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What Lies Behind Glass Masks
“Do you have your mask ready yet?” The voice came from the other room, distorted to be unrecognizable but I knew whom was speaking. We had lived together for years now, and they were the only other on that would be speaking to me at this moment. I did not reply, as they already knew the answer to the question anyways for if I had my mask ready I'd be out there with them.
I look down at the bits of glass laying on the desk before me, rejects all; the wrong shade of stain, cloudy when it should have been clear, clear when it should have been colored, the wrong number of facets, broken shards from a lax grip and more. I had collected them for the past year, here and there, the unwanted, castoffs. At the center of it all was a long shard of clear glass, split in the middle from too long in the fires, it would form the bridge of my mask, the center, the focus. The other bits and parts would be fused to it carefully, more care shown to them than they would have ever seen from anyone else.
I carefully nudge an oblong bit of what had once been a vase into the center of the runic circle it was resting in and looked over my script work, eyes following the whirls and fractal images that would bend the physical world to my will and forge my mask for the evening. It was a thing of beauty, the ink still fresh and glistening in the candle light of my room. All was in order so I pull a flake of obsidian from a nearby pewter bowl and cut a small, short line in my right palm. I was careful not to cross any of the other cuts from previous rituals.
The volcanic glass easily parts my skin and draws forth my blood. I collect a single drop onto my makeshift blade and place it into the topmost centermost circle of my array, blood side down, healing the wound with a quick lick at the same time. The blood closes the circuit of the script and it starts to give a soft white glow, flowing down and around, the circles and tessellating septagons starting a slow spiral as they raise from the desk, giving the illusion of being three-dimensional. I wait for the outermost circle to rise before placing both hands over the long shard in the center.
The shard glows white hot as I bend the laws of nature to my whims, producing heat with no flames. It was important that this castoff was caused by staying too long in the fires, it made it easier to bring forth the memory of that heat. The other lines of my array twist, dragging closer to the center, circles touching and melding together to form one perfect circle. With each circle that merges to the center a new piece of glass melds with the center piece, their differences dulled, their reasons for being rejects not erased but eased.
The last circle to join the rest was the one that started it all, the one that held the black flake or obsidian. It comes to rest at the forehead, an uneven triangle at the top of the bridge of the nose. The ending mask is an elegant mishmash of conflicting glass making styles, junk formed into a solemn androgynous human face. There were no seams, the disparate bits of glass fused at a level even I didn't fully understand.
I lift my hands, looking down at what I created for a moment before reaching out again and picking up what is to be my face for the evening. I was already dressed in the rest of my outfit, an ill fitting cloak that drug along the ground, a patchwork dress robe that was more patches than robe and shoes with worn soles and loose stitching. More rejects, more castoffs. Fitting for a cast out reject pariah.
I place the mask against my face and the other part of the magic that formed it kicks in, melding the glass to my skin, making the mask more than just a mask, at least for this evening. With that finished I take a deep breath and settle the cloak on my shoulders best I can before turning for the door. I pass though the curtain there, presenting myself to the one that spoke before. They are the only other person in the room and are also dressed and masked.
Their mask was a seamless piece of red glass, formed into the face of a fox. Their dress robe was a shimmering red with white trim, short sleeves but their arms were covered by white gloves. They also wore a cloak, though it fit much better than mine, the tail of it an actual fox tail. The outfit was designed to hide all identifying characteristics, but of course I knew who they were.
Tonight was a night for anonymity, in theory no one would know who was behind which mask tonight. Well, any mask but mine and Fox's that is. Everyone would know who the two of us were tonight. But the pretense to not know was still there, and for the others it was unlikely I'd know any of them even without masks.
Fox tilts their head to the side, taking in my mask and outfit. They give a single nod, holding out their right hand to me. “Come, our carriage waits us outside. We are on time so I have told them to take the long path so we might arrive fashionably late.”
I gives a short bow, taking their hand with my right and allow them to lead me from the house. The night air is crisp, all the moons dark tonight. Such an event only happened once every ten years, and such a night was the only night that the Glass Masquerade could be held. The carriage is one I've not seen before, the driver is also a stranger to me, which is all for the illusion of anonymity.
The unmasked man, old, balding, near the end of this part of the cycle of his life, opens the door for Fox and they drag me in after them. We sit across from each other, Fox behind the driver. We settle in and after a time there is a knock to show the driver is in position and Fox knocks back. With that there is a lurch and literal wheels set in motion the metaphorical wheels of what is to happen tonight.
The ride is long. Fox is silent during the trip. I spend the time mentally going though my rotes, trying to prepare for what will be demanded of me this evening. I know that I will not be prepared for what will be demanded of me.
Finally we arrive, the carriage stopping and the door opening, this time by a black masked member of the wait staff. Theater prop handler mask, no means of differentiation, truly faceless, nameless. Aside of the mask the uniform was cut in a way that telling gender was impossible, and every one of them would be wearing it tonight. The server helps Fox from the carriage, giving them a short bow.
Fox barely gives them a glance, turning back to me and holding their hand out once more, to help me down and to guide me inside. To make sure I didn't run. To ensure I played my part this evening. I take their hand and step down, looking up at the mansion before us.
It was a simple building, compared to some homes the royals had. This one was owned by The Prince and was only for use in tonight's ritual, not ever to be lived in or used for other events. If The Prince was going to be present this evening was unknown, and if they were which mask they would be behind would be known to as few people as possible. Such a thing was of no matter to me anyways.
I allow Fox to drag me inside. The foyer had a few others in it, a set of three, Badger talking with Owl and Deer. While who was behind what mask was, in theory, unknown there would only be one of each mask this evening. In theory, in practice it would be easy enough to know who was what by their manner of speech if the listener was astute enough.
We are not announced as we enter, the party already in full swing, the two of us late as Fox said we would be. The three in the foyer stop their conversation as me and Fox enter, glass masks turning to look at us. “Late as always Fox.” Badger says, voice sounding exactly the same as Fox's did, or even as mine would be if I spoke, though I would not speak this evening.
Fox waves their hand not holding mine, dismissing the accusation. “I arrive when I am ready to arrive, not a moment sooner or later.” They tug me along, to the next room, leaving the other three to follow in our wake. With Fox here the real reason we are all here this night could finally start.
The ball room has low music being played on the stage by faceless performers, not the sort of dance to, but the sort to provide a background for chatter. Fox pulls me along, light of feet and strong of arm. We pass the buffet and the smell of the food turns my stomach and I have a moment to be thankful that I would not be expected to eat tonight. Though I would be seeing a lot of sharp knives this evening.
Conversations end and masks turn we pass. Fox was leading me along the edge of the room, not towards the center or the stage, but just around. Fox and I were the reason everyone was here tonight, but I would not take center stage until the clock struck the hour before the dawn. Until then we were to be on the edges, to have the others come to Fox.
Hound is first, breaking away from the mass of robes in the room to approach Fox and me. Their mask is of a bloodhound, long and drooping, an impression of sadness, their robe a tawny brown and cloak tail that of a real dog. Fox stops, turning to face Hound, not letting go of my hand. We would not be separated from one another from this point until it came time for me to move to the center of the room.
“Well, this is a surprise Hound, it was my impression you had nothing you wished to be rid of.” The person behind the mask was, ostensibly, a secret, but the choice of mask was telling in itself. The Hound was notorious for never letting up, for never letting go. For them to seek me out at all, let alone to be first was, well, it was unorthodox.
“I have my reasons for picking this mask tonight Fox. They are not for you to question.” Fox bows at that, conceding the point. They then step to the side, turning the two of us so our backs are to the crowd and Hound was now separated from the group, hidden by the two of us, their back to the wall as they turn with us, keeping us in sight.
“My apologies, you are correct. I overstep my role for the evening. Tell me that you wish to unburden so that it may be done.” I follow my role in this an raise my left arm, palm out towards Hound like a street beggar.
Hound pulls a glass knife from their belt, the blade catching the light in a rainbow of color. They grab my wrist and drag the sharp edge along the tips of my fingers, drawing blood. They then raise my hand to press against the mask, my blood dripping down over their face. Hound leans in close to Fox, and Fox leans in close to Hound, my presence here ignored as the former speak the secret they desire to no longer hold.
“I have an undesired sexual attraction to a close relative that I want removed.” As Hound speaks a black miasma come from their mouth. The dread smoke flows up along their mask of a face and catches on my blood, flowing back along the conductive channel of it and into me. By the time they are done speaking the miasma has been sucked into my wounds which seal behind it, trapping the words within me.
As the confession seeps into me I bear the burden of the secret told. I feel the lust of one I see every day, the burning desire to lay with them in a forbidden way. There is no concept of gender, gender does not matter, nor is there a sense of what relation there is, be it parent, sibling, child or more distant relation, as that is not important either. There is only the driving need to be with one whom I should never, could never, be with in that manner.
Hound lets go of my hand, allowing it to fall away back to my side. Their mask is now stained a bright red, my blood dried but not oxidized. Everyone here tonight bu myself and Fox got one personal confession if they so wished, the stain of my blood to be what they must wear for the evening to be free of their burdens. Hound stores their blade again, letting out a sigh of relief at being free of their unwanted desire.
“Naughty dog. But your secret is safe with Fox. Now be gone so the next may come.” Hound bows and the three of us dance around one another, placing Fox and my back to the wall again, releasing Hound back to the crowd.
Fox does not wait, tugging me along, for we must walk the circle of the room before the clock chimes. We get no more than four steps before another of the crowd steps before us Raven bars our way forward, their full obsidian mask seeming to suck in the light of the room, their black cloak of feathers rustles with their movement. “Raven, come to tell me a secret now have you chatty bird?”
“The secret I share tonight is but my own Fox and I know it shall be safe with you.” Strictly speaking Fox's quip at the nature of the mask worm was not required for the ritual. It was the nature of the one that wore Fox five decades ago and since it has become tradition, or at least those chosen to wear Fox since have also had it in their nature to make quips. The three of us dance, Fox in the lead, and soon Raven is separated from the others like Hound had been.
“Very well, then tell me that you wish to unburden so that it may be done.” That phrase was important to the ritual. I hold out my hand to Raven as I did to Hound, and as Hound did to me Raven produces a clean knife with which to slice into my fingers, slightly below the fresh scars that Hound left, and stains their mask with my blood. The other two lean into one another as Raven shares their secret.
“I have a near uncontrollable urges to kill others that I want removed.” More miasma, and another foreign desire fills me. The need to feel the heart blood of someone else on my hands, to watch the light of life in their eyes fade. To hear the rattle in their lungs as they take their last breath.
“Well, that is more fitting of Crow but killing another is most unkind. Do not worry, your secret is safe with Fox. Now be gone so the next may come.” Raven bows and after another short dance leaves, Fox tugging me along to the next one.
And the others come, mask after mask. Snake, Crane, Tiger, Moose, Squirrel, Badger, Sheep, Spider, Lion, Horse, Crab, Mantis, Anteater, Bee, Goat and more and more. Each of them has something to tell Fox, something they wish to be unburdened of. I listen to them all and take them into myself as my blood stains their faces.
The night drags on as I am dragged around the room. The secrets I now bear also weigh me down, so many conflicting feelings and desires wanting to be acted on. Not all that Fox had been told was sinful, some had what many might consider to be virtues they wished to not have any more. It was not about becoming a better person this evening, instead it was about becoming the person you wanted to be and if you wanted to be a person who did not feel the need to give to others then that was within your right for this rite.
Finally we complete our circuit of the room, everyone in the crowd who wished to confess having confessed. But we do not rest, Fox tugging me along still. Now, instead, they pull me towards the crowd, towards the center of the room. The crowd parts for us, reforming behind us, not making us a part of the masses but instead as a means of keeping us from leaving, keeping me from leaving.
The center of the room is a runic array, the script work a marvel and I have a brief moment to wish I could study it closer but I knew I would not get that chance. Then the clock strikes the hour and Fox pulls away, letting go of my hand and leaving me at the center of the crowd, as the music that had been playing all evening abruptly stops. For the first time in the evening I am the focus of attention, before this moment the others only reacting to Fox, never to me. I was but a prop for the night, and even now I was to just be a focus of what was to come.
I am not sure who speaks first, their voices are all the same after all. “Deviant!” The accusation is clear in the silence of the room. More follow after.
Murderer, thief, lawbreaker, pervert, radical, liar, heathen and more. I am condemned as all of the evils of our world, source and cause and tempter all. I take care not to drown them out, to listen to each word even as the crowd yells more and more together and raise my hands to them to ask for more. Then the first lash of a whip connects with my back, tearing through my worn robe to draw blood from my back.
The next lash hits my left arm and as my blood drips down the array we all stand on activates. The glow is strong, but the invectives and lashes do not stop. I stand strong, taking it all even as more black smoke pours forth from their mouths and into me. I do not know how long it lasts, it feels like both an eternity and only a moment.
Finally no more blows, verbal or physical, come as the crowd is spent. There is no climax to the ritual, no grand act such as a sacrifice or flaring of light. As the last of the miasma soaks into my skin and closes my wounds the light of the array fades and members of the crowd start to leave, on by one or in groups of three or more. Soon the only one left in the room beside myself and the faceless staff was Fox, my sole companion, my gaoler.
I finally lower my arms, as there was no one left here to give me anything. Fox takes my right arm, guiding me to the door, into the foyer and from there outside. As we step outside I see the sun rise over the horizon.
I look to the sun for the first time in years, bringing up my left hand to remove my mask and feel the sunlight on my skin. Next to me Fox removes her mask as well and speaks in her own voice.
“Let's go home.”
I look down at the bits of glass laying on the desk before me, rejects all; the wrong shade of stain, cloudy when it should have been clear, clear when it should have been colored, the wrong number of facets, broken shards from a lax grip and more. I had collected them for the past year, here and there, the unwanted, castoffs. At the center of it all was a long shard of clear glass, split in the middle from too long in the fires, it would form the bridge of my mask, the center, the focus. The other bits and parts would be fused to it carefully, more care shown to them than they would have ever seen from anyone else.
I carefully nudge an oblong bit of what had once been a vase into the center of the runic circle it was resting in and looked over my script work, eyes following the whirls and fractal images that would bend the physical world to my will and forge my mask for the evening. It was a thing of beauty, the ink still fresh and glistening in the candle light of my room. All was in order so I pull a flake of obsidian from a nearby pewter bowl and cut a small, short line in my right palm. I was careful not to cross any of the other cuts from previous rituals.
The volcanic glass easily parts my skin and draws forth my blood. I collect a single drop onto my makeshift blade and place it into the topmost centermost circle of my array, blood side down, healing the wound with a quick lick at the same time. The blood closes the circuit of the script and it starts to give a soft white glow, flowing down and around, the circles and tessellating septagons starting a slow spiral as they raise from the desk, giving the illusion of being three-dimensional. I wait for the outermost circle to rise before placing both hands over the long shard in the center.
The shard glows white hot as I bend the laws of nature to my whims, producing heat with no flames. It was important that this castoff was caused by staying too long in the fires, it made it easier to bring forth the memory of that heat. The other lines of my array twist, dragging closer to the center, circles touching and melding together to form one perfect circle. With each circle that merges to the center a new piece of glass melds with the center piece, their differences dulled, their reasons for being rejects not erased but eased.
The last circle to join the rest was the one that started it all, the one that held the black flake or obsidian. It comes to rest at the forehead, an uneven triangle at the top of the bridge of the nose. The ending mask is an elegant mishmash of conflicting glass making styles, junk formed into a solemn androgynous human face. There were no seams, the disparate bits of glass fused at a level even I didn't fully understand.
I lift my hands, looking down at what I created for a moment before reaching out again and picking up what is to be my face for the evening. I was already dressed in the rest of my outfit, an ill fitting cloak that drug along the ground, a patchwork dress robe that was more patches than robe and shoes with worn soles and loose stitching. More rejects, more castoffs. Fitting for a cast out reject pariah.
I place the mask against my face and the other part of the magic that formed it kicks in, melding the glass to my skin, making the mask more than just a mask, at least for this evening. With that finished I take a deep breath and settle the cloak on my shoulders best I can before turning for the door. I pass though the curtain there, presenting myself to the one that spoke before. They are the only other person in the room and are also dressed and masked.
Their mask was a seamless piece of red glass, formed into the face of a fox. Their dress robe was a shimmering red with white trim, short sleeves but their arms were covered by white gloves. They also wore a cloak, though it fit much better than mine, the tail of it an actual fox tail. The outfit was designed to hide all identifying characteristics, but of course I knew who they were.
Tonight was a night for anonymity, in theory no one would know who was behind which mask tonight. Well, any mask but mine and Fox's that is. Everyone would know who the two of us were tonight. But the pretense to not know was still there, and for the others it was unlikely I'd know any of them even without masks.
Fox tilts their head to the side, taking in my mask and outfit. They give a single nod, holding out their right hand to me. “Come, our carriage waits us outside. We are on time so I have told them to take the long path so we might arrive fashionably late.”
I gives a short bow, taking their hand with my right and allow them to lead me from the house. The night air is crisp, all the moons dark tonight. Such an event only happened once every ten years, and such a night was the only night that the Glass Masquerade could be held. The carriage is one I've not seen before, the driver is also a stranger to me, which is all for the illusion of anonymity.
The unmasked man, old, balding, near the end of this part of the cycle of his life, opens the door for Fox and they drag me in after them. We sit across from each other, Fox behind the driver. We settle in and after a time there is a knock to show the driver is in position and Fox knocks back. With that there is a lurch and literal wheels set in motion the metaphorical wheels of what is to happen tonight.
The ride is long. Fox is silent during the trip. I spend the time mentally going though my rotes, trying to prepare for what will be demanded of me this evening. I know that I will not be prepared for what will be demanded of me.
Finally we arrive, the carriage stopping and the door opening, this time by a black masked member of the wait staff. Theater prop handler mask, no means of differentiation, truly faceless, nameless. Aside of the mask the uniform was cut in a way that telling gender was impossible, and every one of them would be wearing it tonight. The server helps Fox from the carriage, giving them a short bow.
Fox barely gives them a glance, turning back to me and holding their hand out once more, to help me down and to guide me inside. To make sure I didn't run. To ensure I played my part this evening. I take their hand and step down, looking up at the mansion before us.
It was a simple building, compared to some homes the royals had. This one was owned by The Prince and was only for use in tonight's ritual, not ever to be lived in or used for other events. If The Prince was going to be present this evening was unknown, and if they were which mask they would be behind would be known to as few people as possible. Such a thing was of no matter to me anyways.
I allow Fox to drag me inside. The foyer had a few others in it, a set of three, Badger talking with Owl and Deer. While who was behind what mask was, in theory, unknown there would only be one of each mask this evening. In theory, in practice it would be easy enough to know who was what by their manner of speech if the listener was astute enough.
We are not announced as we enter, the party already in full swing, the two of us late as Fox said we would be. The three in the foyer stop their conversation as me and Fox enter, glass masks turning to look at us. “Late as always Fox.” Badger says, voice sounding exactly the same as Fox's did, or even as mine would be if I spoke, though I would not speak this evening.
Fox waves their hand not holding mine, dismissing the accusation. “I arrive when I am ready to arrive, not a moment sooner or later.” They tug me along, to the next room, leaving the other three to follow in our wake. With Fox here the real reason we are all here this night could finally start.
The ball room has low music being played on the stage by faceless performers, not the sort of dance to, but the sort to provide a background for chatter. Fox pulls me along, light of feet and strong of arm. We pass the buffet and the smell of the food turns my stomach and I have a moment to be thankful that I would not be expected to eat tonight. Though I would be seeing a lot of sharp knives this evening.
Conversations end and masks turn we pass. Fox was leading me along the edge of the room, not towards the center or the stage, but just around. Fox and I were the reason everyone was here tonight, but I would not take center stage until the clock struck the hour before the dawn. Until then we were to be on the edges, to have the others come to Fox.
Hound is first, breaking away from the mass of robes in the room to approach Fox and me. Their mask is of a bloodhound, long and drooping, an impression of sadness, their robe a tawny brown and cloak tail that of a real dog. Fox stops, turning to face Hound, not letting go of my hand. We would not be separated from one another from this point until it came time for me to move to the center of the room.
“Well, this is a surprise Hound, it was my impression you had nothing you wished to be rid of.” The person behind the mask was, ostensibly, a secret, but the choice of mask was telling in itself. The Hound was notorious for never letting up, for never letting go. For them to seek me out at all, let alone to be first was, well, it was unorthodox.
“I have my reasons for picking this mask tonight Fox. They are not for you to question.” Fox bows at that, conceding the point. They then step to the side, turning the two of us so our backs are to the crowd and Hound was now separated from the group, hidden by the two of us, their back to the wall as they turn with us, keeping us in sight.
“My apologies, you are correct. I overstep my role for the evening. Tell me that you wish to unburden so that it may be done.” I follow my role in this an raise my left arm, palm out towards Hound like a street beggar.
Hound pulls a glass knife from their belt, the blade catching the light in a rainbow of color. They grab my wrist and drag the sharp edge along the tips of my fingers, drawing blood. They then raise my hand to press against the mask, my blood dripping down over their face. Hound leans in close to Fox, and Fox leans in close to Hound, my presence here ignored as the former speak the secret they desire to no longer hold.
“I have an undesired sexual attraction to a close relative that I want removed.” As Hound speaks a black miasma come from their mouth. The dread smoke flows up along their mask of a face and catches on my blood, flowing back along the conductive channel of it and into me. By the time they are done speaking the miasma has been sucked into my wounds which seal behind it, trapping the words within me.
As the confession seeps into me I bear the burden of the secret told. I feel the lust of one I see every day, the burning desire to lay with them in a forbidden way. There is no concept of gender, gender does not matter, nor is there a sense of what relation there is, be it parent, sibling, child or more distant relation, as that is not important either. There is only the driving need to be with one whom I should never, could never, be with in that manner.
Hound lets go of my hand, allowing it to fall away back to my side. Their mask is now stained a bright red, my blood dried but not oxidized. Everyone here tonight bu myself and Fox got one personal confession if they so wished, the stain of my blood to be what they must wear for the evening to be free of their burdens. Hound stores their blade again, letting out a sigh of relief at being free of their unwanted desire.
“Naughty dog. But your secret is safe with Fox. Now be gone so the next may come.” Hound bows and the three of us dance around one another, placing Fox and my back to the wall again, releasing Hound back to the crowd.
Fox does not wait, tugging me along, for we must walk the circle of the room before the clock chimes. We get no more than four steps before another of the crowd steps before us Raven bars our way forward, their full obsidian mask seeming to suck in the light of the room, their black cloak of feathers rustles with their movement. “Raven, come to tell me a secret now have you chatty bird?”
“The secret I share tonight is but my own Fox and I know it shall be safe with you.” Strictly speaking Fox's quip at the nature of the mask worm was not required for the ritual. It was the nature of the one that wore Fox five decades ago and since it has become tradition, or at least those chosen to wear Fox since have also had it in their nature to make quips. The three of us dance, Fox in the lead, and soon Raven is separated from the others like Hound had been.
“Very well, then tell me that you wish to unburden so that it may be done.” That phrase was important to the ritual. I hold out my hand to Raven as I did to Hound, and as Hound did to me Raven produces a clean knife with which to slice into my fingers, slightly below the fresh scars that Hound left, and stains their mask with my blood. The other two lean into one another as Raven shares their secret.
“I have a near uncontrollable urges to kill others that I want removed.” More miasma, and another foreign desire fills me. The need to feel the heart blood of someone else on my hands, to watch the light of life in their eyes fade. To hear the rattle in their lungs as they take their last breath.
“Well, that is more fitting of Crow but killing another is most unkind. Do not worry, your secret is safe with Fox. Now be gone so the next may come.” Raven bows and after another short dance leaves, Fox tugging me along to the next one.
And the others come, mask after mask. Snake, Crane, Tiger, Moose, Squirrel, Badger, Sheep, Spider, Lion, Horse, Crab, Mantis, Anteater, Bee, Goat and more and more. Each of them has something to tell Fox, something they wish to be unburdened of. I listen to them all and take them into myself as my blood stains their faces.
The night drags on as I am dragged around the room. The secrets I now bear also weigh me down, so many conflicting feelings and desires wanting to be acted on. Not all that Fox had been told was sinful, some had what many might consider to be virtues they wished to not have any more. It was not about becoming a better person this evening, instead it was about becoming the person you wanted to be and if you wanted to be a person who did not feel the need to give to others then that was within your right for this rite.
Finally we complete our circuit of the room, everyone in the crowd who wished to confess having confessed. But we do not rest, Fox tugging me along still. Now, instead, they pull me towards the crowd, towards the center of the room. The crowd parts for us, reforming behind us, not making us a part of the masses but instead as a means of keeping us from leaving, keeping me from leaving.
The center of the room is a runic array, the script work a marvel and I have a brief moment to wish I could study it closer but I knew I would not get that chance. Then the clock strikes the hour and Fox pulls away, letting go of my hand and leaving me at the center of the crowd, as the music that had been playing all evening abruptly stops. For the first time in the evening I am the focus of attention, before this moment the others only reacting to Fox, never to me. I was but a prop for the night, and even now I was to just be a focus of what was to come.
I am not sure who speaks first, their voices are all the same after all. “Deviant!” The accusation is clear in the silence of the room. More follow after.
Murderer, thief, lawbreaker, pervert, radical, liar, heathen and more. I am condemned as all of the evils of our world, source and cause and tempter all. I take care not to drown them out, to listen to each word even as the crowd yells more and more together and raise my hands to them to ask for more. Then the first lash of a whip connects with my back, tearing through my worn robe to draw blood from my back.
The next lash hits my left arm and as my blood drips down the array we all stand on activates. The glow is strong, but the invectives and lashes do not stop. I stand strong, taking it all even as more black smoke pours forth from their mouths and into me. I do not know how long it lasts, it feels like both an eternity and only a moment.
Finally no more blows, verbal or physical, come as the crowd is spent. There is no climax to the ritual, no grand act such as a sacrifice or flaring of light. As the last of the miasma soaks into my skin and closes my wounds the light of the array fades and members of the crowd start to leave, on by one or in groups of three or more. Soon the only one left in the room beside myself and the faceless staff was Fox, my sole companion, my gaoler.
I finally lower my arms, as there was no one left here to give me anything. Fox takes my right arm, guiding me to the door, into the foyer and from there outside. As we step outside I see the sun rise over the horizon.
I look to the sun for the first time in years, bringing up my left hand to remove my mask and feel the sunlight on my skin. Next to me Fox removes her mask as well and speaks in her own voice.
“Let's go home.”
Pics
I like the creativity on display here, and despite the prompt being used quite literally (and even being stated in all its capitalized glory), I thought it was a neat connection to the prompt. It's obvious, but it's not simple is what I'm getting at. The author has taken the idea of a glass masquerade and given it an interesting purpose, with a nice fantasy twist to it. Neat-o.
But it took me awhile to get to that opinion, Author. I'm not going to lie, this story takes forever to get going, and if you ask me, I think your first scene could be cut and it wouldn't even read that different..The only important detail we get from it is that our protagonist's mask is an amalgamation of rejected pieces of glass. Which becomes interesting later on, but at the beginning it isn't important, and it's surrounded by a really, really intricate description of magic circles. I don't care about magic circles. I care about the nifty rituals themselves.
Moving right along, I don't know who anybody is. Suprise! Of course, that's what's supposed to be going on—barring a few exceptions aside, everyone is supposed to be concealed. But the problem is that I don't know any of these people in the first place, not even the protagonist and her Fox. So all the attention you're drawing to the fact that everyone is indistinguishable from themselves falls flat. Even if they weren't in masks, I wouldn't know who they are! This is where I would have liked at least some descriptions of people she recognized, or maybe the body of people on the whole, to give me some context, or specific people to look for.
Another idea would be a different opening that establishes a few characters—maybe made them look entirely amiable and virtuous, and then when I'm seeing this part of the story play out I'm thinking, "Oh wow, those nice people think some horrible shit. That's so relatable. And I wonder which is which?"
These things make me think that maybe you had more planned for this story, like it was an entire epic fantasy novel in your mind but you were forced to pick your favourite scene. But that doesn't often do the best in short stories. I have several questions, and they aren't the good, leave your reader with questions kind. They're questions about the concepts and world themselves, which is what I'm reading your story for.
Apart from that, I wanted to mention that the part where the Glassimals are slinging insults and physical abuse at our protagonist flies completely in the face of the whole "some people like to let go of virtues as well" idea. Are some people shouting "You're a nice person sometimes!" in amongst all the vitriol?
Also, I hate to do this to you, Author, but I have to talk about the mistakes. There's quite a few. Tense changes, typos, missing words, misused words (drug is not a past tense of drag)—there are a lot. Another editing pass would have done you good, because I spent more time tripping than I did taking the story in stride. But that's often a symptom of a rushed story, which suggests even further that not everything you wanted to be in here, is in here. And that's too bad, because I did want to see more.
But that's all I have to say. Neat ideas on display, but I'm left wondering too much, and it took far too long for them to arrive. But they're still there. And I enjoyed it.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have this weird urge to play Hotline Miami.
Thanks for writing and good luck!
P.S. I hope you get art.
But it took me awhile to get to that opinion, Author. I'm not going to lie, this story takes forever to get going, and if you ask me, I think your first scene could be cut and it wouldn't even read that different..The only important detail we get from it is that our protagonist's mask is an amalgamation of rejected pieces of glass. Which becomes interesting later on, but at the beginning it isn't important, and it's surrounded by a really, really intricate description of magic circles. I don't care about magic circles. I care about the nifty rituals themselves.
Moving right along, I don't know who anybody is. Suprise! Of course, that's what's supposed to be going on—barring a few exceptions aside, everyone is supposed to be concealed. But the problem is that I don't know any of these people in the first place, not even the protagonist and her Fox. So all the attention you're drawing to the fact that everyone is indistinguishable from themselves falls flat. Even if they weren't in masks, I wouldn't know who they are! This is where I would have liked at least some descriptions of people she recognized, or maybe the body of people on the whole, to give me some context, or specific people to look for.
Another idea would be a different opening that establishes a few characters—maybe made them look entirely amiable and virtuous, and then when I'm seeing this part of the story play out I'm thinking, "Oh wow, those nice people think some horrible shit. That's so relatable. And I wonder which is which?"
These things make me think that maybe you had more planned for this story, like it was an entire epic fantasy novel in your mind but you were forced to pick your favourite scene. But that doesn't often do the best in short stories. I have several questions, and they aren't the good, leave your reader with questions kind. They're questions about the concepts and world themselves, which is what I'm reading your story for.
Apart from that, I wanted to mention that the part where the Glassimals are slinging insults and physical abuse at our protagonist flies completely in the face of the whole "some people like to let go of virtues as well" idea. Are some people shouting "You're a nice person sometimes!" in amongst all the vitriol?
Also, I hate to do this to you, Author, but I have to talk about the mistakes. There's quite a few. Tense changes, typos, missing words, misused words (drug is not a past tense of drag)—there are a lot. Another editing pass would have done you good, because I spent more time tripping than I did taking the story in stride. But that's often a symptom of a rushed story, which suggests even further that not everything you wanted to be in here, is in here. And that's too bad, because I did want to see more.
But that's all I have to say. Neat ideas on display, but I'm left wondering too much, and it took far too long for them to arrive. But they're still there. And I enjoyed it.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have this weird urge to play Hotline Miami.
Thanks for writing and good luck!
P.S. I hope you get art.
Talk about hitting the prompt between the glass-eyes!
Just because this was a pretty literal interpretation of the prompt doesn't make it any worse for me, and I liked the function these masks served in the ritual, and how the narrator could analyze them to hypothesize who was behind them. I kind of wish that concept of un-masking by examining the masks' characteristics was explored more, because that definitely could have created more story.
There's a much larger story implied by the world-building you've displayed. Plenty of intrigue created as a result of how the scene was set, and I think that's the greatest strength of this story. As it stands, I wasn't really drawn into these faceless characters and their struggles. You brought up a few details which interested me for a moment—such as the prince being among the masked masses, all the moons being dark tonight—but they aren't revisited, and don't affect our narrator, or the story's outcome.
The existence of such a ritual had some interesting implications, too. It's kind of like The Purge, except only for the rich, and they don't need to physically express their aggressions and perversions; they can just expunge it from themselves with a midnight ritual. Makes me wonder what happens to the proletariat in this world.
Overall, I think there's plenty of fascinating story implied by what you've written, but I didn't see much of it take form in the shape of a traditional narrative. And that's not necessarily bad, but it didn't grab me very strongly. Thanks for writing regardless!
Just because this was a pretty literal interpretation of the prompt doesn't make it any worse for me, and I liked the function these masks served in the ritual, and how the narrator could analyze them to hypothesize who was behind them. I kind of wish that concept of un-masking by examining the masks' characteristics was explored more, because that definitely could have created more story.
There's a much larger story implied by the world-building you've displayed. Plenty of intrigue created as a result of how the scene was set, and I think that's the greatest strength of this story. As it stands, I wasn't really drawn into these faceless characters and their struggles. You brought up a few details which interested me for a moment—such as the prince being among the masked masses, all the moons being dark tonight—but they aren't revisited, and don't affect our narrator, or the story's outcome.
The existence of such a ritual had some interesting implications, too. It's kind of like The Purge, except only for the rich, and they don't need to physically express their aggressions and perversions; they can just expunge it from themselves with a midnight ritual. Makes me wonder what happens to the proletariat in this world.
Overall, I think there's plenty of fascinating story implied by what you've written, but I didn't see much of it take form in the shape of a traditional narrative. And that's not necessarily bad, but it didn't grab me very strongly. Thanks for writing regardless!
I'm sorry, author:
But I found it impossible to get past the third paragraph. Every single sentence has at least one mistake of usage or grammar, and trying to read it was like stabbing pins into my eyes. So other folks can maybe offer you content advice, but I can't get past the jagged surface to see what might be underneath.
Mike
But I found it impossible to get past the third paragraph. Every single sentence has at least one mistake of usage or grammar, and trying to read it was like stabbing pins into my eyes. So other folks can maybe offer you content advice, but I can't get past the jagged surface to see what might be underneath.
Mike
Lots of editing errors here, the kind that trip me up while reading, but not the kind to obscure what you're saying, so I'm not having trouble understanding the story, at least.
There's a bit of an issue with sentence variety here. Once they get started, you do have a number of different ways for them to go, but the vast majority start the same way, with whatever the sentence's subject is. There are other ways to lead in, and it helps to have a little more of that so you don't create this sense of the same thing over and over again.
"Flake" is an odd word to use for something like obsidian for a few reasons: that's not really how obsidian is structured, it doesn't connote something sharp, and it doesn't connote something sturdy.
You also need to avoid being repetitive. Take this passage:
You keep covering this same ground, and there's no apparent thematic reason to do so, in a way that the repetition appears deliberate and strengthens the story.
You have lots of statements like this, that aren't backed up:
It does seem like he's being persistent about something, so I don't know why the narrator is saying otherwise. Not that there can't be a valid explanation, but I don't know what it is; the story doesn't say.
I do wonder why this narrator is uniformly called bad things once he becomes the center of attention, since he made the point that not all the things the attendees wanted to be rid of were bad. And that kind of undercuts the theme here, making him some sort of Christ figure.
Really, this seems more like a shallow dip into the edges of a story than the story itself, as how I'm going to take this depends on a lot of information I don't have. Some of it may be beyond the scope of what you could do here, but not all of it. I'm unclear on whether all these invasive thoughts go away at the conclusion of the ritual, or if the narrator has to take those on. Does he/she have to do this regularly? You mention that Fox is a rotating role, but that the current one has been there for a while. So is this the first time the protagonist has done this? It sounds like it. But will it be the only time? Is he a willing participant, or has he been coerced into it? Can anyone fill this role, or does he have special talents or properties that make him especially suitable?
I agree with >>Miller Minus that the anonymity hurts more than it helps. It's necessary during the ritual, but the narrator is clearly bringing in prior knowledge of who these people are, yet I'm not privy to that. The way Fox is surprised by what some of them say, which surprises the narrator at times, too, is lost on me, because I don't have an inkling of who any of them are or what they're like. That whole concept survives on contrast, but I'm missing the "before" of the "before and after" photos. So the juxtaposition doesn't mean anything, because it isn't even there, beyond the narrator essentially saying, "Hey, this guy is totally not like that, just trust me."
This feels like you've scratched the surface of a very interesting concept, but there's not enough of it present yet to be satisfying.
There's a bit of an issue with sentence variety here. Once they get started, you do have a number of different ways for them to go, but the vast majority start the same way, with whatever the sentence's subject is. There are other ways to lead in, and it helps to have a little more of that so you don't create this sense of the same thing over and over again.
"Flake" is an odd word to use for something like obsidian for a few reasons: that's not really how obsidian is structured, it doesn't connote something sharp, and it doesn't connote something sturdy.
You also need to avoid being repetitive. Take this passage:
While who was behind what mask was, in theory, unknown there would only be one of each mask this evening. In theory, in practice it would be easy enough to know who was what by their manner of speech if the listener was astute enough.
You keep covering this same ground, and there's no apparent thematic reason to do so, in a way that the repetition appears deliberate and strengthens the story.
You have lots of statements like this, that aren't backed up:
The Hound was notorious for never letting up, for never letting go. For them to seek me out at all, let alone to be first was, well, it was unorthodox.
It does seem like he's being persistent about something, so I don't know why the narrator is saying otherwise. Not that there can't be a valid explanation, but I don't know what it is; the story doesn't say.
I do wonder why this narrator is uniformly called bad things once he becomes the center of attention, since he made the point that not all the things the attendees wanted to be rid of were bad. And that kind of undercuts the theme here, making him some sort of Christ figure.
Really, this seems more like a shallow dip into the edges of a story than the story itself, as how I'm going to take this depends on a lot of information I don't have. Some of it may be beyond the scope of what you could do here, but not all of it. I'm unclear on whether all these invasive thoughts go away at the conclusion of the ritual, or if the narrator has to take those on. Does he/she have to do this regularly? You mention that Fox is a rotating role, but that the current one has been there for a while. So is this the first time the protagonist has done this? It sounds like it. But will it be the only time? Is he a willing participant, or has he been coerced into it? Can anyone fill this role, or does he have special talents or properties that make him especially suitable?
I agree with >>Miller Minus that the anonymity hurts more than it helps. It's necessary during the ritual, but the narrator is clearly bringing in prior knowledge of who these people are, yet I'm not privy to that. The way Fox is surprised by what some of them say, which surprises the narrator at times, too, is lost on me, because I don't have an inkling of who any of them are or what they're like. That whole concept survives on contrast, but I'm missing the "before" of the "before and after" photos. So the juxtaposition doesn't mean anything, because it isn't even there, beyond the narrator essentially saying, "Hey, this guy is totally not like that, just trust me."
This feels like you've scratched the surface of a very interesting concept, but there's not enough of it present yet to be satisfying.
