SLOW MOVEMENTS

There, on a podium that seems to be made entirely of spindly, twisted lengths of delicate black glass, stands a man. Like others of the sort, you are unsure as to whether he is alive or whether he is merely a statue – his hazel eyes seem to dance with life and, if you stare at them long enough, they move the tiniest fraction.

The Gentleman

The name is fitting, you think. You eye the slicked-back mahogany curls that peak out from underneath the rim of his bowler hat; they seem real, though the slight breeze does not ruffle them. You find yourself wishing that the wind will steal his hat so that he is forced to get down and retrieve it.

He is moving slowly – so slowly that, if you hadn't been standing in front of him for so long, you would have missed it entirely. You don't know how long it takes overall, but eventually the man is bowing to you, head tilted upwards, grin plastered in place. A silver pocket watch rests in his white-gloved hand and you wonder absently whether he is timing his movements by the ticking of the clock. The instrument is silent.

You decide, eventually, to move on and to see the rest of Les Cirque Des Reves.

When you glance at The Gentleman again, hours later, there is a leather bound book clasped in his hands. He is turning a page so slowly that it hardly seems to move.

Shadow Waltzing

The canvas of this tent is not striped – instead, it is jet black and painstakingly embroidered with stunning details in white thread. It beckons to you and you answer it, reading the sign that is meticulously straight where it hangs.

The Pianist

And then, underneath that:

Dance with Dreams and Devils Alike

You enter and are immediately surrounded by what is possibly the most exquisite music you have had the pleasure to hear. A lone piano sits in the centre of the tent, but it is the pianist's voice that enthrals you so much - it is bright and loud and high; the most delicate yet powerful falsetto imaginable. It is haunting and healing at once and, although the words escape your grasp, it wraps around you and gives you the inexplicable urge to dance.

Shadows on the walls flicker in the near-dark, reaching out in long tendrils and swaying to the music. It almost appears as if they leap off the walls, wrapping around air. Suddenly there is a hand in yours, pulling you in to dance. The hand appears to be made up entirely of shadows, and if you hold it tighter your own hand meets very little resistance. A shudder travels down your spine.

The Pianist, the Singer, looks up and you try to catch his eye. He is a stunning man with alabaster skin, chestnut hair and vibrant blue eyes. He continues to sing, saying nothing as you twirl with the darkness, doing nothing to stop the shadow from spinning you.

You don't quite know whether to be terrified or exhilarated.  

Crystal Globes

There are more than one type of fortune teller within the confines of the circus, you've realised. Earlier, a red-headed girl with bright blue eyes had scattered stars across her desk and had found things among the glittering shapes that she shouldn't have been able to know; things that you have told to very few people. This fortune teller does not use stars - no, she is using a cluster of crystal balls to tell you your future. There are 6 of them, each in different sizes, grouped together on her desk - the largest is the size of your head, the smallest the size of your balled fist. The walls of the tent are emblazoned with mirrors, each reflecting streams of light every which way. The fortune teller, with her short blonde hair and delicately angled features, tells you almost exactly the same things that you were told by the redhead. Her soft alto is certain - these are not guesses, they are facts - and there is no way that the two could have conversed or shared information between your visits.

She is a kind woman, one of the only members of the circus who speaks to the patrons as a part of her act, and you find yourself caught up in a somewhat companionable conversation with her about everything and nothing.

In a moment of daring, you ask the lady what her name is. She tells you that it is Quinn, and when you argue that you didn't ask for her stage name, she chuckles lightly.
"You're right; my name is actually Lucy. Quinn is much nicer though, don't you think?" You want to press her for further information, but she tells you that another visitor is about to arrive.

She ushers you out of the tent with an almost maternal smile.