Quicklinks:
|
Great Writing - Home > Crime > Behind Greasepaint Smiles (BEWARE) * Some 'adult' content *
| READING ROOM | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
|
| COMMUNITY | |||
|---|---|---|---|
|
| ABOUT GREAT WRITING | ||
|---|---|---|
|
| WORK AWAITING REVIEW |
|---|
|
| GW IS... |
|---|
|
Great Writing creative writing community is designed to prompt ideas
and provide inspiration and motivation within aspiring and amateur
authors. Whatever your topic; from love poetry to Doctor Who or Harry
Potter fan fiction, Great Writing's online writing group is where you
can make new friends and improve your creative writing. |
| WHO'S ONLINE |
|---|
| We have 1514 guests online and 5 members online |
Crime and Thriller
| print friendly version | |
| Behind Greasepaint Smiles (BEWARE) * Some 'adult' content * | |
| By stevetroster | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| 15 July 2008 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
At the far end of the esplanade, its fire-blackened metalwork steeped in transient silhouettes, the wreckage of a once grand Edwardian pleasure pier hangs listless above an oily sea.
Dark, viscous waves break over the decaying stumps of a detached breakwater; its rotten timbers conceding the beach to all manner of human excess. On the horizon, the ruins of quayside warehouses and abandoned factories lounge precariously beneath the bloated bellies of grey-black rain clouds. Here, half-starved insomniac ravens regard twisted steel with maniacal eyes. For a time, nothing stirs save for the liquid darkness that lurks about the derelict pier, but then the shadows begin to glide, to intermingle, and the whispering begins again, the distant ethereal voices that are swallowed up by baying half-life that cries into the darkness; hungry and heartless, demanding and insincere. Grubby children cower in fetid alleyways exchanging fearful laughter, their eyes dancing with madness, and amidst the cacophony a shadow-man listens to his mind tinkering with unenlightened judgments on the whys and wherefores of humanity. The night has about it a sublime decadence. In torn fishnets and shoddy makeup, a young girl loiters in a doorway laughing hysterically at passers-by. No one stops, for they have witnessed her kind before. A coquet, she stands with a hand resting suggestively upon a hip, a lock of her dishevelled raven hair obscuring a bruise that is poorly camouflaged with purple eye shadow. Her unbuttoned blouse reveals a black bra against porcelain flesh. Against the darkness of night, her pallid complexion is a beacon that draws Rhombus to her like some demented suicidal moth. He sits on an empty oil drum with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. His lips twitch, unable to form a smile. Inside the enormous pockets of his baggy tartan trousers, gloved-hands are clenched as fists. Rhombus revels in the harlot’s degradation. She laughs a filthy laugh, yet Rhombus hears only a cackle. Ever the voyeur, he rapes her with his mind. It is Thursday the 12th and, unbeknown to the denizens of the sleepy seaside town, Rhombus has an appointment to keep. With the primary colours of its threadbare canvas bleached by the ages, the big top sits at the periphery of Filchers Farm - its guy ropes tangled amongst the gnarled roots of giant oaks that wither in the surrounding woodland. A cold mist hangs in the air as leathern-skinned men with slithering smiles weave candyfloss dreams for small children. “Roll up - roll up, crusty gentlefolk and salty seadogs, roll up - roll up, for you dare not miss the chance to witness an extravaganza the like of which has ne’er been seen.” Offering gaily-coloured spectacles to ever dwindling crowds, Rhombus hides an impassive face behind a greasepaint mask. He never smiles and tries to avoid both daylight and his fellow artistes. Between performances, Rhombus is most often to be found sitting in his caravan sipping surgical spirit. “Thank you - thank you, our show is at an end. We trust you’ll find it in your hearts to visit us again.” Dragging emaciated frames across boggy farmland, the townsfolk begin to drift away. Returning to the mildewed comfort of his wooden caravan, Rhombus dallies by a window box to tend Bracket fungi with stagnant water from his trick flower. As he opens the door, flakes of paint tumble into the night like dead skin falling from a cadaver. Switching on a table lamp concealed beneath a filthy shade, he opens a drawer stuffed with soiled underwear to retrieve a battered tin containing a half-smoked cigarette. Rhombus catches his morose reflection in the dressing table mirror; the malevolent eyes and bright red nose - a product of years of alcohol abuse - and the curly green wig that hides his alopecia. Pushing aside a pile of old newspapers he reaches for his greasepaint. Fat fingers daub a fresh mask upon a pustulent, sweaty face. Abruptly, a fluorescent tube sputters and hums a tuneless static dirge. A cockroach falls from the ceiling. Impassive, a woman sits motionless in a pale-grey rocking chair, her torn yellow frock trailing in thick dust. She stares at Rhombus, casting first her eyes towards his oversized shoes and then, with torturous efficiency, allows her gaze to wander slowly down his white, sagging frame until finally her eyes come to rest upon his limp, impotent manhood. They are eyes full of callous mirth. Her lips curl into a smile. Rhombus throws himself onto the bed, hiding his mask amongst grubby linen. Curling into a foetal position, he sucks his thumb and mumbles to himself. Moonlight invades through a grimy window, to cast mocking light on Rhombus as he drowns in a sea of sour perspiration. Every night his bed becomes a gladiatorial arena in which he is haunted by the ghosts of loves lost whilst wrestling with dark fantasies. A sighing breeze enters through a skylight and the mosquito nets sway with the ghost of her presence. Succubus is paying her nightly visit to paint his furrowed brow with duplicitous kisses. She lies at his side, spread-eagled and expectant. With argon fluorescence illuminating her wetness, she places a tiny hand upon his quivering erection. Rhombus ejaculates and the child tries to call out his name, yet no words will come. Tears of virgin blood taint her ashen fingertips and she thrusts an accusatory finger towards Rhombus’ painted features. Her red lips part to reveal the glutinous tongue of a chameleon. It is still dark outside, but Rhombus cannot sleep. With limbs stiff from the cold, he heaves himself upright and clambers from the bed. As thunder rattles the caravan’s aging timbers, he draws back the grey moth-eaten curtain to stares out at the nocturnal beachfront. Behind the rain, the world is no more than a blur, yet his mind’s eye spies solitary walkers, a girl dancing naked under a street light and a bewitching danseur noble’s tap-danced Morse code attracting the forlorn wife of the town magistrate. At the far edge of the field sits a caravan that is the mirror image of his own and, despite the poor light, Rhombus discerns movement behind a window. There is a face peering out into the darkness, a face wearing a mask. Rhombus ponders the visage, speculating as to whether it is his own or just another sullen reflection. He continues to stare out of the window until dawn’s first light colours the horizon. Returning to the bed, Rhombus sighs and pulls a cutthroat razor across his young love’s throat. The woman is now no more than an empty vessel, a yawning abyss for Rhombus to rummage in. It is Friday the 13th and, unbeknown to the denizens of the sleepy seaside town, Rhombus the clown has killed thirteen women, all of them his wives. Behind his mask lurk malevolent blue eyes that refuse to weep, whilst upon his face lies a greasepaint smile. The circus never leaves, like a vampire it sits in the parklands at the end of Uxoricide Avenue sucking the life from Atrophy-on-Sea.
Only registered users can rate and write comments. Powered by AkoComment 2.0! |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
 Previous item
|
Next item
|
|---|