usy, Busy, Busy. Oh, and Some Tears — Mr. James

     Eva ran back to the trailer she shared with Becky and slammed the door shut. She threw the deadbolt, too, and gasped in the hot, dark space inside. Sunbeams filtered through the gingham curtains Becky had hung, dust motes adrift in the light looking beautiful and normal, as though the world hadn’t just been turned on its ear. She wheezed, breathing in the comforting smell of fresh laundry, the perfumes on her nightstand and the lingering aroma of clove cigarettes from the trailer’s previous tenants.
     She’d been working with Ania for… Wait. How long had it been?
     There was a smattering of hand-me-down furniture in the trailer, a few pieces from her apartment in Concord. Nothing of Becky’s, of course. The girl had only brought a pair of suitcases with her back when she’d moved in… And when was that, exactly?
     Eva realized that she couldn’t remember how long she’d been in the Carnival. It seemed like a long time - she knew the people, and had seen a handful of cities come and go… but she couldn’t remember packing up the carnival and moving. Not once. She glanced at her nightstand, the ornate wrought-iron and copper piece she’d bought for a tenth of its value at the auction in New Orleans, and couldn’t remember packing it or moving it here. But there it was, her makeup and scents and such arrayed neatly in front of the age-speckled mirror, which was sporting just a touch of dust around the frame, as though it had stood there for weeks, or more.

Dirty Jobs — Drgnwvr

     Mr. Weaver scowled at Mr. James’ back as he left his workshop. He distrusted those that had too much knowledge. They tended to forget to listen to their gut. His frown turned upside-down as he wondered what his own gut was trying to tell him. Hungry? No. Problems with the rides? No. The back of his hand itched. He idly scratched it as he took survey of his domain.
     Workbench was tidy. His chest of drawers was correctly inventoried and in place. He scratched the back of his hand harder, becoming irritated at himself. The garbage bags. There was still a bag of body parts that hadn’t been taken to whatever carnivorous denizen of the Carnival it was destined to feed.
     ”Prime!” Nothing. “Optimus Prime!” Still nothing. Weaver put his hands on his hips, and felt something drip down his itchy hand. He looked at it, or rather, the clawed-up remains of what had once been a tattoo. It looked like an animal had torn it apart. He looked at the tips of his other hand’s fingers. Normal nails, albeit dirtied with grease.
     ”Oh no.”

Dead Men’s Pockets — JavaElemental

     Alice knew a shitstorm coming when she saw one. She’d gotten pretty familiar with the warning signs over the years. Despite her best efforts, shitstorms were often the result of her presence. That’s what comes of having an elemental fiend of chaos in place of a soul.
     It had seemed so straight forward when she planned it out. Junior had found itself a good feeding ground, and it happened to be a magic carnival, and that wasn’t so surprising, because the damn things were a dime a dozen. She’d introduce herself to the critter in charge, because it was almost never just a man or woman, apply some persuasion, possibly some funds, whatever was necessary, and then she could get on with the hunt.
     Here was a man in charge, and she couldn’t even get two words in edgewise. She’d explained how she’d gotten the ticket, and really, was it so damn strange that she’d looted it off a dead body? That’s what dead bodies were for, right? Find a dead body, go through the pockets, standard operating procedure. Dead men had all kinds of interesting things in their pockets. This had turned to an accusation from the man in the godless jacket – Stevens – aimed at the ticket booth operator – Dav, apparently – that a stolen ticket should not have been honored, and that wasn’t fair, because it wasn’t really stealing when you were taking it from someone who couldn’t use it anymore, was it?

The End of Sheila’s Story. The Beginning of the Sinister Saint — Mr. James

     Sheila didn’t fall, so much as the ground itself closed over her body like a great fist, and squeezed. It pulled her down, as sudden and swift and gentle as an avalanche, and she plummeted into darkness, the crushing stone and earth bearing down on her from every direction.
     She felt bones breaking, lots of them. Something hard hit her in the face, and she swallowed gravel mixed with broken teeth. Her hair was pulled, and her scalp tore free with a sucking sound she could feel in her whole body. Sheila fell, faster and faster, the vertigo and the weightless sensation in her stomach her only points of reference in this dark hell of pain and pressure. The descent lasted hours, the crushing grind of the earth interspersed with horrendous falls through black caverns, where Sheila would slam against the floor without warning only to have it swallow her again. Deeper and deeper, and always the stones cutting, smashing, pulverizing her as she went.

Madness — JavaElemental

     “Huston, we have a problem.” Alice stood there, smoking a cigarette. The clown was standing a little near for comfort, glaring down at her. The Shadow had pried Herself up from the ground and was hovering over the corpse, up to Her black shoulder in the corpse’s mouth, rooting around in the innards.
     Alice glanced over at the clown. “We need to destroy this body. And with a quickness.”
     Clay grunted. “We got people for that. Come on.”
     Alice plugged her cigarette between her lips and snapped her fingers. The Shadow pulled free of the corpse and flopped back into place on the ground. Alice drew the cigarette from her lips and breathed out a long plume of smoke. “Lead on.”

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