City of the Dead.xxAlan: Thought Balloons
the Park City series
City of the Dead, Book One
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 807
Workshop?: Not really. This is an exploratory mission. Originally written under a limit of 2012 words.
Alan: Thought Balloons
“Getchyer balloons hee-ah!” The cry was half-hearted. The tourists were long gone, and these suburban lanes deserted for whatever passed as more lively environs on a Tuesday night; the man’s weary hands would not part with another balloon until morning. By all rights he’d had a long day - so long that he’d made the rookie mistake of catching the tail end of a parade. Forth from carefully concealed spouts flowed the official black and gold of the theme park city.
Though it swarmed down through the air and lanes before his wrinkled eyes like rain into a river, the flurry was not enough to hide a boy facing due north in the lamplight of the upcoming asterisk crossroads. Three streets, sprinkled with corpuscles of confetti in various stages of dissolution, carved connections through his middle. For a moment, the seller mistook the celebratory detritus stuck to the heel of the young man’s shoe and cap for plumes and feathers.
“A balloon a day keeps the gloom away!”
This Hermes of a boy was intent on letting his sight dance with the twirling, unnatural shreds of snow. Intensity is what waltzed his worries away from their preoccupations in the northeast-southwest lane. It was a well of nausea for him, its success making his failings all the more sour-
“All your favorite characters!” The balloonist took a break at pushing his cart to indulge in an extended expedition in coughing phlegm into the gutter. “Long lasting!”
-couldn’t believe the only criticism to be found was in the clashing colors his opponent had chosen. The bright young Apollo, source of searing jealousy, had done what servile Hermes could not. Apollo speaks, and others listen. Apollo speaks, but only if the ideas are conversationally fresh. Never a repetition or a wasted word. The withholding must be his quiet trick, scarring a glowing sun over listeners’ hearts. If only Hermes could harness the other’s ability to draw people in-
“Want a balloon?” Sudden recognition. “Oh, how’d your contest go? You gonna be a big hot shot or what?”
-he, too, would succeed at designing a crowd-pleasing parade. Scrawny gypsy from a foster home - everyone felt bad for Apollo, is what it was. That’s why so much money had been donated to a nobody-
“Kid, it’s late, everyone’s gone home.”
-and everyone knows money makes the world spin. Now Apollo will get the better sponsor and the spot in the program instead. Had Hermes overlooked some faux pas he’d committed against the popular-
“Hey, I made a few too many tonight and, eh, looks like you could use one.”
-opinion? Hermes felt like digging his fingertips into his flesh and clawing the whole mass from his body like a tight shirt before bed. How could they not see the ingenious critique a silent cabaret was on the form of parades, what a tour de-
“It’s on the house. Kid?”
“Oblivious much?”
“I-“
“I’m thinking, if you’re familiar with it.”
The balloonist looked at his dwindled herd, moored to the earth before him. “Many interesting thoughts when I fill them up in the morning.”
“I’m sure they’re real winners.”
“Had a few extra tonight, is all. Thought-”
“This ‘trapment?” Hermes’ eyes narrowed at the potato-sack man hunched over his push-cart. “You say it’s free and then you call the cops and get some reward for catching a shoplifter?”
“No, but I’m con-“
“Fine. Give me it.” Hermes’ impatient hand went for the tied cluster. The balloonist resisted. Hermes entangled the elder’s hands in the lines and tore at a string tendon with his teeth, an albatross skimming the sea for prey. After a fumble at the knot, the young god’s icy fingertips pressed red rubber to flushed lips. His lungs flooded with gas. Eyeing the seller, he held for a moment before cocking his head to the side and exhaling a plume with a force that propelled it past the purview of the street lamps’ glow.
With each draw of balloon, the seller seemed to shrink and harden.
“So far none of these are any good, mate.” Another inhale and the seller became truly concerned that he would fall to the ground. “Morning Thoughts- you call these ‘interesting’?” Eyes, usually so engaged, seemed sullenly faraway as each thought was considered and dismissed with a mouthed “no” that trailed an “-o” of smoke.
No. o. No. o. “Not a one.” One last incredulous scoff from Hermes before he finished off the balloon. When the scent of his surroundings rekindled, he drew a breath and before long the balloon was refilled, cast into the sky on a new line. As the balloon rose, something in Hermes followed it upward, lifting his toes off the ground.
City of the Dead, Book One
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 807
Workshop?: Not really. This is an exploratory mission. Originally written under a limit of 2012 words.
Alan: Thought Balloons
“Getchyer balloons hee-ah!” The cry was half-hearted. The tourists were long gone, and these suburban lanes deserted for whatever passed as more lively environs on a Tuesday night; the man’s weary hands would not part with another balloon until morning. By all rights he’d had a long day - so long that he’d made the rookie mistake of catching the tail end of a parade. Forth from carefully concealed spouts flowed the official black and gold of the theme park city.
Though it swarmed down through the air and lanes before his wrinkled eyes like rain into a river, the flurry was not enough to hide a boy facing due north in the lamplight of the upcoming asterisk crossroads. Three streets, sprinkled with corpuscles of confetti in various stages of dissolution, carved connections through his middle. For a moment, the seller mistook the celebratory detritus stuck to the heel of the young man’s shoe and cap for plumes and feathers.
“A balloon a day keeps the gloom away!”
This Hermes of a boy was intent on letting his sight dance with the twirling, unnatural shreds of snow. Intensity is what waltzed his worries away from their preoccupations in the northeast-southwest lane. It was a well of nausea for him, its success making his failings all the more sour-
“All your favorite characters!” The balloonist took a break at pushing his cart to indulge in an extended expedition in coughing phlegm into the gutter. “Long lasting!”
-couldn’t believe the only criticism to be found was in the clashing colors his opponent had chosen. The bright young Apollo, source of searing jealousy, had done what servile Hermes could not. Apollo speaks, and others listen. Apollo speaks, but only if the ideas are conversationally fresh. Never a repetition or a wasted word. The withholding must be his quiet trick, scarring a glowing sun over listeners’ hearts. If only Hermes could harness the other’s ability to draw people in-
“Want a balloon?” Sudden recognition. “Oh, how’d your contest go? You gonna be a big hot shot or what?”
-he, too, would succeed at designing a crowd-pleasing parade. Scrawny gypsy from a foster home - everyone felt bad for Apollo, is what it was. That’s why so much money had been donated to a nobody-
“Kid, it’s late, everyone’s gone home.”
-and everyone knows money makes the world spin. Now Apollo will get the better sponsor and the spot in the program instead. Had Hermes overlooked some faux pas he’d committed against the popular-
“Hey, I made a few too many tonight and, eh, looks like you could use one.”
-opinion? Hermes felt like digging his fingertips into his flesh and clawing the whole mass from his body like a tight shirt before bed. How could they not see the ingenious critique a silent cabaret was on the form of parades, what a tour de-
“It’s on the house. Kid?”
“Oblivious much?”
“I-“
“I’m thinking, if you’re familiar with it.”
The balloonist looked at his dwindled herd, moored to the earth before him. “Many interesting thoughts when I fill them up in the morning.”
“I’m sure they’re real winners.”
“Had a few extra tonight, is all. Thought-”
“This ‘trapment?” Hermes’ eyes narrowed at the potato-sack man hunched over his push-cart. “You say it’s free and then you call the cops and get some reward for catching a shoplifter?”
“No, but I’m con-“
“Fine. Give me it.” Hermes’ impatient hand went for the tied cluster. The balloonist resisted. Hermes entangled the elder’s hands in the lines and tore at a string tendon with his teeth, an albatross skimming the sea for prey. After a fumble at the knot, the young god’s icy fingertips pressed red rubber to flushed lips. His lungs flooded with gas. Eyeing the seller, he held for a moment before cocking his head to the side and exhaling a plume with a force that propelled it past the purview of the street lamps’ glow.
With each draw of balloon, the seller seemed to shrink and harden.
“So far none of these are any good, mate.” Another inhale and the seller became truly concerned that he would fall to the ground. “Morning Thoughts- you call these ‘interesting’?” Eyes, usually so engaged, seemed sullenly faraway as each thought was considered and dismissed with a mouthed “no” that trailed an “-o” of smoke.
No. o. No. o. “Not a one.” One last incredulous scoff from Hermes before he finished off the balloon. When the scent of his surroundings rekindled, he drew a breath and before long the balloon was refilled, cast into the sky on a new line. As the balloon rose, something in Hermes followed it upward, lifting his toes off the ground.