sir. Low-Crow has… oft found himself in a bit of a lurch. We call him the Director of Acquisitions, often finds himself with curios, knickknacks and the like," he waved his hand dismissively, “None of his dealings are untidy, mind you, but occasionally one night someone wants an item out of town, and the next…. well, they may change their mind."
"Wasn’t the case in terms of my employer, but I’ll give you benefit of the doubt. He has one such ‘curio’ as you put it, and it should not be his."

Charlemagne pursed his lips with thought and readjusted his hands on his crossed knee, “Very well, this is clearly business to be ironed out between the two of you. You are aware that Low-Crow is not in attendance with us tonight?"
"That so?" Henrick leaned forward in his chair with a threatening creak.
"It is, regrettably. He has, flown shall we say? To the Faire’s last location to close out ties and suchlike. Excellent sort for finishing business, him. Tomorrow he should be arriving for the last night of our performances here, you’d do well to meet with him then."
"Any good time, you know of?"
Charlemagne tapped his finger to his lips, “Afternoon during preparation hours is our most active and least busy, you might be lucky enough then. If not, you’re always welcome to enjoy the show one more time and meet him afterwards, of course." His’s green eyes twinkled.
"Tomorrow it is." Henrick lurched out of the chair and headed towards the tent flap.
"Is there any other way I can be of assistance, my friend Henrick?"
He paused. “Don’t tell him I’m coming."
"My lips are sealed.”
 
 
As he stepped outside the tent, he reflexively checked the pole. There she was again, a tantalizing spiral of legs around metal. Henrick couldn’t resist watching.
"Anything I can do for you, sir?" asked a halfling with a syrupy grin. He was in orbit around Ruby and currently stopped in the path between her and Henrick. He seemed amused.
"Just getting some directions," Henrick said easily, but his glance turned back to Ruby. “She ever stop?" he asked, motioning to her.
The halfling turned around to look, and with a wistful sigh, “Not her."
Henrick decided to leave from whence he came. He knew this was a no-win situation, anywhere between a forbidden broad and a large organization of smooth-talking criminals who know you will be coming for them is bound to put a man in a tight spot. Best to keep things simple though. Tomorrow, he thought, Low-Crow will be caught.
 

An old project released in a book of short fiction and lore for M Hurston’s Ave Molech RPG setting. For the first time, I’m trying to complete it.