Re: Carnivale
The carnivale has something for everyone. It is the only show in town and for that, the people stream, dusty and sticky with the early evening dimming of the sun. But the little girl with her dead kit, she knows if he hasn't found something to interest him behind the tented walls, it is he that is lacking and not the show. She has been told, until the words are a prayer at night and a benediction, that it is the greatest show on earth. She is ardence in her belief.
But she laughs. Her voice is high and piping, and she doesn't care if she interrupts the spontaneous copulation close by. She is titivated by the idea of being stolen, her and her gift and her smile is without ambiguity. "Steal me?" Her voice is arch. There is something of the showman in the drawn out syllables, a tease of the magician before the reveal.
"No one would dare." The spark of static electricity (yes, call it that, call it symptomatic of the oppressive swelter of cloud overhead, the rainstorm that will come in on the heels of closing up shop for the night and never, never before) is not the sole armor in her arsenal. She laughs, the sweet treble of the young.
"Resurrections are at three and seven," she informs him, caring not one whit for his warnings. "It's the best show in the house." She smooths one hand lovingly over the back of the kitten, and one small paw twitches from within her lap.