Anomaly City Chapter One

In the whimsical circus world of Anomaly City performers are everything, and it is Seventeen-year-old Aretta Donatello's last year to make the prestigious level of Elite or stop performing forever.

 

GYM

The gymnasium is full of life today, like every other day. Large iron poles hold up the tent in grandiose fashion and mats spread across the floor occupied by stretchers and tumblers, all warming up before the show begins. Tots practice on high beams, balancing just beyond the reach of their coaches guiding hands. The echoes of conversations and the clang of metal weights rise to the ceiling and fill the room with blissful buzz.   

I sit on the mats stretching in butterfly position and listen to the constant “ching” of trampolines springing as the acrobats practice their butterfly flips. There are four of them, a group of pre-teen performers in colorful leotards. They bounce a few times on the elastic material before leaping into the air like sticks twirling, without flaw, landing and doing it all over again. Juggler’s practice tossing bowling pins beside them, a dozen plastic pins spin through their hands to form a never ending ring in the air.  

Some performers stop stretching and working to watch one boy as he readies himself to step onto the power track, a long stretch of trampoline much like a runway, that leads to a pit full of foam cubes. It isn’t the only one we have, but right now it is the only one not in use. Finding his stride, the boy races with a thundering speed. Half way down the track, he throws his hands to the ground and springs off the trampoline. A single bound turns into a front flip which turns into another and another until he breaks the pattern with a triple tuck, hugging his knees in the air. He lands in the foam cubes with the uproar of cheer from a group of his friends. He climbs out with the widest grin. I can’t help but smile as a few other spectators clap for him. I have to hand it to him; he’s pretty good…for a Novice.  

He is Extrodinant, the son of Elitist parents. It’s easy to see. Extrodinant kids draw a crowd anywhere they go without even trying. Their talent is usually far above the rest of ours because they have the advantage, as well as the burden, of expectation.   

An Instructor neatly pressed in an orange suit with a magenta shirt underneath, steps over the power track. His glossy dress shoes stop before the strip bordering the mats as if it’s made of mud and he’d rather not dirty his shoes. He leans in close to the boy. I notice his friends make a face like they know he’s in trouble and promptly step away from the scene. But the Instructor lets him off with a warning, probably saying something like; “leave the extra antics for the Improv Class, young man.”  

I suppress a smile, laughing to myself at how stiff some people can be. Feet together, I ease into my stretch lowering my head until I can wrap my hands around both heels and I breathe out. Instinctively I watch my wrist as I stretch. The number showing on my Frequency Bracelet changes with the vibrations from the outside world. It is now 4203. That’s 4203 Amps gathered from the time I took my first steps on a stage. And inhale… 

There are five categories of performers in Anomaly based on one’s talent and physical maturity. Tots, who are only beginners, joyous in their ignorance and tumbling over their acts. No one expects greatness from them yet, only potential.  

Novices, who are generally age’s eight to eleven, begin to show greater maturity. There are certain forms of face painting and acrobatics required of them. That is, if they do not practice the musical arts. Hubs, who mark the beginning of adolescence years. They are the heart and soul of performance.  

Junior Elitists, who can sprout anywhere from thirteen to eighteen years of age and on. I am a Junior Elitists and have been since I was fifteen. But now that I am seventeen I am almost expected to make Elitist this year. If I don’t I cannot imagine what will happen. I refuse to set myself up for such failure. There is only so long the Instructors expect you to be at this level and I am rapidly approaching that age, bearing in mind the consequences of becoming a Helper, nothing but an aid to the talented.   

And finally there are the Elitist, a level most never reach but I fully intend to. Performers spend years striving after this level; a level of unattainable perfection. A level of professionalism that will forever safeguard you from the pangs of becoming a Helper, forever grant you acceptance into our unforgiving world. A knot twists as I think of our upcoming graduation; I have to make it this year.   

“Hey, Aretta!” someone shouts interrupting my thoughts and I look up to see Carousel on the tightrope. She balances on a cord half the length of the entire gym strung between two podium towers. In her hands she holds a long pole that casts slightly downward at either side, wobbling under her grip. She sits with impeccable poise on a small unicycle that sparkles with glitter, bright and rose. She carefully turns the pedals as she inches her way across the rope. A hot pink bow coils atop her head, taming her snowy curls as she holds her head erect for the stack of bowls balancing on her head. She barely watches the rope as she glides back in her colorful tights. 

Carousel gathers the attention of a small group that stands eagerly below her, anticipating her fall. But there is a foam pit underneath, and any slip-up would be, for them, uneventful. As Carousel reaches the tower she tilts her head and removes the bowls with ease. She holds her unicycle up in triumph and taunts the Tots who all wanted her to fall. 

“Take that!” she says pressing her finger up against her nose to simulate a pig snout.  

Sitting up, I bury my head in my hands. The things I have to deal with on a daily basis are more than one person should have to take. She leaves her bike at the tower and she hurries down the ladder that leads up to the tightrope platform.      

 “Merci, Merci beaucoup. Thank you very much. You’ve been a wonderful audience!” Her makeup makes her look five years more mature and her crimson lips are painted to make them look small and full. A true Anomalite. I clap for her because I’ve got it give it up to her, that took guts. Taunting children half your age, I mean.  

“Aw, that was cute,” a voice calls, loud enough to grab the attention of Carousel and me. We whirl around to see Parsifal standing by the props section. Tightrope poles, blunt stunt blades, bowling pins, and fire sticks cover the wall behind him. He steps over the weights he should be using to rehearse and saunters over to join our group. His wild mop-like hair is tied back away from his face and he is lacking a shirt. His hands are a charcoal black over his chocolate skin because of his trick. Parsifal comes from the Kindle family and everyone knows Kindle’s obsessed with the fire element.   

“But check this out,” Parsifal says. He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out something new; two gray gloves that resemble cotton wire.  

Carousel laughs. “What is that supposed to be?” I bite my lip. I want to laugh just as hard is she is but I don’t want to ruin Parsifal’s trick.  

“You mock now,” he says as he grabs a bottle of clear looking liquid from his station, “but you’ll gawk later.” Again, I bury my head. It’s a good thing we have writers to script our stage dialogue, else I cannot imagine the damage that we ourselves would create.  

 “Watch this,” he says increasing the distance between us. He pinches his shorts to raise them and spreads his feet apart. He fills his mouth with the acidic liquid he keeps on hand and holds his hands together, rubbing them together as though they are cold. Carousel and I watch in wonder. I’ve never seen him use these gloves before and I have a haunting feeling they are his own creation.  

Parsifal takes another step back, bracing his body for impact. He continues to rub his hands until finally he opens his palms wide as if to embrace someone and liquid spews from his mouth. It sprays out in mist, like a can of hairspray. Fire rushes from his palms all at once; an explosion of heat rising in a fireball and evaporating into thin air. Carousel and I both jump. The heat is incredible.  

Parsifal wipes him mouth with the back of his hand and holds back a grin. He waves the impact from his fingers as if ridding them of water, and peels off the gloves to check his skin. Turning them from front and back, he examines his hands. Carousel and I crowd in closer to get a better look. They are perfectly fine.  

“Fingers all still there,” I say as though that, in itself, is a wonderful feat and Parsifal pretends to need to count them all.  

Carousel beams. “That was crazy! Where did you get those?” 

Parsifal shrugs and the corner of his mouth turns up in a half smile. “I made them,” he says. I have to say, that is pretty impressive. He holds one out to Carousel. “Wanna try?”  

Carousel takes one and looks to me as if she needs my permission to completely singe her eyebrows off. I take the gloves from her hands and shake my head. “No,” I say. She resists but finally let’s go and I return the gloves to Parsifal where they’re safe from greenhorn hands. 

“Young man!” someone says. It’s the same Instructor from before. He holds up his finger as he fast-walks across the gym to Parsifal. “Excuse me, young man. Where are you supposed to be?”  

Parsifal’s shoulders shrink and his brown eyes flicker up to the ceiling. He hasn’t even turned around yet but he knows the Instructor is gunning for him. “Young man,” he says again and this time Parsifal turns to face him. His head cocked as though he’s already lost interest. “There are no fireballs in this gymnasium, what don’t you understand about that?” he says and he goes on about how the facilities are to be used as though we haven’t been using them since we were Tots. Parsifal only nods again and again. He’s heard it all before. 

Carousel and I slip away and pretend to be stretching. She remains standing bends her arm over her head and touches her back. I sit, legs straight, and grab my toes. “What’s with him?” Parsifal asks when his lecture it done. He plops down next to me, unscrews the cap on his water bottle, and swallows down a sea of water. He wipes the excess from his lips with the back of his hand.   

“I dunno,” Carousel says with a shrug. “I think it’s his age.” 

Parsifal and I both stop to look at her. “His age?” I say.  

Carousel nods and her eyebrows rise like we should definitely know whatever it is she does. “Yeah,” she says like it’s obvious. “Mr. Carson is almost sixty years old.”  

Parsifal and I are both taken back. Mr. Carson, sixty? He hardly looks it. There is not an ounce of gray on his head. But in the back of my mind I know it can be a deadly age. Retirement age.  

“Why would they bother? He isn’t a performer?” Parsifal says his gaze fixed on the Instructor as he scolds a group of tween girls for not rehearsing.  

Carousel rolls her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? He used to be a performer but now he can’t even train classes anymore. And he’s older. Anyone who can’t train or teach is out. They’re sending him to Withdraw Willow. Those are the rules-” 

“We know the rules,” I interrupt, a bit more forcefully than I myself expected. Carousel blinks as though she can’t figure out why neither Parsifal nor I would want to hear any of this. At the same time the bell rings and rehearsals and warm-up seize. Now, it is show time. I grab my duffle bag and sling it over my shoulders. We all disperse to our dressing trailers to get into character. 

After warm-ups, everyone is in preparation for the show. I help coach the children out of their dressing room backstage to where they’re needed. I check the stations. All of the other children have gone except for one. He sits alone with a pout on his face. I walk over to my little brother’s station in the Novice section. Bodie sits in his Elizabethan costume with the large golden sleeves intricately sewn with a royal purple and black lacing and a fluffy white collar. Paper white foundation covers his face making his eyebrows appear nonexistent and his eyelashes gray with powder.  

"Bodie," I say, kneeling down next to him. "You’re supposed to be able to do this on your own by now. Makeup 101 is a Pre-Tot’s class," I remind him.  

Bodie nods his head. "I know," he says. “I just haven’t practiced.” I know the feeling. Bodie would much rather jump around on the trampoline for hours rather than learn to do anything that even remotely looks like painting.  

Opening the drawer to Bodie's station, I take his character sheet, a simple drawing of a character face in full makeup. He has two main characters he performs as. One is Jojo and the other is Tommie. Tonight he's Jojo, a puppet boy with a scarlet nose. Puppets are easy.  

"Now, it's really simple," I say, "just like finger paints almost. Here, I'll do one side...and you do the other." I take a tiny container of eye shadow and run a small brush over it.  

Bodie is careful to mocking my lines and the face looks pretty even when it is all done, especially for someone who used to kick, scream and throw things before he would ever let anyone decorate his face. I tweak the color a little and he’s ready to go. “Hurry up,” I tell him, putting the brushes back in the drawer. With a quick thank you, Bodie jumps from his chair and races to catch up with the others. I should’ve told him to clean up his station too but I guess it’s too late for that. I start putting things back into place when I hear a voice from behind.  

“Aw that was nice,” Parsifal jokes. He stands in the doorway of the studio with a silly grin of his face. I jokingly exaggerate and eye roll to let him know I don’t care what he thinks.   

“Cut it out, it’s hard to paint your face correctly the first time,” I say. Parsifal laughs. 

“Yeah, wish my big bro would’ve taught me something. I had to learn the hard way.” It is a shame Taj and Parsifal aren’t that close. I’d like to think it is just that way they are, but I know better. I know it as an effect of the pressure applied to fire breathers. Since they are in short demand, it is almost impossible for both brothers to make it to Elitist Castle, it is Parsifal or Taj, and that’s simply the truth, and Anomaly can be cold when it comes to competition.     

I slip past Parsifal with a grin and find Carousel backstage. I need to find my place with our group before we go on. “Seven minutes!” a Stage Helper wielding a clipboard calls for all to hear. 

Author's Note

Is there anything I can do to improve the flow? Is the dialogue believable? Anything needed to make this first chapter more gripping?

Reviews

[Flarare Weet]

I found chapter one to be quite informative, your description of the gym and it practitioners were vivid and well-written. The characters introduced have unusual names, and I enjoyed the glimpses of each of their personalities.
I liked the flow, and the dialogue was believable. However I was not gripped to this chapter, because it just creates a setting. For instance, nothing exciting is happening - but that doesn't matter, you can open up the story in any way you want x)

[SierraT]

Thank you for your review! So glad you liked the descriptions & names! Yeah I was a bit concerned about there not being enough action but I'm going to look back over it and see if I can compensatr for it.Thanks again :)