The Barbers of Bragovar Boolevard
{prelude}
The sun is still, irradiating crockery rooves, black cats and shallow pools of clear water.
From his rooftop perch Brag the the crowkeeper scan the hazy horizon. Hug and Mug, his borrowed birds, croon in his ear
There is trouble ahead
we can see clearly that rain will come
Lightening strikes and typhoons
Brag chuckles, pulls out his periscope, places its helmet over his eyes and caws to the crows to start.
Hug and Mug clamp the crooked handles in their crooked beaks and begin to crank; their heads turning in circles and their eyes heavenwards
UP goes the unconcertinaing periscope – rising over the smog of the city and showing that there is a storm coming; far off over the Trodden Downs, it gnarls and writhes, flexing misty muscles then
Crack!
From his rooftop perch Brag the the crowkeeper scan the hazy horizon. Hug and Mug, his borrowed birds, croon in his ear
There is trouble ahead
we can see clearly that rain will come
Lightening strikes and typhoons
Brag chuckles, pulls out his periscope, places its helmet over his eyes and caws to the crows to start.
Hug and Mug clamp the crooked handles in their crooked beaks and begin to crank; their heads turning in circles and their eyes heavenwards
UP goes the unconcertinaing periscope – rising over the smog of the city and showing that there is a storm coming; far off over the Trodden Downs, it gnarls and writhes, flexing misty muscles then
Crack!
A rainbow claw clutches at Brag’s eyes
An electric image courses through Brag’s brain
An electric image courses through Brag’s brain
Cor!
He focusses the contraption on the centre of the maelstrom - within, dark titans stride with purpose. The Unctuous are coming.
He puts his periscope away and clears his throat
He puts his periscope away and clears his throat
Right, boys and girls, bugger off and pass on the news
As one the murder croaks, clashes and dashes to the four winds.
Brag’s cheap cape flutters as he clutters down from the silent crow coop. {act i}
The sun's rays cascade in gold through autumnal leaves as Weaver Chiralia bustles between the crowds.
She pauses to look in the window of Portescu's, scanning the lazy interior for signs of life. Flashing in the smoky darkness; a nacreous comb.
Darting through swinging doors, Chiralia hears tinkling bells, sees oak, iron, men sunk into divans and, in an ornate arch, her companion, Potter Oculia.
Draped over an ornamental waiter, Oculia waves langurously, moonwhite and rouged.
"Oh, it's you. How was the circus?"
"Cruel, lewd and expensive, a bit like you."
"Ha - ha. So what's the latest?"
"I hear scattori's developed a cure for collapsed crinkles."
"That old, fraud - probably hot tongs and lemon."
The air, the fans, the waiter move listlessly; rose water sprinkles into polished bowls, shadows pull at the lights.
Oculia yawns, remembers.
"I do have a scoop. Ernesto's has just reopened - they say the old man blinded himself to concentrate on his hands."
"Chiria Mundi;" the weaver knits her fingers.
"Oh yes, and that's not all. The Apophenia's daughter has already been beatified. I can't wait to have his hands on me."
Oculia's eye's turn inwards.
"I am tired of being tired. Do say you'll come. I've come by some philtres that soothe the orbs - he won't resist me."
Chiral loops droop over china cheeks.
The sound of rain perforates the silence. The air chills and is sucked from the room.
Now there is movement, parapluilles unfold, kisses are stolen; we tumble into the street.
"I'm not keen, are you sure it's kosher?"
Oculia and Chiralia swirl wide-eyed past sodden wasps' nests; forlorn fruit floggers and scuffling ladies until they wind up... where?
Ernesto's, of course.
It has grown dank and dark; wet lamps flicker uncertainly on bristling poles; on a high wall, peacocks shake out the unwelcome drops.
"We must go in."
She pauses to look in the window of Portescu's, scanning the lazy interior for signs of life. Flashing in the smoky darkness; a nacreous comb.
Darting through swinging doors, Chiralia hears tinkling bells, sees oak, iron, men sunk into divans and, in an ornate arch, her companion, Potter Oculia.
Draped over an ornamental waiter, Oculia waves langurously, moonwhite and rouged.
"Oh, it's you. How was the circus?"
"Cruel, lewd and expensive, a bit like you."
"Ha - ha. So what's the latest?"
"I hear scattori's developed a cure for collapsed crinkles."
"That old, fraud - probably hot tongs and lemon."
The air, the fans, the waiter move listlessly; rose water sprinkles into polished bowls, shadows pull at the lights.
Oculia yawns, remembers.
"I do have a scoop. Ernesto's has just reopened - they say the old man blinded himself to concentrate on his hands."
"Chiria Mundi;" the weaver knits her fingers.
"Oh yes, and that's not all. The Apophenia's daughter has already been beatified. I can't wait to have his hands on me."
Oculia's eye's turn inwards.
"I am tired of being tired. Do say you'll come. I've come by some philtres that soothe the orbs - he won't resist me."
Chiral loops droop over china cheeks.
The sound of rain perforates the silence. The air chills and is sucked from the room.
Now there is movement, parapluilles unfold, kisses are stolen; we tumble into the street.
"I'm not keen, are you sure it's kosher?"
Oculia and Chiralia swirl wide-eyed past sodden wasps' nests; forlorn fruit floggers and scuffling ladies until they wind up... where?
Ernesto's, of course.
It has grown dank and dark; wet lamps flicker uncertainly on bristling poles; on a high wall, peacocks shake out the unwelcome drops.
"We must go in."
Chiralia’s eye wanders over a crossly twist in a champfered wig in a display case and thinks
:Why not, nothing ventured nothing gained
They approach test and swing the wrought iron gate; something wraps our lady brought low, and makes itself known.
She turns
Is this a good time?
Oh no, I hope not!
From across the street comes laughter the distorted sound of slapped flesh
Silver rain falls
(once)
inside strange lights glow; reflect empty spaces.
A duel row of mirrors ebbs into the knowing dark.
A shaft pierces revealing nothing but motes.
The tiles on the wall twist
the fading posters dim and Ištvan walks in
miserable isn’t it?
Speculating Oculia offers
Today’s fashion? Couldn’t agree more. We’ve heard your boss can work miracles…
Ištvan bristles
Miracles are for Summoners.
He looks into Oculia’s almond eyes and softens
my maestro has been updating me on some of the latest techniques yes yes
He flexes his wrists to show off taught knuckles and bony wrists
Oculia’s eyes brighten
Chiralia hums and sings
Charcoal for dark
Lime for light
Whichever shade
It’s not right
For you
Oculia hisses
Can it, witchlet
Now, what mysteries are you willing to share this bleak day
Ištvan struts to a cloaked pedestal on which is perched a bluejay. He whistles and the bird flurries into flight, lifting the muslin to reveal a glas dome.
Voila!
Inside rotates a wig glittering with golden wires, which twist and twine into the bowers of a willow tree – ruby robins nestle in its trestles.
Oculia predictably sniffs
I’d hoped for something a little more, well, special, if you get my drift…
Perhaps if mademoiselle showed me the métier
Oculia throws back her hood to reveal eyelets and raven’s wings
Ištvan’s hands flutter and move towards her. His emerald eyes paw at her and she turns her head this way and that, her dark recesses glinting in the dusty air.
Chiralia already feels forgotten and sighs resignedly, shakes out her cloak and clears her throat
And where I your master who can work such wonders?
Ištvan cannot take his eyes off her losse friends batting eyelashes; his head jerks as he whispers
He’ll be along soon enough
To Oculia he says sotto voce
Perhaps mistress would enjoy selecting a style from our showcases
Now Ištvan walks over to a curtained recess lined with heads barely visible in red light and proffers his arm to a satin seat; Oculia barely nods and complies.
{Chiralia sighs yet more dramatically as the curtains are drawn and she hears muffled titters and ruffling. She gazes archly into one of the myriad mirrors chcks her hair fore and aft, pats it possessively.
In the reflected reess of the long room she spies movement in the ink - ashuffling ragged outline snuffling under spiral stairs
Suddenly it looks at her
Wild and and macabre it is a dog hair askew yet somehow deliberate it has a power to it malformed its teeth ebb and flow
Chiralia recoils, heads for the doors; her way is barred.
In front is a little girl the kind that adorns boxes of cheap chocolates she is of cours sucking her fingers with an air of bruised innocence.
What’s your name?
Her demanding tone is shrill
None of your beeswax! Let me by...
But you can’t go yet
Uncle says so
And your hair stinks so you need to get washed
Why you little $#17
{Enter Ernesto}
our barber
Wreathed in smoke ,
:Why not, nothing ventured nothing gained
They approach test and swing the wrought iron gate; something wraps our lady brought low, and makes itself known.
She turns
Is this a good time?
Oh no, I hope not!
From across the street comes laughter the distorted sound of slapped flesh
Silver rain falls
(once)
inside strange lights glow; reflect empty spaces.
A duel row of mirrors ebbs into the knowing dark.
A shaft pierces revealing nothing but motes.
The tiles on the wall twist
the fading posters dim and Ištvan walks in
miserable isn’t it?
Speculating Oculia offers
Today’s fashion? Couldn’t agree more. We’ve heard your boss can work miracles…
Ištvan bristles
Miracles are for Summoners.
He looks into Oculia’s almond eyes and softens
my maestro has been updating me on some of the latest techniques yes yes
He flexes his wrists to show off taught knuckles and bony wrists
Oculia’s eyes brighten
Chiralia hums and sings
Charcoal for dark
Lime for light
Whichever shade
It’s not right
For you
Oculia hisses
Can it, witchlet
Now, what mysteries are you willing to share this bleak day
Ištvan struts to a cloaked pedestal on which is perched a bluejay. He whistles and the bird flurries into flight, lifting the muslin to reveal a glas dome.
Voila!
Inside rotates a wig glittering with golden wires, which twist and twine into the bowers of a willow tree – ruby robins nestle in its trestles.
Oculia predictably sniffs
I’d hoped for something a little more, well, special, if you get my drift…
Perhaps if mademoiselle showed me the métier
Oculia throws back her hood to reveal eyelets and raven’s wings
Ištvan’s hands flutter and move towards her. His emerald eyes paw at her and she turns her head this way and that, her dark recesses glinting in the dusty air.
Chiralia already feels forgotten and sighs resignedly, shakes out her cloak and clears her throat
And where I your master who can work such wonders?
Ištvan cannot take his eyes off her losse friends batting eyelashes; his head jerks as he whispers
He’ll be along soon enough
To Oculia he says sotto voce
Perhaps mistress would enjoy selecting a style from our showcases
Now Ištvan walks over to a curtained recess lined with heads barely visible in red light and proffers his arm to a satin seat; Oculia barely nods and complies.
{Chiralia sighs yet more dramatically as the curtains are drawn and she hears muffled titters and ruffling. She gazes archly into one of the myriad mirrors chcks her hair fore and aft, pats it possessively.
In the reflected reess of the long room she spies movement in the ink - ashuffling ragged outline snuffling under spiral stairs
Suddenly it looks at her
Wild and and macabre it is a dog hair askew yet somehow deliberate it has a power to it malformed its teeth ebb and flow
Chiralia recoils, heads for the doors; her way is barred.
In front is a little girl the kind that adorns boxes of cheap chocolates she is of cours sucking her fingers with an air of bruised innocence.
What’s your name?
Her demanding tone is shrill
None of your beeswax! Let me by...
But you can’t go yet
Uncle says so
And your hair stinks so you need to get washed
Why you little $#17
{Enter Ernesto}
our barber
Wreathed in smoke ,
Eddying
In dragon’s curves.
As he strides his face becomes clear evolves from shadows to relief
But his visage is no relief for our weaver
his hair is oiled immaculate
A mouth opens and shuts another speaks
Welcome
The daughter of the renowned Interlaticia here in my humble shop
Insectile eyebrows glower a painted brow
Below red orbs blaze in lamplight
Ernesto drinks at the well of Chiralia‘s soul
She stutters
You knew my mother?
Oh indeed mistress, when a different moon filled our sky I had the pleasure of handling her lustrous hair. She was most satisfied with the work, I was flattered to hear. I told her, "the only way that i can finish this haircut is if you promise to commit to me as much as I´ve committed to you"
The dull air dissipated and the mirrors suddenly shone, sending shadows scurying for safety. Chiralia blinnks and some spell is broken.
She sense something hanging pulsing behind the world, singing in her veins
[Far away distant courtyard is silent without movement but a fountain plays
The sum of the suns movement’s is a sphere it’s said
However sometimes the sun creaks moans and waits if only to bake dry land or tomatoes.
In this instance it pauses in setting; allows the shadows a moments rest
History was made here men and women courted schemed dreamed and were killed here beneath the lazy eye of the Beholder.
Now it seems ordinary a set of marble plinths hedges bansai pots and water features; but for the two Executia
Shall we allow it to continue?
It seems we have no choice
Aqualibria
The rains drew breath and exhaled one final spattering of fat globlets before expiring]
Chiralia blinks and sees behind the barber another dread shape, a bundle of barbed wire black and shining it yawns reveals shark teeth vanishes
She glances at the alcove where she can still hear Oculias sighs – there’ll be no aid from those quarters
Ernesto is impatient
Please sit mistress
What charm can I weave if you’ll excuse my pun?
HE taps his head with a bony finger antennae waving like searchlights in search of a swarm of bees
He aims his index finger at the zenith
Of course
He snaps his fingers
but no
he looks crestfallen
Ah I fear that is not for one of so tender years.
He brightens
I can recommend the vernalia
He taps his teeth
But no,
In dragon’s curves.
As he strides his face becomes clear evolves from shadows to relief
But his visage is no relief for our weaver
his hair is oiled immaculate
A mouth opens and shuts another speaks
Welcome
The daughter of the renowned Interlaticia here in my humble shop
Insectile eyebrows glower a painted brow
Below red orbs blaze in lamplight
Ernesto drinks at the well of Chiralia‘s soul
She stutters
You knew my mother?
Oh indeed mistress, when a different moon filled our sky I had the pleasure of handling her lustrous hair. She was most satisfied with the work, I was flattered to hear. I told her, "the only way that i can finish this haircut is if you promise to commit to me as much as I´ve committed to you"
The dull air dissipated and the mirrors suddenly shone, sending shadows scurying for safety. Chiralia blinnks and some spell is broken.
She sense something hanging pulsing behind the world, singing in her veins
[Far away distant courtyard is silent without movement but a fountain plays
The sum of the suns movement’s is a sphere it’s said
However sometimes the sun creaks moans and waits if only to bake dry land or tomatoes.
In this instance it pauses in setting; allows the shadows a moments rest
History was made here men and women courted schemed dreamed and were killed here beneath the lazy eye of the Beholder.
Now it seems ordinary a set of marble plinths hedges bansai pots and water features; but for the two Executia
Shall we allow it to continue?
It seems we have no choice
Aqualibria
The rains drew breath and exhaled one final spattering of fat globlets before expiring]
Chiralia blinks and sees behind the barber another dread shape, a bundle of barbed wire black and shining it yawns reveals shark teeth vanishes
She glances at the alcove where she can still hear Oculias sighs – there’ll be no aid from those quarters
Ernesto is impatient
Please sit mistress
What charm can I weave if you’ll excuse my pun?
HE taps his head with a bony finger antennae waving like searchlights in search of a swarm of bees
He aims his index finger at the zenith
Of course
He snaps his fingers
but no
he looks crestfallen
Ah I fear that is not for one of so tender years.
He brightens
I can recommend the vernalia
He taps his teeth
But no,
moss is not your flora
He pauses and turns to look at her, catching her eye in the mirror
Perhaps (ahem) Mistress is courting?
His impertinent questioning is interrupted by a rumbling not of thunder but of Announcers.
The Unctuous are coming ; stay in your abodes.
{Intermission}
In the arched darkness Oculia whispers
I can smell a Farter – we must hurry away
Yes but which way?
Away from that goddawful stench at least
They inch forward feeling the sodden mess prickly lichen and slimy mold
A forest
Their hands blind behemoths fumbling though the night
One hand touches stone pauses creeps into empty space
A doorway
Leaving moonlight behind our damsels in distress grope forward away from the growing odour and towards a distant glitter
Creatures scurry underfoot phosphorescent mosquitoes pester the dark becomes deeper
There is a creak in the coal and the girls stop dead hearts racing
The twinkling is obscured as the shuffling shape looms black on black
Chiralia stifles a scream
The Farter farts
The ladies in waiting clamp their mouths and noses shut but to no avail.
Sticky tendrils of rankness prise past quivering digits
The smell makes both gasp
Sending them to noxious nod
Perhaps (ahem) Mistress is courting?
His impertinent questioning is interrupted by a rumbling not of thunder but of Announcers.
The Unctuous are coming ; stay in your abodes.
{Intermission}
In the arched darkness Oculia whispers
I can smell a Farter – we must hurry away
Yes but which way?
Away from that goddawful stench at least
They inch forward feeling the sodden mess prickly lichen and slimy mold
A forest
Their hands blind behemoths fumbling though the night
One hand touches stone pauses creeps into empty space
A doorway
Leaving moonlight behind our damsels in distress grope forward away from the growing odour and towards a distant glitter
Creatures scurry underfoot phosphorescent mosquitoes pester the dark becomes deeper
There is a creak in the coal and the girls stop dead hearts racing
The twinkling is obscured as the shuffling shape looms black on black
Chiralia stifles a scream
The Farter farts
The ladies in waiting clamp their mouths and noses shut but to no avail.
Sticky tendrils of rankness prise past quivering digits
The smell makes both gasp
Sending them to noxious nod
{intermission}
When they come to the cloying reek of decayed meat and cabbage lines their membranes
Synchronized they roll and heave finding their spew falling away into steamy space
Their faces press cold rocking metal wrought in rococo swirls
What next for our girls?
Has it gone?
No silly, your on top of it!!!
Says a voice as saccharine as cyanide
Oculia and Chiralia leap away and into each other, ricochet onto rough metal.
A burbling chortle fills the brisk air and Chiralia feels a door open
You again you little brat you almost scared us half to death
Better than being wholly dead like you almost were
[Ernesto’s Shadow is trying to make a topologically unwise hairdo – klien, mobious, hair on a sphere] [the girl’s name is Estrangello Odessa]
When they come to the cloying reek of decayed meat and cabbage lines their membranes
Synchronized they roll and heave finding their spew falling away into steamy space
Their faces press cold rocking metal wrought in rococo swirls
What next for our girls?
Has it gone?
No silly, your on top of it!!!
Says a voice as saccharine as cyanide
Oculia and Chiralia leap away and into each other, ricochet onto rough metal.
A burbling chortle fills the brisk air and Chiralia feels a door open
You again you little brat you almost scared us half to death
Better than being wholly dead like you almost were
[Ernesto’s Shadow is trying to make a topologically unwise hairdo – klien, mobious, hair on a sphere] [the girl’s name is Estrangello Odessa]
posted by Dot23 @ 10:46 PM
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