Systems
Warm orange lanterns sway down from a storm grey sealing. Deep pale grey blue purlins line the dome shaped roof. The faint scents of dirt and leaves dance through the air with the sounds of the wind and an old ticking clock. Light streams in through large web-like windows, coloring the whole area in an orange tint, courtesy of the reflection from colorful leaves outside. Plants that hang from hooks and sprout from pots climb their way around the space. Bean bags and old vintage moss blue furniture are littered around the room.
Two figures sit around a red mahogany table at the center. One of them is dressed in both black cargo pants and a black cargo coat that carries a neckline similar to that of a straight jacket. Her face is gaunt, pale and not particularly feminine, with a frame of ink black hair that flows like murky water to pool around her on a dark slate grey chair. She has her arm curled tightly around a large marble orange patterned bowl that is filled with at least a dozen different kinds of fruit. The other figure sits on a black beanbag, with uncannily good posture, wearing a long trench coat that resembles the color and texture of pumpkin skin, flowy navy blue pants, and a navy blue vest laid over a white dress shirt. Their skin is a deep warm toned brown that compliments the large amount of copper jewelry that is sporadically placed about their person. Their black hair is in large bubble braids that are segmented by small copper rings. They reach over to pet a pumpkin that has a vacant look and a too wide human teethed smile.
“You need to be more cognizant of our resources. How would we possibly manage to acquire enough money to run a 24 hour long advertisement on social media?” The one in orange, Warren, says in a drought dry tone. Their soft cheeks are pushed up in a sneer and their large eyebrows are forced down into a scowl. Warren leans forward, forced down by the weight of their irritation.
“Stop using those large words at me, I was merely making a suggestion.” The one in black, Linn, rolls her sunken eyes as she crunches into an apple. Her sparse, patchy, eyebrows are raised to crease her forehead. She is practically sprawled over her chair, as if she is trying to use up every last inch of its space.
“Tsk, you’ve been making impractical suggestions for an hour now, we need to start thinking of ideas that could work.” Warren hisses as they cross their legs.
“Alright, well, we are still adumbrating the plan. You gotta brainstorm a few bad ideas to get to the real gold.”
“I think we need something closer to a brain-cyclone.” Warren leans back, sinking into the squishy mass of bean-bag. They place a hand on their temple and stare vacantly at the ornately decorated corner of the room. The ticking of an old clock dances through space with the vacuous stares and crushing of fruit. Time stretches onward as the ticking seems to grow louder and ever more present. Both Linn and Warren spend significant energy avoiding eye contact as they sporadically glance around the room.
“Are we sure there is nothing more we can pawn off? It’d be really helpful if we had more than,” Linn squints her eyes at a small pile of bills and coins that sit on the small table, “thirty-three dollars and eighty-three cents?”
Warren exhaustedly groans, leaning back further and putting their palms on their eyes. “We’re not going to make it in time.” Their voice is small, like a single insect suddenly unable to move through a seemingly wide mass of air.
Linn glances over, seemingly sinking into, instead of sprawling on, her seat as her expression flattens, then throwing a few extra grapes in her mouth she says. “Hey, we’ve worked hard. We will make this festival work. We already got twenty-three in the past month. Remember, just five more people by sunset tomorrow.” A wan smile settles onto her face as she nervously glances over at the other.
“Five people in a day can’t be too hard, we just need to do better than we have been.” Warren says in a tone so dry, it might outdo the crunchiest autumn leaf. They sit up, glancing at an ancient ornate grandfather clock, whose gears could only be described as moving in a churning motion, and place their hands on their knees like a dad about to announce the approach of a storm. “We should start preparing what we have, then.”
The human teethed pumpkin next to Warren widens its smile.
…
A small market spouts and sprawls like the vines of a gourd across the cleared field of yellowing grass. The sun is just barely peeking its head over the horizon, likely unable to even see over it at this point. Stalls, booths, tents, and strangely precarious huts butt up against each other under the grey sky. Warren and Linn pull up with a moving truck, parking it in front of their tent and craft table. Two large carefully painted signs sit on top of the floppy structure. They bear large letters that spell out “Fantastical creature creation; a healthy outlet for your children's strange interests” and “Become an Art Witch”. The surrounding area is practically deserted, since, while all the stalls are already set up, their owners are now gathering at the entrance to participate in the opening of the festival. Linn and Warren open up the back of the truck to reveal many many pairs of glowing eyes staring out at them from inside the dark. A six foot tall creature with incredibly long, spindly, skeletal limbs creeps out on a fours. It turns its deer skull head and wiggles its teeth at Linn. A three foot tall pale green gourd shuffles on at least 9 different feet-like vines as random sections of the creature open with slurping crunches to reveal human eyes that glance around sluggishly, before closing with soft thunks. Something that could only be compared to a spider crawls out of the vehicle, from the ceiling, before moving rapidly towards the somewhat deflated tent and table. Its thorax is made of a mammalian ribcage, its legs of skeletal human arms, and its head of a skull of some sort of canid. A twisting flailing long gourd, that seemingly has a crown of human teeth and animal tusks sprouting from its ‘head’, saunters over to the feet of Warren, making a lap around them before moving to join the others. At least two dozen other creatures make their way out of the truck in a somewhat orderly fashion. Some have many eyes, legs, noses, teeth, hands, or mouths while others have none of any given feature at all. Many moving carved pumpkins and skeletal organisms join their more abnormal companions as they disembark the vessel.
Each creature settles into a spot in the fifteen by fifteen foot plot of land that surrounds the tent, before becoming entirely still.
“Best behavior everybody.” Warren gives a double thumbs up and a wide strained smile at the veritable menagerie. A few of them give thumbs up back.
Festival horns sound in the distance as Linn drives the truck back behind the plot of land. Warren sits down behind the fold up table that is covered with pens and construction paper, as well as binders filled with ink drawings of various creatures and humans.
People bundled in winter clothing file through the market, flitting from stall to stall like dragonflies. The large display of what they can only guess are wax sculptures get looks from most passerbys and stall owners. A few small groups of people stare or talk to Warren and Linn for a fleeting amount of time, before re-merging with the crowd. At around noon a man, woman, and three kids that can not be older than ten, wander over to Warren and Linn’s booth. The adults glance around from the outer edge of the area while one kid runs up to the table.
“Hello youn-”
“What are those?” The small girl, who has big brown eyes, tan skin, and dark hair, just like the rest of her siblings, gestures wildly to the area. She is wrapped up in a set of very round, and fuzzy, black winter clothes.
“These are sculptures we have formed as an expression of creativity,” Warren smiles, voice pitched up and exaggerated in tone.
“Ohhh,” The girl looks around suspiciously before shuffling back over to her parents.
“Art huh? You know these two,” the man pats the boys who are standing behind the woman, “have a real passion for all the creative stuff.” He smiles wide and bright.
“That's wonderful! Would you both like to hear more about how we run our program while Warren here shows the kids some fall themed crafts?” Linn stands up, gesturing towards the tent and the few seats within.
“Yes, thank you!” The woman, man, and girl who suddenly glued to their side walk into the tent behind Linn.
“We do lots of creature creation in our program. We need a few more members to properly make the experience magical. It would be really great if you could tell your parents to let you join.” Warren winks, helping the boys assemble their paper pumpkins. Their fluffy fall gear is patterned with autumn leaves on different colored backgrounds.
“Why do you need more members?” The boy with a light blue background coat asks.
“Well, you see young man, thirty makes a coven, and we are a few witches short to be able to properly form a sanctuary for all these lovely creatures.” Warren smiles warmly holding out a small orange pumpkin with large black orb like eyes that could be mistaken for some kind of button.
“Why do you need a full thirty-coven to take care of them?” The boy in the white background coat questions.
“Ah, the big scary meanie old men witches decided that you can’t get any sort of resources or funding, if you aren't able to get at least thirty members to your coven, in a timeframe set by them. Resources are things like money, supplies, additional assistance, or any sort of outside help. Without resources it's very difficult to accomplish tasks and support ourselves. The system is not very fair to those who have few resources to begin with.” Warren barely conceals their venom for a large amount of their speech, until that last sentence, where they let their genuine aching tiredness shown through.
“That’s not very nice.” Blue-jacket boy agrees.
Soon the adults walk back out of the tent. The two boys began raving about how they will get to make real creatures and be real witches. The man signs them up after only minor pestering. The little pumpkin with the round black eyes winks at them.
Almost the exact same speech is repeated over and over again to more and more people as the day goes on. Some take a business card and promise to sign up later. Many people laugh awkwardly as they explain their passion for this form of art. People shuffle around uncomfortable, calling their booth and program cute, fun, and interesting. Many have unpleasant reactions to Warren and Linn’s creatures. The reactions are especially so when they are repeated and heard ad nauseam.
“That’s not real art.”
“Kinda funny look’en huh? Haha.”
“Well isn’t this… unique”
“What’s a nice young lady like you doing with all this?”
“This is a little bit of an eyesore, don’t yuh think? Haha”
“Very interesting…”
“Oh I really don’t think I could ever create those things.”
“Don’t they creep y’all out a little?”
“How’d y’all even get into the fair? You're gonna scare all the children. Haha”
“Do people really like those things?”
“Wow look at those things, glad that's not the kind of ‘art’ you do. Haha”
“Have you actually gotten any sales?”
“Is this really what you do for a living? You do have a job right?”
“Y’all really like spooky stuff huh.”
“So… how did you end up doing… this?”
“Do you parents know you’re creating stuff like that?”
“Oh, gosh, that would give my poor grandmother a heart attack. Haha”
“So how much money do you really make?”
Over and over and over and over and over again. For fourteen hours. Fourteen straight hours of talking. Fourteen straight hours of convincing. Fourteen straight hours of pleading. They work to pull every bit of attention they can get from the crowd. They scramble to get every bit of attention they can from the mass of faces. They fight to get a fraction of the attention they need from people. The shifting sea of hundreds of eyes bears down with oceanic pressure that only worsens when they look away. Every piece of practiced perfected speech is forced out to get people to listen for a few moments longer. The continuous dance of specific human connections to find a listening willing ear against crashing tidal waves of fellow dancers.
The sun slowly sets on the festival as Linn sinks to her knees, “We did everything right. We studied for so long,” Her eyes are glossy and hollow, “how could we not get three more? How could we not manage thirty? They said it was easy. That anyone could do it.” Her voice sounds similar to that of fragile glass, “They said we just had to work for it. Every other festival we have gotten at least three. What happened?”
Time stretches on like frozen syrup as birds repeat empty echoes across the horizon.
“We can plead for an extension,” Warren breathes out softly.
“Yeah, we can be the first to get one granted.” Linn's face strains into a vacant smile, without a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“Yeah,” Warren sits down next to her.
They stare and stare and stare and stare and stare. The sky shifts to deep abyssal black as the grass sways and shifts as though it were a roiling sea.
“What are we going to do now?”
“How are we supposed to know?”