I.
The insight of information consumes my trembling naked body, and so I want to explore my many faces without any forced commitments, because change is inevitable. But change, that shapeshifter, what does it look like now? I turn off the news that announces the emergence of a new body type, now available to purchase as a foreign novelty.
II.
I pick up a mask on my shelf. Where eyes would peek out are instead stitches of floral lace, the kind that covers souls in obscurity. Perfect. I strip away my facial skin and pay homage to the Queen of Faces, the Goddess of Identities, through dance. She who loves all embodiments without discrimination, despite the amorality.
III.
The rest of The Carnival whispers in hushed tones the confusions wrought from my mask, and how cold and distant it appears, even with the flowers beckoning. I confess nothing, and I disappear into corners where there are no corners at all. The sense of voyeurism is palpable. Someone asks me if I’m sure about this new identity I wear, a brave soul who I never see again.
IV.
My new becoming disrupts the ongoings of the local populace and the authorities demand that I remove my mask for the sake of world peace. I do not, for I refuse to be a hypocrite. Are you familiar with The Masque of the Red Death? Their rough hands tear my face apart and I am arrested, my true self exposed.
V.
The world weeps at the sight of my true face, and a new conversation emerges from the revels of this tragedy. What mask shall I now wear in prison? Outside, the eternal agora discusses and conceives of new theories for the face. But the discourse will not last long as old identities are difficult to peel away. We all know this from generational trauma.
VI.
I am told by the guards that they will sell my body as a foreign novelty, face and mask included. They have already signed a contract on behalf of my name. The conversations outside grow more rampant, and the air tinges with a hint of smoke.
VII.
The Carnival fears what I am, and so I am released from prison and immediately exiled into The Nature, an unidentifiable biome of trees and flowers. As I begin my descent into the forest, I sense my voyeurs sensing me as an object of desire the further the distance grows. I do not look back.
VIII.
Every night, the Queen of Faces visits me in sleep. She tells me sotto voce that many cannot bear to enjoy the visage and its fluidities like I have. She kisses me on my dream forehead and sighs that I am a beautiful actor. Hers is a beautiful countenance, frightening to behold.
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Charm Chandler (he/it) is a graphomaniac from the Sunset Reality. He is the author of two nameless short stories, the both of which can be (un)found in Fleas on the Dog and The Collidescope. His poetic work can be found in Vita Poetica and underneath a different pseudonym (he does not encourage you to find it), Poetic Sun. When he is not writing, he is perpetually confused.
Wonderful sense of surreality through this collage of Carnivale scenes, Charm …. I could return & muse on multiple meanings. I particularly liked:
“As I begin my descent into the forest, I sense my voyeurs sensing me as an object of desire the further the distance grows. I do not look back.”
Honoured to be in such great company in Issue 6.
Thank you, Adrea.
I think these days the thin butter-border between the mask and the real self is nigh eliminated. It’s become to the point where I have to ask myself not “oh, is this my real self?” but rather “is this what I prefer?”