Tuesday Tale - Challenge - Butterfly Circus

What follows is the story I did for The Inferno (see applet to the right) challenge "The Butterfly Circus" - the inspiration for which was this movie, which runs about 20 minutes. Please. Believe me when I tell you that this movie is powerful and evocative - if you don't have time to read my story, I understand - but you really don't want to miss this little gem of a movie. Anyway ...

And now ...

The Catcher




Vittorio hung from the trapeze, slowly swinging to and fro, upside down, in the catcher's position. He'd been the catcher for his family for as long as he could remember. The memories of his father, the man who had taught him how to catch, were dimmed by the passage of time, to the point it seemed that he had always been the catcher - that there had never been anyone else.

He swung to and fro. On his trapeze. Where he felt comfortable. Where he felt safe. Where he felt as if he were in control. Hanging by his knees.

He swung to and fro. It had been a week now since he had dropped his daughter. She lived long enough to tell him that it was okay, it wasn't his fault, and that she loved him.

He swung to and fro. Not his fault. But he knew it was. The flyers were always sloppy. A good catcher knows that. A good catcher is prepared for that. A good catcher never drops anyone - no matter how sloppy they are. And his family worked without a net. Doubly important that he, the catcher, be ready for the sloppy flyers and catch them. Always catch them. Keep them safe.

He swung to and fro. He thought maybe he was too old now. He thought maybe now, now they would not trust him any longer. He thought a good catcher cannot work without trust from his flyers. Without trust from his family.

So he swung to and fro. Lost in thought and memories of his daughter. He never saw her until she was at the top of her first swing.

"Andriana! What are you doing?"
"Look at me Grandfather!! I'm flying!!"
"Andriana! Down!! Go Down!!! Catch the stand and go back down the ladder!"
"No Grandpa! No! You must catch me!!

The two of them swung back and forth. To and fro. A ballet of grace and beauty. And danger.

"Andriana, please? Go below. I dropped your mother. I don't want to drop you!!"
"Grandfather, you are not going to drop me. You're going to catch me."
"There is no net, child, and I have never caught you before. Please, this is insane."
"No, Grandfather, it is not. I have been practicing with my brother. He catches like you do. You've taught him. And my mother taught me. You will catch me."

The two of them swung back and forth. To and fro. In their ballet. Their dangerous ballet.

"Catch the stand, child. Your swing is poorly timed. You must time it properly. Start over."
"Yes Grandfather."

She stood on the stand, trapeze in one hand, holding the guy rope in the other, leaning out over the empty void between her and the ground, getting ready to swing toward her catcher.

She had to time it perfectly. Just at the top of his swing toward her, she would pull up on her trapeze, reach out with her other hand and grab on, and swing out over the emptiness, then back, and then a second swing toward him, and then back, and at the top of the backswing she would pull herself up on the bar so it was across her hips and she would lay on the bar in the forward swing and at just the right moment she would launch herself forward into midair and her Grandfather would come up from below her and their arms would lock together and he would swing her down, and back and throw her out and spin her around so she caught her bar again, and she would swing back up onto her stand.

She launched herself.

Tuesday Tale - Inferno

Please go to The Inferno and read the opening half of this story. 'The Inferno' is an adjunct to The Artist Challenge, where writers respond to a challenge issued on the site, similar to the challenge issued to artists on The Artist Challenge. This is, after all, my birthday present to you, on my birthday.

Update: edited for consistency.

And now ...


The Cask of Infinity

A Short Story by
Louis Charles Lohman

continues ....


He found himself standing alone and naked under a gaslight. His hair was long and shaggy, dripping water as the wild wind and rain blew it about and soaked it through. His beard, also long, also shaggy, dripped water that ran down his chest.

He felt none of it. Not the wind. Not the rain. Not the chill in the air or the nakedness of his body.

All he could feel was the pull of the Symbol. The pull, and the excruciating burn in the palm of his hand, where the form of the Symbol was impressed in his flesh.

The Cask was broken. The Symbol had separated from the Cask and was lost. It was here. In this world.

It seemed vaguely familiar to him. This world. This place. But the pull of the Symbol, close as it was, drove all other thought from his mind. He must retrieve the Symbol and restore it to its rightful place atop the Cask of Infinity.

He raised his hand, palm out, and slowly turned completely around, sensing through his palm, the direction in which the Symbol lay.

There. That building, across this .... street. The word was slow coming to his mind. He stepped into the the street and slowly crossed over the cobblestones, across the sidewalk that bordered them, and up the short flight of stairs that led to the first floor of the building. The building where the Symbol lay hidden.

He paused before the door. He was puzzled, briefly, that this ... thing obstructed his path. He held up his hand and felt the power surge through his palm and he walked through the door, and then the inner door, only to find himself in a hallway with doors on either side.

There. That first door. That door hides the Symbol. It drew him to itself and in his mind, he could sense the glow, the power, of the Symbol. He walked to, and then through, that door, too. As though it wasn't even there.

She woke to see a man in her room. Naked and pale, with long shaggy hair and beard. His hand came slowly up from his side, palm toward her. She could see in his palm, an angry red glow. A figure eight. And she knew he had come for the golden figure she'd found in her tenant's room, all those many months ago.

Her hand slid under her pillow. She felt it there. It was hers now. Her treasure. No one or nothing could take it from her. Her fingers closed around it as the naked apparition seemed to float toward her, the glow in his palm growing stronger, more intense and she felt compelled to rise from her bed and offer her treasure to this apparition, this pale and naked man now in her room. She fought the impulse, now growing more and more urgent, to hand it to him. He came close, both arms now outstretched, until she was encircled by his arms and ready to hand it over to this man. Ready to hand over the treasure that she had claimed for her own, but at the last moment, in a spasm of rage, she held it back and away from his grasp. The Symbol glowed and his palm was as if it were fire. The glow of the symbol seemed to reach out to his palm and the fire in his palm reached out toward the Symbol and they connected and just as he was to grasp it in his hand she threw it on the bed and they both disappeared from this world in a blinding flash of white-orange light.

The police were called.

The landlady had disappeared. No one knew why or where she might have gone. Her nightgown was found laying on the floor in the middle of her room. And there was a strange sign burned into the sheet which covered her bed. A figure eight was scorched there. No one had any idea why. Except for the Constable who first came to the scene. Normally a forthright and honest man, he found himself strangely compelled to pick up the golden figure eight he saw on the bed, and put it in his pocket.

He thought it his treasure. Almost, as if it were payment.