I haven't posted any flash fiction here in a long time, but your luck's run out, 'cause here's some now. "Carnival Park" first appeared as part of "Tales From the City of Seams," a suite of linked urban fantasy flash pieces published by the fine people at Wheatland Press in Polyphony 4, and reprinted in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror: 18th Annual Collection.

One of these days I'll find the box with my recording equipment, not seen since the move last summer, and I'll commit some fiction in podcast form.




Carnival Park
by Greg van Eekhout

We knew there'd be trouble when the new balloon man showed up. Orange John had been working Carnival Park for as long as there'd been a Carnival Park, tying his balloon animals with rope-strong hands. He always had that far-away look in his eyes, as if expecting something to appear on the horizon. And, now, here it was. A new balloon man.

You have guys like Orange John where you come from? You know what I mean. Guys who do one thing in one place, like the Knife Guy, or Mr. Rags and Mr. Rags, Jr., or the Bubble Man. They do their one thing, and you can't imagine them having a life outside that thing, like a home, or a family, or a bank account. These guys make a place what it is, as surely as pigeon-crapped statues and old buildings with columns and stone lions out front.

So there was Orange John near the war fountain in his oversized orange suit and Bozo hair, knotting himself up a real nice stegosaurus, when up came the young balloon man. He was a skinny boy in a black T-shirt, rainbow vest, and jeans painted like all the sample chips in a paint store. His limp balloons hung from his waistband like little tongues, and he stopped a dozen or so yards away from Orange John.

"Jack Many-Colors," he said, tipping an imaginary hat.

"Orange John," said Orange John, with a squint and a nod.

And so it began.

Many-Colors was the challenger, so he went first. He took out a brown balloon, put it to his lips, and blew. It extended like a time-lapse video of a growing vine, curving in on itself before he pinched the spout, grabbed the far end, and made a series of deft twists and knots. The end result: an odd sort of elephant with a weird, humped head, and squat, fat legs. Not bad, but not a very good likeness. But then he took a white balloon from his waistband, and before we knew it, the elephant had huge, curving tusks. A mammoth, then. And a good one, at that.

A crowd had started gathering, and they oohed appreciatively around mouthfuls of hotdogs and soft pretzels. He handed the mammoth to a young boy who ran off, making trumpeting mammoth sounds.

It was Orange John's turn. He gazed up at the sky, as if searching the clouds for inspiration. Then, after a few moments, he reached into his breast pocket and took out a red balloon and a yellow balloon. He put both to his mouth and blew into them, his eyes distant, like a smoker deep in thought. When the balloons were inflated to his satisfaction, he grabbed them roughly and wrestled them into a red hawk with yellow eyes and talons. He held it aloft and gave it a toss. The wind caught it, and it sailed over the fountain, over the trees, out of sight.

Many-Colors clapped his hands in silent applause, then went to work. One by one he inflated about a dozen orange and black balloons, storing them under his armpit until he'd accumulated an unwieldy bundle. There was a flurry of rubber squeaking against rubber, and then, before him in the grass, crouched a life-sized tiger.

He grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and tugged, and it walked on articulated legs. The jaw fell open to reveal long fangs and a lolling tongue.

It was a fine balloon animal.

Orange John placed his palms flat against each other as if in prayer and bowed deeply toward Many-Colors. From his pocket he drew a number of black balloons, and when he was finished blowing them up, he panted, out of breath, his face red. With shaky hands, he made a spider and set it against Many-Colors' tiger. The spider grasped the tiger in its legs and squeezed until every last balloon of the tiger had popped. Then it slowly scuttled back to its maker, exhausted, and deflated itself empty.

Many-Colors' eyes went wide, and his mouth formed an O. But his astonishment was not genuine. He was mocking Orange John. Reaching to his waist, he pulled out every green balloon he had, and when he seemed to be looking for more, Orange John took out a handful of his own and held them out in offering. But Many-Colors just sneered at him and pulled more green balloons out of the air until his sleight-of-hand had given him an adequate supply for his next sculpture. This one took a while. Sweat glistened on his brow, and his lips moved, as if he were reading aloud.

His dragon reared up on its bulbous haunches, black claws gleaming. Its red eyes seemed lit from within, and from its great maw came long, sinuous twists of red and yellow balloon flame.

Orange John didn't waste time congratulating his opponent, for the dragon lurched towards him. With desperate speed, he tied and twisted and knotted. The dragon was almost on him, and Orange John's lattice of balloon-work had yet to take form. We could hear him release small grunts of pain or frustration as he worked. For the first time ever, we noticed the way his fingers curled, the knots in his knuckles. Orange John had arthritis.

The dragon stretched its jaws wide, revealing more rubber flame, and Orange John jumped back from his own animal -- a large feline body with the head of a bird of prey and graceful back-swept wings. A griffin.

Well-chosen, we agreed among ourselves.

The two animals leapt at one-another, and for the next several minutes, an epic battle raged above Carnival Park. Flashes of color. Rubber squeaks drawn out into screams. Tiny pops of injury.

When the dragon of Many-Colors floated back down to earth, half its jaw was missing. One of its bat wings hung limp, barely attached.

But at least it was still recognizable.

Not so for Orange John's griffin. Shredded bits of rubber rained on us. Orange John set his mouth in a grim line of dignity, but he could not hide his tears.

Perhaps, long ago, he had humiliated an older, more fatigued balloon man in this very spot. Perhaps it was simply the way of things.

Many-Colors offered his dragon to a little girl, but the little girl wouldn't take it. And we glanced at each other, and we knew what was right.

"A giraffe, Orange John?" someone said.

"And after that, a big dinosaur with spikes," said someone else.

Many-Colors looked at us, not understanding. "But ... I defeated Orange John. I'm your balloon man now."

And we told him he'd never be our balloon man. Carnival Park belonged to Orange John. Orange John was this place. This place was Orange John.

Many-Colors made a lot of noise -- he never really wanted to be our balloon man anyway, he said; and Orange John's balloons smelled like cigarettes (which was true); and we wouldn't know a good balloon man if he blew a poodle up our asses. But it was no use. With more grumbling and curses, he left, going wherever balloon men with no parks go.

Orange John didn't thank us. He didn't need to. He just began working on a beautiful long-necked giraffe with spindly long legs and delicate eyelashes, which was exactly what we needed of him.

To stand there. To tie balloons. To always be there.

Those of us who live and work around Carnival Park had never asked for a champion.

All we'd ever wanted was a good balloon man.

--
First published in Polyphony 4 (Wheatland Press).

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.