Picture Perfect

Tales from the Kichirou Show - Chapter Two

Welcome to the Kichirou Show! Where the lights are bright, and the popcorn flows freely. Join us as we travel the country and entertain the masses, reminding patrons of a bygone era with carnival games, circus acts, and the controversial sideshow.

If there is something you fear, you can run away here.

Mitch Lorrins runs to the Kichirou Show to escape murder allegations. Suz joins the show in search of a fugitive. Agi the dragon flees an intergalactic cartel, and Lucky barrels through reality in the hopes of preventing the apocalypse.

But pack up and leave, and you’ll surely bleed…

Not everyone will be able to get what they want, and no one will escape.

Tales from the Kichirou Show is a serialized volume of interconnected short stories that gradually come together to weave a larger tapestry. If you’re new, then start here:

---

Chapter Two

The world was black but not silent.

Wind whistled past Meera Morrigan’s ears as she soared blindly through the air. Her legs curled around an aerial hoop, toes perfectly pointed. She arched her back and extended her arms downward, conscious of how her fingers dangled. A voice rose from the depths of her mind to chastise a younger Meera for neglecting her finger positioning. People in the audience would notice limp fingers.

Meera opened her right hand and effortlessly caught the handle of a knife thrown to her from the stage below. Still blindfolded, she swung upright to perch in the curve of the hoop. A beat later, she caught a second knife in her left hand. She swung her legs to gain momentum, then slipped one leg through another aerial hoop. Moving from one hoop to the other, Meera gave both knives a dramatic twirl.

Long ago, she had discovered that she loved it best in the air where no one else could reach her. Her own personal pocket universe.

A personal pocket universe … Why did that specific phrasing come to mind? They didn’t feel like her words, more like something someone once said to her. Who would have described acrobatics in such a way? Certainly not her brother Atlas or any of the other acrobats. These intrusive thoughts had been plaguing her more often recently. A phrase would pop into her head, or a smell would waft by and prompt the ghost of a memory to appear. But the memory always slipped through her fingers before she could grasp it.

Her balance slipped. For one heart-racing moment, Meera teetered on the hoop and dropped a knife in order to catch herself. From the stage, she heard a gasp, then the thump of a body hitting the floor. Meera pushed the blindfold up and squinted against the shine of the spotlights.

Atlas laid supine next to his unicycle, where he’d been juggling knives and tossing them up for Meera to catch. Dark brown hair fell over his face to mask his eyes. Spurts of blood pumped steadily from his neck, soaking into his white shirt and gray sweatpants and pooling on the stage. She held her breath, afraid to blink. The longer he didn’t move, the more she feared they had made a mistake.

Then Atlas jumped up. His hair and shirt were soaked in blood, but his hazel eyes were bright and filled with life. He smiled and held out his arms to the audience.

“What do you think?”

The act had gone exactly as planned. Meera exhaled.

This morning, they had an audience of one. The Kichirou Show’s creative director, Sandford Moon, sat in the third row. His ever present scowl stood out among the shadows. He resembled a poet at a coffee shop, she thought, with his hipster clothes and messy brown hair. Planting his hands on the chair in front of him, Moon leveraged himself to his feet.

“What do I think?” That grating tone always preceded a tirade. “I think that tacky display is either going to give the audience a heart attack because they think you’ve been killed, or they’ll get sick because of that ridiculous arterial spray. It’s a toss-up.”

Atlas looked down at the puddle in which he stood. “Was it too much fake blood?”

Moon’s eyes almost popped out of his skull. “Any amount of fake blood is too much!” He tipped his head back to address Meera. “I expect this from him, but how did you get dragged into it?”

She pumped her legs as though she sat on a playground swing and shrugged. “Atlas needed someone who could do the act blindfolded.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Moon hung his head.

“I think it’ll be a hit,” declared her brother. “If we need a third opinion, we can do it again for Reggie.”

“What is the point of showing your little sister?” Moon snapped. “You already know that she’ll be on your side. The only change that Regina would have you make is to replace the artificial blood with red glitter. She would even keep the arterial spray!”

Atlas scratched his chin, smearing some of the faux blood. “Glitter blood … I think I like it.”

The director groaned. “Somehow, I made this heinous act of kitsch even worse.”

“Come on, Moon! It’s not like you’re fighting for high art. This is cheap entertainment!”

“Yes, it is cheap,” he agreed. Flecks of angry spit flew from his lips. “But the problem is that your audience comes here for the generic brand of Cirque du Soleil, not B-movie horror! Why must we have this argument every time you propose a new act?”

Sensing that her presence was no longer required, Meera quietly lowered herself to the stage floor where she collected their props. She left the argument and the artificial blood for her younger brother to clean up.

Exiting the auditorium, Meera strolled into the fairgrounds. From here, she had a good view of the midway where guests could eat fried food and play carnival games. Farther away were the main act tents. Whenever the show visited bigger cities that lacked outdoor space, they would rent a theater or an arena and put on a variety show, which was fine, but Meera preferred the fairgrounds. People were more spread out and didn’t butt heads so often.

She squinted into the distance. Miles off was a nameless city, silhouetted against the early evening sun. Being on the road year round, Meera frequently forgot the show’s location. One month, they were somewhere on the East Coast, and next month, they were in the Midwest. It was impossible for her memory to keep up.

She frowned, thinking of those words that had floated through her mind—a personal pocket universe—the source of which also had no desire to stick in her memory.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Her heart and legs leaped at the same time, causing her to step on her brother’s toes. Buying time to regain her composure, Meera wiped at the fake blood smeared on her T-shirt; Atlas was still covered in the stuff.

“Nothing worth that much,” she huffed. “Did you and Moon resolve your issues?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, the motion rigid. “As much as we ever do. I’m thinking of going off script for opening night.”

“Don’t.” Veering in front of him, Meera poked him in the sternum. The pressure made fake blood ooze from the fabric of his shirt. “You’re going to give him a stroke one day.”

Atlas rolled his eyes. “If anyone gets the honor of giving Moon a stroke, it’ll be Reg. I’m counting on her to be her usual self so that Moon is too distracted to even think about me on opening night.”

Opening night normally filled Meera with giddiness, but these phantom memories put a damper on her spirit. A dark cloud hung over her head, and no matter what she did, she could not shake the feeling of impending disaster.

---

Payroll was five days late.

In the past four years, Meera had promptly received a check every two weeks on the dot. Stranger still: she hadn’t noticed that payroll was late until Christopher Taylor, one of the clowns, came to her hotel room to deliver said paycheck.

When she opened the door, she had to tip her head all the way back. Christopher was exceptionally tall and constantly hunched his shoulders to make himself seem smaller. With his odd posture, gangly limbs, and big blue eyes, he bore a resemblance to a giant praying mantis.

Christopher mumbled something that might have been, “Hey, Meera,” except the pen between his teeth garbled his words. The pen was in his mouth because both arms were occupied with a bulging binder, which threatened to spill folders and envelopes all over the floor. The binder should have been in the possession of the show’s accountant.

The accountant … What was his name? She was positive that he was a man, just like she knew that she ought to know him. He wasn’t some nameless stagehand temporarily hired for the month. What did he look like? The more she tried to remember his face, the fuzzier his features became.

The pen slipped from Christopher’s mouth when he smiled at her. “Here you go.” He pulled two fingers free of the binder to hand her a plain white envelope. “Sorry for the delay.”

“The accountant left,” she blurted out and picked up the fallen pen. That had to be why her check was late. “Do you remember him?”

Christopher frowned. “The accountant?”

“Yes, for the Kichirou Show. We had one, and he … he left. He must have.” The envelope crinkled as her hands balled into fists. Christopher did his best to look concerned while juggling the cumbersome paperwork occupying his arms.

“I guess that makes sense,” he said. “All I know is that Regina shoved the Big Binder of Everything at me and told me to pay people.”

Meera bit her lip and continued to crumple the envelope. Giving her a concerned look, Christopher backed away from the door, hunching his shoulders until his neck completely disappeared.

“O-o-okay, then … I have other rounds to make so…”

She stood in the doorway and watched him retreat. If Regina delegated payroll to Christopher, then she must remember the accountant. Still chewing on her lip, Meera smoothed out the envelope with her check in it. She needed to pay her sister a visit.

---

Meera hunted all over the fairgrounds for Regina, phantom memories haunting her all the while. It felt like flipping through a photo album in her mind. At a glance, everything was ordinary. Meera imagined pausing on a picture of her, Atlas, and Regina when they were children. Three little dark-haired, olive-skinned kids without a care in the world. In that photo, the three of them had round baby faces covered in chocolate. They were smearing their food all over the table and each other.

Perfectly innocent … Until she noticed the shadow of a fourth person on the wall behind them. No one else was in the photo, no one who could produce such a shadow. It was either a ghost, or someone had been edited out of the picture. Evidence of missing people were present in other memories, too. Other shadows that were only noticeable once she looked for them.

Someone or something had been editing her memories. Besides the show’s accountant, how many other people had she lost? Everywhere she looked now, she saw the shadows of people long gone. People erased to near perfection. They didn’t have names or physical features beyond vague human shapes. Sometimes, she almost heard them whisper things, almost felt their breath caress her skin.

---

When opening night came around, Meera still hadn’t been able to corner Regina—a feat considering they shared a motel room at night—nor did she have any luck pinning down those slippery memories.

She sat in an auditorium dressing room, blending her eyeshadow, when she noticed her brother’s fidgeting reflection in the mirror. He pulled the collar of his costume away from his neck so that he could tape packets of artificial blood where no one would see them. Meera raised an eyebrow.

“Did Moon change his mind about eighty-sixing the fake blood?”

“What Moon doesn’t know—” He grimaced and stretched to tape another blood packet to the back of his shoulder. “—won’t hurt him.”

A knock came from the open door. Wide-eyed, Atlas spun around, hiding the illicit blood packets behind his back. A second later, Moon swung around the corner.

“You guys ready? You’re on in twenty.” His gaze moved from Meera and narrowed on Atlas. “Why are you sweating so much? Are you getting sick?”

“No, I’m fine.” Her brother’s reply was a little too quick to sound truly innocent. “It’s just hot in here.”

“Uh huh.” Moon consulted a gold pocket watch. “As much as I don’t believe you, I still need to veto ninety percent of Regina’s wardrobe for the night. Otherwise, she’ll open the cabaret looking like a hooker drag queen who cosplays as the Little Mermaid.”

The director shot Atlas another suspicious look before closing the door. Atlas slouched in relief before a contemplative expression crossed his face. “That description was way too specific to be hypothetical. Have you ever been to the cabaret?”

“Never had time.” Satisfied with the way her blue eyeshadow shimmered under the vanity’s lights, Meera dabbed a little extra hair gel onto her fingertips to slick back any errants hairs. “Atlas, you should make sure our props are all ready.”

Grumbling about her taking too long to get ready, he stalked out of the dressing room. Meera returned her attention to the mirror. Her reflection blinked, hazel eyes hooded by shimmering blue umbrellas. Nimble fingers worked mechanically to add more hairspray to the bun atop her head. For a fraction of a second, she swore she felt ghostly fingers prodding her hair to ensure that it was adequately secure. Instructive hands that were prepared to guide her if she misplaced a hairpin.

“Who are you?” she murmured to the mirror. No one replied, and the phantom fingers slipped away. Feeling silly, Meera shook her head and gathered her makeup and hair supplies.

Hinges squeaked as the door slowly opened behind her.

“Is everything okay, Atlas?”

But when she turned, it wasn’t her brother at the dressing room door.

A man in a pinstripe suit and a dark red overcoat filled the entryway. Blindingly white gloves straightened his black bowtie. The man greeted Meera by tipping his black top hat to her. His face was hidden behind a white smiling mask. She sighed.

“Oh, it’s you.”

The Magician’s distinct costume was a familiar sight around the Kichirou Show. Even though she grew up as a member of the troupe, Meera still didn’t know who was under the Magician’s mask. Allegedly, it was bad luck to ask him for his real identity.

One flourish of his gloved hands produced a red rose from the air. He bowed theatrically and presented the rose to Meera.

“Um, thanks.” She accepted the flower with a forced smile. “You break a leg, too.”

Straightening his posture, he dusted his hands together. A job well done. Then he tilted his head, as if to ask, What’s on your mind?

Meera rubbed the back of her neck. She hadn’t told anyone about her recent preoccupation, but what harm could come from confiding in the Magician? He never spoke a word while in costume, so he wouldn’t ridicule her.

“You’ve been here a long time, right?” she asked him.

The Magician made a sweeping gesture with his arms to indicate that he had been a part of the show for longer than she knew.

“So, you’ve seen a ton of people join and leave the show.”

He rocked his head back and forth, as if to say, Yes, one or two.

A moment of hesitation stilled her tongue, but she pressed on. “Whenever someone left, did you … forget they ever existed?”

The Magician’s posture stiffened. Tension threaded through the air in the room, like strings of anxiety pulled as taut as her hair. The Magician’s body became closed off, impossible to read. He stepped closer, and she imagined she heard the tremulous keen of a violin. Each step forward softly sawed the strings that stretched across the dressing room. Her mouth went dry as she retreated step by step, her trembling footfalls plinking timidly like piano keys. She backed up until she stumbled into a rack of costumes. The Magician only stopped advancing once they stood toe to toe.

She flinched at the swift flick of his wrist. In a fluid motion, he produced a deck of playing cards. He fanned them before her, face down. The command behind the gesture was clear: Pick a card. Any card.

Pausing a moment to steady her fingers, Meera plucked a card at random. She flipped it over. It was the jack of spades.

Spades … A violent implication.

The cards shuffled and snapped in the Magician’s hands. He stacked them again and motioned for her to put her card somewhere in the middle. After she did so, he cut the deck several times. Then he straightened the cards and reached for Meera’s face. She recoiled, but at the last second, his path diverted. He touched the shell of her ear. When he pulled back, there was a single playing card between his fingers. Meera took it and turned it over.

The jack of spades.

An invisible hand cut the strings spanning the room, releasing the tension. It was only a card trick, something she often saw the Magician do. She chuckled. “That’s very good.”

The Magician sank into a deep bow. She attempted to return the jack of spades to him, but he waved his hand in refusal.

“Um … okay.”

What was she supposed to do with a single playing card? She didn’t want to refuse the gift, especially not when she was going on stage in a matter of minutes.

Meera placed the jack of spades and the rose on the vanity.

“I ought to go now, but thank you for the flower and the card trick.”

The Magician clasped his hands and bowed his head to say, It was my pleasure.

The next few minutes passed in a blur. The Magician left, and Atlas returned to fetch her for their act. Sooner than it seemed possible, Meera was blindfolded and dangling from an aerial hoop. Distantly, she heard the audience oohing and ahhing as Atlas juggled knives below her. Meera tuned them out and focused on keeping time in her head. This was a dance between the two of them.

The world was dark but not silent.

Right on time, she caught the first knife. She held it for three beats, then dropped it. The audience cheered and clapped.

Her personal pocket universe, flying high in the air.

Meera twisted and swung, getting ready to grab the second hoop, when she felt that ghost of a memory. The ghost that reminded her to point her toes and mind her fingers.

All of a sudden, a burst of color invaded the darkness, though Meera could still feel the blindfold covering her eyes. Another acrobat hung from the second aerial hoop by his legs. He swung out to meet her in the air.

For an instant, Meera had no idea who he was. His hair was light brown and his eyes a sparkling blue. His costume was blue and green, much like hers. Then recognition hit her like a brick to the forehead, and the ghostly memory—no longer faceless—had a name.

“Dad?” she gasped.

He winked at her and smiled. “Hey, Meerkat.”

In a plume of smoke, he vanished. And in her astonishment, Meera slipped. She only had a fraction of a second to marvel that she had somehow forgotten the face and name of her own father. Then she thought, I can’t believe I’m falling.

The audience cried out in alarm, and Meera’s leg cracked as she hit the floor.

Read the next chapter: Chapter Three - Pie in the Sky