As You Fall
by Maggie Wu
The auditions came only once a year. Same place, same date, same time. There were few advertisements floating around, but the people in the business never forgot.
Lucille was one such woman. She and maybe a hundred other hopefuls sat in the large auditorium, carefully preened and plucked for the great occasion. They all listened with rapt attention as the owner of the circus gave his opening speech, a wordy thing with poor constructions but eloquent nevertheless.
The speech concluded, the audience clapped politely, and the presenter gestured behind himself with a sweep of his arm. A slim, delicate-looking girl (“She can’t be more than eighteen!”) wordlessly climbed up a towering podium at one end of the stage. Her routine led her across the tightrope to the opposite podium at the other end of the stage. There was no net beneath her.
Each measured movement drew a person’s eyes. The lines of her body seamlessly blended into each other, and moved with what seemed to be no effort at all. Her balance was impeccable, her posture ramrod-straight, and the elegance of the routine made it appear as a dance on solid ground.
She was beyond perfect. Her legs extended to such degrees that each spectator was sure they would pop right out of their sockets. Her arms and back bent with such dexterity that the spectators assured themselves she was not human; she did not have bolts or hinges on the inside as humans did. The performer herself was not looking anywhere of importance. A keen observer near her, perhaps, would notice that her eyes remained unmoving, perpetually trained on the corner where wall and ceiling met.
She finished her routine with aplomb, and another round of applause from the hopefuls brought the end of the demonstration and the beginning of the auditions.
Lucille glanced down at the scrap of paper crumpled in her hand, a little damp with perspiration from her palm. She wasn’t far down the list.
When her number was called, she walked up the stage on numb legs, proceeding to backstage where the auditions were held.
Upon walking in, the presenter and owner of the circus scanned her over with his eyes, muttering something incomprehensible to the assistant beside him as the assistant hurriedly took down notes.
“No need to provide me with any information. I’ll ask for it afterwards if deemed necessary,” he told her.
Lucille nodded and licked her lips with trepidation, climbing up a similar podium to the one just performed on. She resisted the urge to check if her bun was still perfect, if her costume was on just right, or if he was even watching.
She looked toward the end of the rope from the dizzying height she now stood at. There was no net here, either. It’s not that far, she reassured herself.
It was destructive to her nerves, hearing nothing but the soft sound of her slippers on the wire and the scratching of the assistant’s pen on paper. She had barely started her routine and congratulated herself on not screwing up yet, when the man said, “That’s enough.”
She was hardly a third of the way along the wire, and as he spoke her foot touched what felt to be an irregularity in the wire. The wire seemed to fall away beneath her feet, and she followed.
The height was fatal. Lucille’s body lay in a broken heap near the bottom of the first podium, and the owner walked up to it. He crouched down and grabbed a firm hold of her face, inspecting her along the length of her body. He nodded towards his assistant. “Take it to the back. This one will be fine for the next puppet.”
The assistant grabbed Lucille’s body, lugging it over to a semi-concealed door in a corner of the room. He dumped it in a pile of similar bodies, all lined up to be molded into the next year’s rotation of marionettes for the circus acts.
He walked back out towards the main auditorium. “Number 17!”
by Maggie Wu
The auditions came only once a year. Same place, same date, same time. There were few advertisements floating around, but the people in the business never forgot.
Lucille was one such woman. She and maybe a hundred other hopefuls sat in the large auditorium, carefully preened and plucked for the great occasion. They all listened with rapt attention as the owner of the circus gave his opening speech, a wordy thing with poor constructions but eloquent nevertheless.
The speech concluded, the audience clapped politely, and the presenter gestured behind himself with a sweep of his arm. A slim, delicate-looking girl (“She can’t be more than eighteen!”) wordlessly climbed up a towering podium at one end of the stage. Her routine led her across the tightrope to the opposite podium at the other end of the stage. There was no net beneath her.
Each measured movement drew a person’s eyes. The lines of her body seamlessly blended into each other, and moved with what seemed to be no effort at all. Her balance was impeccable, her posture ramrod-straight, and the elegance of the routine made it appear as a dance on solid ground.
She was beyond perfect. Her legs extended to such degrees that each spectator was sure they would pop right out of their sockets. Her arms and back bent with such dexterity that the spectators assured themselves she was not human; she did not have bolts or hinges on the inside as humans did. The performer herself was not looking anywhere of importance. A keen observer near her, perhaps, would notice that her eyes remained unmoving, perpetually trained on the corner where wall and ceiling met.
She finished her routine with aplomb, and another round of applause from the hopefuls brought the end of the demonstration and the beginning of the auditions.
Lucille glanced down at the scrap of paper crumpled in her hand, a little damp with perspiration from her palm. She wasn’t far down the list.
When her number was called, she walked up the stage on numb legs, proceeding to backstage where the auditions were held.
Upon walking in, the presenter and owner of the circus scanned her over with his eyes, muttering something incomprehensible to the assistant beside him as the assistant hurriedly took down notes.
“No need to provide me with any information. I’ll ask for it afterwards if deemed necessary,” he told her.
Lucille nodded and licked her lips with trepidation, climbing up a similar podium to the one just performed on. She resisted the urge to check if her bun was still perfect, if her costume was on just right, or if he was even watching.
She looked toward the end of the rope from the dizzying height she now stood at. There was no net here, either. It’s not that far, she reassured herself.
It was destructive to her nerves, hearing nothing but the soft sound of her slippers on the wire and the scratching of the assistant’s pen on paper. She had barely started her routine and congratulated herself on not screwing up yet, when the man said, “That’s enough.”
She was hardly a third of the way along the wire, and as he spoke her foot touched what felt to be an irregularity in the wire. The wire seemed to fall away beneath her feet, and she followed.
The height was fatal. Lucille’s body lay in a broken heap near the bottom of the first podium, and the owner walked up to it. He crouched down and grabbed a firm hold of her face, inspecting her along the length of her body. He nodded towards his assistant. “Take it to the back. This one will be fine for the next puppet.”
The assistant grabbed Lucille’s body, lugging it over to a semi-concealed door in a corner of the room. He dumped it in a pile of similar bodies, all lined up to be molded into the next year’s rotation of marionettes for the circus acts.
He walked back out towards the main auditorium. “Number 17!”