Siffleur (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
teethoftherisk) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
come_sailaway2023-03-07 01:05 pm
teethoftherisk) wrote in come_sailaway2023-03-07 01:05 pm
then I found a place, it's dark and it's rotted [memeshare - open]
Who: Siffleur and you
What: Memory sharing & an opt-in
When: throughout March
Where: various
Warnings: Body horror, medical gore, cannibalism, death, suicide, suicidal idealization, child neglect, possible discussions of past sexual assault in first prompt, unreality
1) The River
On the banks of a newly defrosted river, a young women who looks to be in her mid-twenties kneels by the ice cold waters. The snow has melted, but there's a chill in the air that can't be shaken. Her hair is dirty and matted, and she's wearing a stained dress that's too big for her. Beside her is a freshly birthed baby, half-transformed between human and cougar, screaming in pain.
The woman isn't handling it well. Siffleur is about 10 minutes old and he's also not handling it well either.
2) The Forest
In an old growth forest in the height of summer, a small cougar kitten has left the den where his mother sleeps to play in the grass and chase the large dragonflies that dart around. Siffleur is very young and very curious, and though he usually avoids other people, today he's feeling brave enough to investigate anything new and novel. He's climbing a old fallen log in pursuit of a particularly shiny dragonfly that's resting on the end.
But he loses his grip when he sees someone new in the clearing, falling back and going head over heels, rolling back a few times before landing paws up.
3) The City
In a rundown city just across the Canadian border, a teen boy sits outside a convenience store. His clothing is dirty and stained, and he hasn't washed in at least two weeks. His stomach growls and he watches carefully as people slowly trickle in and out of the store. Siffleur's shaggy hair hangs in his eyes and he doesn't ask for help - he just watches each person as they exit their car.
There's someone here who wasn't there before. His yellow eyes snap to them, quickly looking them up and down.
4) The Small Town
In a place with a population of less than a 1000 people, less than six half-paved streets and one bar, Siffleur sits at the bar with a beer. His cellphone buzzes now and then but he's left it laying face down, not bothering to check it. There's plenty of empty stools around him - less of an invitation and more of a warning.
On the TVs, Ottawa is playing Anaheim, but from the dour mood of those folks watching the screens, it's clear that a Canadian team isn't going to win this Stanley Cup. Occasionally, Siffleur glances back, looking for someone who isn't here yet.
5) Killing Myself In Front Of You To Change The Trajectory Of Your Life Forever (Opt-In, TW: Suicide)
This isn't Siffleur's memory - it's one of yours.
Perhaps it's something personal, something traumatic and private, the kind of thing you would hate to have seen by anyone. Perhaps it's of better times, good days, drinks, laughter, that kind of thing. Maybe it's just another quiet mundane day.
It doesn't matter. The moment he realizes he's in your memory, Siffleur acts instantly and decisively, and kills himself. There's no hesitation. If there's danger he can use to do it, he does - throwing himself against the obvious monsters, picking a fight with something that's ready to rip him to shreds. Or, if not that, then he'll do the job himself with a kitchen knife if available, or anything sharp.
And in the most dire of circumstances where there's nothing for him to use at all? Well... here's your front row seat to a memory of a complete stranger looking around, grabbing his head between his hands and snapping his own neck.
He'll be back on the ship the next day, carefully avoiding the cracks as he attempts to shuffle away from his cabin and over to the buffet to eat breakfast. Feel free to ambush him for an answer then.
What: Memory sharing & an opt-in
When: throughout March
Where: various
Warnings: Body horror, medical gore, cannibalism, death, suicide, suicidal idealization, child neglect, possible discussions of past sexual assault in first prompt, unreality
1) The River
On the banks of a newly defrosted river, a young women who looks to be in her mid-twenties kneels by the ice cold waters. The snow has melted, but there's a chill in the air that can't be shaken. Her hair is dirty and matted, and she's wearing a stained dress that's too big for her. Beside her is a freshly birthed baby, half-transformed between human and cougar, screaming in pain.
The woman isn't handling it well. Siffleur is about 10 minutes old and he's also not handling it well either.
2) The Forest
In an old growth forest in the height of summer, a small cougar kitten has left the den where his mother sleeps to play in the grass and chase the large dragonflies that dart around. Siffleur is very young and very curious, and though he usually avoids other people, today he's feeling brave enough to investigate anything new and novel. He's climbing a old fallen log in pursuit of a particularly shiny dragonfly that's resting on the end.
But he loses his grip when he sees someone new in the clearing, falling back and going head over heels, rolling back a few times before landing paws up.
3) The City
In a rundown city just across the Canadian border, a teen boy sits outside a convenience store. His clothing is dirty and stained, and he hasn't washed in at least two weeks. His stomach growls and he watches carefully as people slowly trickle in and out of the store. Siffleur's shaggy hair hangs in his eyes and he doesn't ask for help - he just watches each person as they exit their car.
There's someone here who wasn't there before. His yellow eyes snap to them, quickly looking them up and down.
4) The Small Town
In a place with a population of less than a 1000 people, less than six half-paved streets and one bar, Siffleur sits at the bar with a beer. His cellphone buzzes now and then but he's left it laying face down, not bothering to check it. There's plenty of empty stools around him - less of an invitation and more of a warning.
On the TVs, Ottawa is playing Anaheim, but from the dour mood of those folks watching the screens, it's clear that a Canadian team isn't going to win this Stanley Cup. Occasionally, Siffleur glances back, looking for someone who isn't here yet.
5) Killing Myself In Front Of You To Change The Trajectory Of Your Life Forever (Opt-In, TW: Suicide)
This isn't Siffleur's memory - it's one of yours.
Perhaps it's something personal, something traumatic and private, the kind of thing you would hate to have seen by anyone. Perhaps it's of better times, good days, drinks, laughter, that kind of thing. Maybe it's just another quiet mundane day.
It doesn't matter. The moment he realizes he's in your memory, Siffleur acts instantly and decisively, and kills himself. There's no hesitation. If there's danger he can use to do it, he does - throwing himself against the obvious monsters, picking a fight with something that's ready to rip him to shreds. Or, if not that, then he'll do the job himself with a kitchen knife if available, or anything sharp.
And in the most dire of circumstances where there's nothing for him to use at all? Well... here's your front row seat to a memory of a complete stranger looking around, grabbing his head between his hands and snapping his own neck.
He'll be back on the ship the next day, carefully avoiding the cracks as he attempts to shuffle away from his cabin and over to the buffet to eat breakfast. Feel free to ambush him for an answer then.
no subject
Siffleur gets to keep the broom, because the person suddenly has another in their hand and is aggressively shovinga giant pellet across the floor.
"Oh, they're heading in the same direction and we're basically the same species! This could be a chance to dip my toes into something new! Expand my horizons!"
In case Siffleur thought he was clear to exit again, the person whirls around on him.
"That's the whole damn point of this place, no one's supposed to be here but the circus, and not even being in on the act will save you because they're a bunch of CLIQUEY FUCKS."
The last is shouted, answered by nothing but flapping canvas and the distant sound of an elephant trumpet, if it was maybe made of wood.
no subject
Does he understand why they're ranting? No. Does he know why they're in a circus? No. But he can at least grasp the source of the anger - and the validity of it.
No one likes a clique.
"We could kill them?" He offers, since killing himself is (temporarily) off the table.
no subject
But.
...
...
...
"How do you feel about clowns?" they ask, in suddenly a much calmer tone than they had before.
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They nod, taking that in, and then ask again, more specific: "How do you feel about becoming a clown?"
In case it helps, they look him up and down and add: "I mean, you could probably nail being a sad clown. You got half the bit down already."
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What they neglect to mention is whether or not sad clowns stay dead.
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"Okay. Let's get me in clown clothes, and then I'll kill your guys." Because while he doesn't really understand why he has to be a clown for this part, it's clear that the stranger needs him to be one so sure. Let's go. He'll be out of this in no time.
no subject
Which it is, here, if that wasn't coming across.
But their attitude has already perked up, a little spring in their step as they twirl the broomstick in their hands idly like a baton.
"So hey! Even less prep time. So hey! Let's go to the clown tent!"
And they lead the way through a seeming labyrinth of canvas walls until they reach some kind of exit, a gap between oddly looming yet still brightly coloured tents. They can see the backs of some massive wooden displays cut into potentially whimsical shapes, potentially clown-related if the backs had been painted like the front.
They're not going through the front door, however, they're going through the back flap.
"The main show isn't on so most of the clowns are asleep in the den." they explain. "If we want to do this quick, you gotta go for the biggest, saddest clown you can see. I'll take the happy one, and whatever you do, don't die, don't laugh, and don't let them paint your face."
And with those clear instructions given, they pull back the flap and lead Siffleur into a dark, faintly honking tent.
no subject
He follows the person through an endless maze of tent walls, which Siffleur does not bother to learn or follow. His focus remains on them, and on their destination. The instructions given to him are clear and direct, and he nods. It should be easy enough.
"Alright." Siffleur says, and he changes shape, sliding into the dark space full of many, many, many sleeping clowns, piled upon each other, all smelling of seltzer and greasepaint.
He finds the biggest saddest clown sleeping upright in a tiny car. With complete silence, he makes his way to him and does what a cougar does best with his prey.
But uh... no one warned him that the blood would taste like that.
no subject
But with the Blanc down, Auguste is summoned: From the middle of the clown troupe, a mass of mismatched patterns stitched together rises, one Boss Clown emerging to avenge the other. He grins with two mouths, one painted, one all too real, and he seems to reach for something, though it's impossible to tell from the way the patchwork fabric of his outfit bleed into each other, a rippling sea of patterns that make it hard to tell if something is truly stretching or if it's merely an intersection of lines-
A voice calls above the rest.
"NICE FACE YOU HAVE, THERE!" calls the person from the stables.
Using the handle of their broom like a pole-vault, they launch themselves up, fly through the air with the greatest of ease, and land directly on the chest of the Boss Clown.
"MIND IF I BORROW IT? I SEEM TO HAVE MISPLACED MINE!" they shout with vicious, triumphant glee, and as they shove their face in front of the clown's, the Auguste topples over out of sight.
With that final blow-off, the honking quiets down, the tent falls still.
And thus begins the reign of the new Blanc and Auguste, a very unusual kind of Pierrot and Harlequin, one truly evoking 'wet cat', the other always recognizable even with facepaint as consistent as their patchwork uniform. They push the limits of clowning at the Circus Unending, securing even more clout than they ever had before, expanding their business, heretofore unseen commitment to bits.
The cliques of acrobats quiet down, for the true masters of the ring are and have always been the ones with the brightest colours, the one the audiences laugh at the most.
It is a long, powerful, successful reign. The circus grows, changing with the times just enough to maintain a foothold and never surrendering too much of the nostalgia that's so vital to luring in patrons.
Monster clowns creep into the cultural consciousness over the years, but the Circus Unending ensures that none truly manifest. What a hamhanded way to cultivate fear and unease. Anyone can have a sharp teeth, a sharper weapon, and an unsettling laugh, just as any hammer could smash a rock - it took the hand of an artist to chisel a statue.
Of course, given the weirdness of the Circus Unending as a location and the even stronger weirdness of being a Thing or a Creature in this world, it's a little hard to measure the exact timeline of all this, of what was actually experienced versus what was the foregone conclusion, a peek into the future, yadda yadda.
But to April, that doesn't matter. They just blink, and suddenly have an answer to a question they always asked themselves during their shittiest gruntwork assignments: 'What if I had just killed that fucking clown and stayed with the circus? I totally could have run that place better.'
And it turns out, they did!
There's a brand new spring in April's step as they make their trip to the bar on this utterly beautiful day.
no subject
Either way, he came back a clown and spent a good few hours just standing in the Tommy Bahama's, wearing that greasepaint that felt like it had been on his skin forever, staring down the infinite length of the aisle and wondering if he walked straight in, could he find a place with no more riffs?
... probably not.
So after that, he just shoves all the memories of that memory into a tiny box and closes it, and cleans himself up, and goes to get a drink. A lot of them.
He's probably passed by the person before a hundred times and not noticed them. But the thing about taking over a circus with someone (even if it was against his will) is that you will know them in a way that you couldn't before. Siffleur stops dead and points at them-
At April, who was also Auguste. "You made me a clown."
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April's face lights up (figuratively) at the sight of the Blanc to their Auguste.
"We made ourselves into clowns, comrade!" they, say beckoning him over to the bar with a very enthusiastic wave. "Holy shit, that was amazing!"
If it's consolation to Siffleur, they seem to genuinely mean that about the whole event, not any sort of focus on humiliation or anything.
"I owe you like, fifty fucking drinks for the win alone!"
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"Yes." Siffleur agrees. "I need many drinks after that. It was very long, and very weird. But I am glad you enjoyed yourself. ... and now I know what clown tastes like."
It's something his mind will never be able to forget.
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"But better to reign in hell, am I right?"
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"Have you?" April asks. "Everything other than sweeping never happened in real life. So I ask you: What did you actually learn about me?"
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The only other things he knows is that April is someone who takes a great deal of joy in striking back at their enemies... and that they are very good at vanishing when they don't want to be seen.
He sits with that for a long while, turning it over in his head. Then he brightens, a weight lifted off his shoulder. "Nothing. I didn't learn anything. I still don't know anything about you, and I was with you for months."
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"That's right!" they say with a proud grin, and slides a freshly poured glass of something or another over to Siffleur. "You saw, at best, one second of a real job in my life that didn't even last that long in reality either; everything else was performance and hypothetical, and I don't even care it's only that."
They raise their glass and cheerily add, "And I barely learned anything about you! I'll drink to that."
no subject
This is the best possible outcome there could have ever been.