The Party at Carousel 3

The Party at Carousel 3
by Alexander "KG" Hwang

Marx Shukla was at a party.
The party was not actually there, though one could argue about the nuances of existence, if it came down to it. At any rate, the party was real enough in one sense to him.
Marx was upset. More upset than he could ever remember being. It was the reason he came here, to this party of unreality taking place on real Earth during a potentially real time.
He was in the kitchen area, an enormous white room filled with tables of food, though what people defined as "food" varied from person to person, and thus from table to table.
Marx's plate contained several days, as well as two weeks. It was, he reflected, something funny. He was not entirely sure why he found it funny, though. His cup was filled with hours, which were somewhat less funny.
A flower approached him. The flower was in the form of a pale-skinned man wearing a dark green suit, decorated only by a pink flower blossom on the chest of his coat. There was a beige shirt visible beneath his suit shirt and his shoes were dark brown. He was about Marx's height, his hair was black with the slightest hint of purple, and his eyes were green. His plate held a large clump of moist soil and a sphere of sunlight and his cup was filled with water.
"You look a little down," the flower murmured. "What's your name?"
"Marx," Marx replied, absently consuming a day. "Yours?"
"Oleander," came the reply. He was quiet, his voice as gentle as a spring breeze.
"I don't really want to talk about it," Marx said, looking down at his plate. "Sometimes, things happen. And you wish they didn't happen, you know?"
Oleander nodded. "I understand."
Marx said nothing for some time, drinking hours in his glass.
"Congratulations on your usefulness," Marx suddenly said, in monotone.
"You sound like you've said that a lot today," Oleander replied, eating some dirt.
"Today," Marx agreed, "and the past few days. I've been here for a long time, now."
Oleander looked at Marx for a while in silence.
A religious movement approached the two of them, then. The religious movement was in the form of a Jewish man wearing a gray suit, complete with a black tie and a white shirt visible beneath, a black hat with a moderate brim, typical reading glasses, and black shoes. He was about the same height as Marx and Oleander, his short hair and beard were a dark brown, and his eyes were hazel. His plate held pieces of some sort of lumpy bread covered in sesame seeds, a miniature bowl filled with a deep-red soup, large dumplings, and sliced carrots. His cup was filled with wine.
"Evening, gentlemen," the religious movement said, nodding graciously. He sounded like a jolly middle-aged adult. "Having a good time?"
Marx furrowed his brow at the religious movement. "I'm guessing you're a sect of Judaism, but which one?"
"Isn't it obvious, boy?" the religious movement asked, laughing. "I am Humanistic Judaism."
"Ah," Marx said, not sure exactly what made it obvious. "Congratulations on your usefulness."
"How's it going?" Oleander asked, inspecting a spoonful of dirt.
"Quite well," Humanistic Judaism said, sitting near them on the outward-jutting side of the wall. "I think I prefer Brahma's parties over the other two."
"I could never tell the difference," Marx murmured, thoughtful.
"My siblings," Humanistic Judaism explained, "Orthodox Judaism and several sects of Christianity, frequent Visnu's parties. And I'm not one to go to Siva's parties."
"Not a fan of your siblings?" Oleander asked.
"Oh, it's not that," Humanistic Judaism replied. "Rather, they're not fans of me. They're usually not fans of each other, when it comes down to it. They're fighting practically all the time. And, well, I'm the secular one."
"Do you even count as a religious movement?" Marx asked.
"Oh, of course," Humanistic Judaism said. "I'm still a part of the family, though you might say I was adopted by Humanism, and I do encompass cultural belief systems and world views. I'm sort of like Confucianism."
"Sort of," Marx repeated.
Humanistic Judaism laughed. "So who are you two?"
"Oleander," Oleander answered.
"I'm Marx," Marx said.
"You, Marx, strike me as someone with a lot on his mind," Humanistic Judaism murmured, responding to Marx's glum tone.
"It's not something I want to talk about," Marx said. "I... I want to disappear. I don't know, I guess that's why I came here."
"How long have you been here?" Humanistic Judaism asked.
"Four days," Marx responded.
Humanistic Judaism choked on a piece of bread and had a brief coughing fit.
Oleander didn't say anything, though a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
"Four days!" Humanistic Judaism exclaimed, after drinking some wine. "That's a long time to be away from your place. It's not healthy, boy."
Marx nodded. "I know. I guess I'm just punishing myself."
"You really do regret something," Humanistic Judaism murmured thoughtfully.
"Maybe you should leave the party," Oleander suggested quietly.
"I don't want to go back now," Marx muttered.
"No," Oleander said in a low voice. "I mean leave the party. Through the back door."
Marx became silent.
"You realize what that would do," Humanistic Judaism said.
"Yes," Marx eventually said. "Maybe that is what I want."
Humanistic Judaism gave Marx a stern stare for a while, then shook his head.
"Sometimes," Oleander mused, "people need to take a break, don't you think?"
"It can be a permanent break," Humanistic Judaism warned. "Maybe even a fatal one."
Marx stood up, setting his now-empty plate down.
"You're going to try?" Humanistic Judaism asked.
"I will try," Marx murmured. "I want to know what will happen. I feel like... it's time for a change."
Marx walked away from Oleander and Humanistic Judaism, who remained where they were, and headed toward the dance room.
Along the way, he encountered a music sub-genre he had seen before, Shoegaze. Shoegaze was in the form of an almost-pink-skinned woman, slightly shorter than Marx, wearing a bright pink cropped top that might as well have been an alternative bra, purple pants of no particular design, red high-heeled shoes, and golden jewelery in the form of bracelets, rings, and earrings. Her hair was long, wiry, and bright violet and her eyes were gray.
She appeared to be looking around at the kitchen area, thoughtfully.
"Shoegaze," Marx murmured, approaching her.
"Oh hey Marx," Shoegaze replied, seeing him, her voice subdued in a way that made it almost sound like part of the background, even though the music coming from the dance room was a Lavani song.
"You're still here?" Marx asked. He saw her at the party on the second day he was there.
"What do you mean, still?" Shoegaze shot back, one eyebrow raised. "My outfit is totally different. Obviously I came here again after leaving."
"Ah," Marx said, eyeing her outfit. "I forget."
"Don't tell me you've been here the whole time?" Shoegaze asked, looking concerned.
"Well, yes," Marx said. "I haven't felt like going back just yet."
Shoegaze frowned at Marx. "Well, I'm sure you'll go back when you're ready. Nothing wrong with taking your time, I guess."
"Yeah," Marx said. "Nothing to worry about."
Shoegaze gazed down at her shoes thoughtfully.
"Anyway, I'll see you around," Marx said.
"Next time," Shoegaze acknowledged, watching him through a tangle of hair as he walked into the dance room.
The music had changed to German heavy metal, which would probably have been more suitable for Shoegaze. Marx grimaced as he began to thread through the crowd, as the music did not exactly appeal to him.
He recognized Heliotrope, Pluto (the dwarf planet), Arthacias, Pi, Howaito De, Hungary, Kest, Nowruz, and Dhrtarāstra. He waved to each of them as he saw them, though he did not take up any of their invitations to dance.
When he reached the back corridor, he ran into someone.
It seemed to be a concept, though it was hard to tell, exactly. There was a strange kind of uncertainty that evoked a sense of importance to Marx. The concept was in the form of a tall and ancient gray-eyed man wearing a long gray robe that folded around him in a manner that somehow resembled wings. His wrinkled face held a sizable gray beard that reached his chest and the gray hair on his head was thick and curled. He held a sturdy scythe in his right hand, the blade turned behind him, and an hourglass half-filled with gray sand in his left hand.
Marx stared at him blankly for some time, then he realized who it was. Of course.
"You recognize me," the old man acknowledged, smiling. "Marx, you're distraught."
"Yes," Marx murmured, looking down.
"I know," the old man said, "to some extent you maybe blame me for what happened. It is understandable that you do, and really something people do all the time. But to another extent you think it is your fault. This isn't fair on you, and I'm sure you realize this too."
"You already know what I am going to do," Marx said, looking up at eyes that defined and defied age.
"Your people have always seen me as a kind of parent," the old man mumbled. "Let me endorse this view and tell you that I care about you."
"I can't ask you about what I'm going to do, can I?" Marx asked.
"Not this time," the old man admitted, almost sadly.
"Well," Marx said, "thank you anyway. Congratulations on your usefulness."
The old man laughed then, though offered no further comment. He approached Marx and half-embraced him with his left arm. As he did so, Marx could feel the coldness of the hourglass upon his shoulder.
Then the old man released him, nodded to him, and continued toward the dance room, slowly but surely. Marx watched the old man vanish into the crowd before continuing on.
When he rounded the next corner, he found a group of nine beings in the way. Marx was not sure what they were, exactly, though he got the impression they were concepts of some sort. Yet they almost seemed to be of the real and living.
They were all wearing cowls of different colors, though from a distance they all looked black, with the hoods up in a way that mostly obscured their faces. They were of somewhat varying heights, though one was rather hunched over and another was larger than the rest. Most of them carried objects as well.
The one in the dark gray cowl leaned on a golden scepter. His face was that of a somewhat elderly man with some kind of black stone embedded in his forehead.
The one in the dark red cowl held a long knife in one hand and some papers in the other. Her face was obscured not only by her hood but by long black hair over her eyes, allowing nothing but red lips to be seen, though more of her black hair reached out of the edges of her hood.
The one in the dark brown cowl was the hunched one, apparently holding nothing. His posture made did not allow Marx to see his face, though, oddly, a drooling tongue could be seen beneath the hood.
The one in the dark blue cowl kept his hands hidden from view, though the outline of what Marx suspected was a gun could be seen. His face revealed a pair of dark glasses and a thin mouth.
The one in the dark green cowl held two curved swords, one in each hand. Her face revealed a bitter-looking woman.
The one in the dark yellow cowl held a cat o' nine tails. His face was significantly taken up by orangish-brown beard.
The one in the dark violet cowl held a conical flask half-filled with a bubbling red liquid. Her face revealed a pair of severely reflective glasses and a smiling mouth, with some of her almost-white hair to either side.
The one in the dark cyan cowl was the large one, apparently holding nothing, though metallic gloves could be seen worn over big hands. His face was fierce and intimidating, consisting of two large eyes that stared directly at Marx and a massive frown.
The one in the black cowl also held nothing. His face revealed a grinning man, his eyes thin.
Marx realized that he recognized some of them, despite their cowls. Pieces of a puzzle fit together in his mind, and he guessed what this encounter meant. He was supposed to act passive and resigned, based on what he remembered, but it occurred to him that there was no need to act, because he was already so inclined anyway.
"So," Marx said. "I guess it's time I met you guys, huh?"
"You know of us," the one in black rasped in a stereotypically dark and sinister voice.
"Sort of," Marx replied. "I'm guessing you know why."
"You will reveal nothing," the one in black murmured.
"That's right," Marx agreed.
"He's a smug bastard," the one in green growled, her voice sounding like a great feline. She had moved her swords to a slightly more menacing angle. Marx eyed the swords with a frown, knowing that any violence would lead to intervention by Brahma and end the party early. The one in violet giggled a high-pitched laugh, presumably at what the one in green said.
Marx then realized he was angry.
"We're not doing anything here," the one in black said, as if reminding the one in green.
"His smugness," the one in yellow murmured in the voice of a chain smoker, "indicates that he believes his side will win. If he knows something we don't..."
"Both sides," the one in black murmured, "know things their opponents do not. We're not backing out of this game now. And, obviously, we didn't anyway. We will acquire the advantage, in time."
"We perhaps ought to quicken this pace," the one blue stated in a monotone voice that resembled a machine. "This corridor is not used infrequently."
"Not to mention that we're wasting time here, anyway," the one in green muttered.
"All right," the one in black said, addressing Marx. "Leave through the back door. You know what'll happen?"
"I know," Marx replied.
"Huh," the one in black said. "You must be depressed. Anyway, just wait for us when you get there. We're taking the long way around."
Marx nodded and kept going down the corridor, wondering how they had originally planned to persuade him to do this without using force. He avoiding looking at them, knowing they were watching him walk.
"Why are you doing this?" the one in gray asked when Marx passed. His voice was a permanent whisper.
"I'm going to get information out of all of you," Marx said, fairly certain this was safe to say.
"You poor fool," the one in gray replied, visibly shaking his head.
Marx continued down the corridor and met Student, a sort of concept that always watched the back door in a way not unlike the Doorman, who watched the front door.
"I'm leaving, Student," Marx murmured.
"Out... this way?" Student asked, looking vaguely concerned. "You know what will happen."
"Yes," Marx said. "I will become one of the humans."
Student said nothing more and opened the door for him, bowing.
As Marx passed the threshold of the doorway, he felt a strong wrenching that he had never felt before. It did not hurt, but it was as if something was trying to keep him from passing through to the human world. He forced himself through anyway, and felt himself become something very different.
Outside, the party did not exist. Rather, it did not exist for him, because he was now a simple human, destined to stay so unless, by a freak chance, he stumbled back into the party at Carousel.

The Party at Carousel 2

The Party at Carousel 2
by Alexander "KG" Hwang

Lucy Hirsch was confused and a little afraid.
After getting past the strangely-named Student at the door, she had bumped into a short white man wearing a black top hat, white gloves, red long-sleeved shirt, green pants, and brown shoes. The man then began to insist to her that he was not an apple.
"I never said you were an apple," Lucy stated.
"You just did!" the man declared. "You just said 'you were an apple'!"
"Well, okay," Lucy replied, rolling her eyes. "But I meant prior to that."
"I am not an apple!" the man exclaimed.
"Okay, great," Lucy said. "I agree."
"I can smell that sarcasm in your voice!" the man shouted.
"Yes, I was sarcastic about the 'great' part," Lucy groaned. "I still agree that you are not an apple."
"I can prove to you that I am not an apple," the man continued, rummaging through his pockets.
"Is this guy bugging you?" someone suddenly asked.
Lucy turned to see a stunning, taller woman dressed in a pure black silk dress that reached the floor such that one could hardly see the black high-heeled shoes she wore and long black gloves that went to her elbows. She also wore scorpion-shaped earrings that were almost hidden by her long and straight black hair and a necklace which held what resembled a lowercase cursive "m" made of a yellow gemstone that matched her amber eyes. Her lipstick was black.
"You shouldn't bother young girls, Not-Apple," the woman said. She had a rather breathy voice. "Remember what happened at the party three months ago?"
" Elf," Not-Apple growled suddenly. "If she had just-"
" You were at fault," the woman interrupted him. "If something happens again, you know what will happen to you."
Not-Apple sighed. "Fine, yes. I wasn't going to do anything to her, anyway."
"Why don't you come with me?" the woman said to Lucy.
Lucy nodded mutely and followed her down the corridor, toward the jazzy-sounding music.
"You can call me Scorpina," Scorpina said. "Don't worry about Not-Apple, he's just kind of... well, stupid."
"Is that a real name?" Lucy asked. "How do you spell it?"
"The two words, 'not' and 'apple'," Scorpina replied. "Hyphenated, I guess. It's about as real as any name. What's yours?"
"I'm Lucy," Lucy answered. They had reached the end of the corridor, where the dance room was. Lucy saw a sea of people, possibly numbering in the hundreds, in an area that she felt was too big compared to the building she saw outside. The dance room was a dark blue. It made Lucy think of the night sky.
"Is that short for something?" Scorpina asked, apparently looking for someone in the crowd.
"Um, no, I don't think so," Lucy said.
"Interesting," Scorpina said, putting her hands on her hips and still looking at the crowd. "You hungry?"
Before Lucy could reply, Scorpina went into the room. Lucy followed her.
The music was not something she had heard before. She could make out a prominent saxophone and occasional bits of piano and drums, but the rest of the instruments she was not familiar with. The melody was strikingly unusual, such that she was absolutely certain it was foreign. People seemed to be dancing in all sorts of different ways, in some cases it wasn't even clear whether or not the people were really dancing.
Suddenly, someone fell to the floor right next to Lucy, making her jump back.
It was a person completely covered in various pieces of clothing and rags, the only other visible thing being a pair of dark glasses. The person got up and made a snorting sound. Lucy looked up to see a dark-skinned woman. The woman had cloth wrapped around her head and mouth, her two overlapping shirts were severely torn, and her skirt seemed to be made of some kind of grass. She was also barefoot.
"Th'were a bit of a cheap shot, eh?" the person on the floor rasped, slowly rising. He sounded like an old man suffering from lung cancer.
"We don't fight clean, you know that," the woman said. It looked like she had just punched the person on the floor.
"Aye, s'true," the person had risen to his feet. "Look 'ere, Malaria, we got us an audience."
"Don't be changin' the subject, Cancer," Malaria said. She had a strange way of talking, as if she were sick and about to cough at any given moment.
Lucy noticed that Scorpina had appeared by her side, apparently spectating with mild interest. A small crowd was making a circle around these two.
Cancer adjusted his glasses with a several-gloved hand. "You know we weren't really meant to get along. Just think about who our diff'ring... clientele are."
"We overlap," Malaria insisted, making a tight fist. "Don't you try to spin it like that."
"Malaria," Cancer said. "Your time is limited. We both know that."
Malaria shrieked then, and was suddenly restrained by someone who stepped out of the crowd and began leading her away. Someone else took Cancer and the spectacle was over.
"Malaria and Cancer?" Lucy asked, her brow furrowed.
"Mm, yes," Scorpina said. "They get invited, too. I don't think anyone in the trio is the discriminating type."
"Trio?" Lucy echoed, following Scorpina, who had begun to walk once more.
"The parties at Carousel are always hosted by one of three brothers," Scorpina replied. "Visnu being one of them."
They had reached the kitchen area, which was almost as huge as the dance room. It was a big white room, with several extremely long tables that each held various plates of what seemed to be food. There was a strong smell of a mixture of foods. Lucy had the impression that food from every place in the world was in this room.
"It's funny," Scorpina murmured. "Cancer. Reminds me of someone. Well, go ahead and look around. Take whatever you desire, as long as you plan to eat it. You often find food you don't expect to find at these parties."
Lucy nodded numbly and proceeded further into the room, passing by some tables and taking a plate and fork with her. The plates on the tables were stacked and covered with food, but then some had strange and random objects instead. She passed plates with rice, salad, mashed potatoes, chopped carrots, cooked fish, raw fish, barbecued meat of some sort, cubes made of cheese, and cubes made of chocolate. She also passed plates with things that appeared to be antiquated coins, eraser shavings, shredded pieces of paper, electronic wires, keyboard keys, rocks, and tiny hats.
She came up to a girl helping herself to light multi-colored cubes. The girl was about Lucy's height. She was wearing a pink knitted beanie that covered the top portion of her platinum blonde hair which only barely reached her neck. She also wore a sleeveless white blouse, a knee-length white skirt, and knee-length white socks, all decorated with lace, and no shoes. Her skin was very pale.
"What're those?" Lucy asked, leaning forward to sniff the cubes. They smelled like soap.
"Soap," the girl replied, smiling at Lucy's confused face. Her voice sounded small and tinkly, almost squeaky, the way Lucy imagined a might fairy sound.
"You're actually going to eat it?" Lucy asked, standing upright and following her down the table.
"Of course," the girl said, looking surprised that Lucy even asked. "It's against the rules to take things you don't plan on eating."
"And... you know that soap is poisonous, right?" Lucy asked.
"Just the right amount," the girl replied, smiling. "What's your name?"
"Lucy," Lucy said, seeing a plate of enchiladas and taking one. "What's yours?"
"Soap," Soap replied, silently chuckling to herself.
"Seriously?" Lucy asked, wondering if this girl was playing a joke on her.
"Seriously," Soap replied. "I always tell the truth."
"How did you get a name like that?" Lucy asked.
"Oh, I got it a long time ago," Soap said. "It used to be Sapo, but you know how things change."
It was at this point that Lucy began to understand that the people who went to this party were extremely eccentric. She wondered how far that eccentricity tipped into insanity.
As they reached the end of the table, Lucy noticed Scorpina and another woman with their own plates. Scorpina waved and Lucy waved back.
"Friend of yours?" Soap asked, scooping spoonfuls of laundry detergent powder onto her plate.
"I guess," Lucy said. "She saved me from, uh... someone apparently named Not-Apple."
Soap giggled. "Isn't that such a silly name?"
Lucy blinked at Soap and didn't reply.
They reached Scorpina and the other woman. The woman was shorter, between Scorpina's height and Lucy's. Her hair was long and wavy, her eyes were wide and blue, and her lips were a pale blue. She wore an aquamarine shirt that depicted two fish chasing each other's tails, dark blue shorts that went just past her knees, black leggings of some sort, and black sneakers. She had a necklace like Scorpina's, except it held a symbol that resembled a closing parenthesis followed by an opening parenthesis joined by a line crossing them out. It was made of some kind of black stone speckled with red.
"Lucy," Scorpina said, "this is my sister Pisce." She pronounced it pie sea.
"Good evening," Pisce said. She had a soft, quiet voice.
"Ah," Lucy said. "Pleased to meet you. This is, ah, Soap."
Soap did a curtsey while balancing her plate and cup.
"Soap," Scorpina said. "I'm Scorpina. My, don't we complement each other?"
"I find that I complement most people," Soap replied, smiling.
"Soap," Pisce said, putting her plate and cup down and approaching her. Then Pisce suddenly embraced her.
Soap looked a little surprised and didn't do anything.
"Do you... know each other?" Lucy asked, confused and a little embarrassed.
"Oh, a lot of people know me," Soap replied, setting the plate in her left hand down on the nearby table to pat Pisce.
Lucy looked at Soap's plate. It had cubes made of soap, soap in foam form, toothpaste, tissues, small bath sponges, and laundry detergent powder. Her cup was filled with something that Lucy was pretty sure was rubbing alcohol.
Pisce's plate had several different types of fish, not all of them cooked, as well as what appeared to be worms and insects. Her cup was filled with what looked like plain water.
Scorpina's plate had insects, arachnids, rodents, and small lizards (one of which she was delicately biting at the end of a fork). Her cup was filled with something that was transparent like water, but had a tinge of violet.
Lucy's own plate had a slice of cheese pizza, seasoned curly fries, an enchilada, garlic breadsticks, and s'mores. Her cup was filled with root beer.
"Come on, Pisce," Scorpina said, grabbing Pisce's sleeve. "Let her eat her food."
"I'm sorry," Pisce said, releasing Soap. Her eyes were wet. "I'm... a fan."
Soap smiled. "I'm always glad to know I am useful."
Pisce bowed her head and retrieved her food. Soap picked up her plate and beamed at Lucy.
"Who else is here, Pisce?" Scorpina asked, idly chewing on what looked like a gecko.
"Sage and Caprice, I believe," Pisce replied, twirling a worm with her fork. "Ares might have come too, but he didn't tell me. You know how he can be."
Scorpina nodded and acquired a roasted tarantula from her plate. Lucy realized she was staring and stopped.
"It's strange to you, isn't it?" Soap asked, watching her with a spoon in her mouth.
"A bit," Lucy admitted. "It's hard to believe you guys are eating this stuff."
Pisce looked at Scorpina, who nodded at her silently.
"There are stranger things at these parties," Soap remarked. "But isn't it a bit of fun, seeing what other people will eat?"
"Yeah, I guess," Lucy said, realizing that she ought to start on her own food.
They ate for a little while, saying little. Lucy mostly stayed silent, wondering who these people actually were.
At some point a tall man came down the table. He was barefoot and bare-chested, his skin looked like a burnt tan and his only apparent clothing was a decorated kilt. On his head was a tall headdress covered in tall ostrich feathers. His hair was dark and rough-looking. His eyes were thin and decorated in a way that made them resemble what Lucy recognized as the Eye of Horus. His beard was strangely pointed and curved in a way that made it look fake. There was what appeared to be a series of decorative necklaces around his neck, the furthest-outward one holding a black ankh on it. He had bracelets and anklets made in the same style as the necklaces as well.
His plate carried dried fruits, uncooked noodle bunches, uncooked rice, and nuts. His cup appeared to be filled with sand.
"Hello, ladies," the man said. His voice was strongly accented and somehow old-fashioned. Lucy guessed he was African.
"Hi," Soap said.
"I am Shu," the man said, inclining his head slightly. Lucy glanced down at Shu's feet.
"I'm Soap," Soap said. "This is Lucy. This is Scorpina and Pisce."
"Ah," Shu said to Scorpina. "Scorpina, have we met?"
"By a different name," Scorpina replied, grinning. "You're probably thinking of Serket. I'm of the Zodiac family."
"The Zodiac family," Shu repeated, understanding. "I have met your brother, Liberius. A most charming fellow."
"We're all charming, I like to think," Scorpina said, smiling at Pisce, who was staring down at her food, looking embarrassed.
"You remind me of my sister," Shu said, now looking at Pisce. He seemed to become distracted by a thought before shaking his head slightly and looking at Lucy. "And you? Don't tell me you're... ah, well, what's your family?"
"Um," Lucy replied. "Hirsch."
"Hirsch?" Shu repeated, looking confused. Then his eyes widened. "Ah, I see. Of course. I hope you're enjoying the party."
Lucy nodded at him, beginning to feel rather awkward about talking to this man wearing so little.
"Soap," Shu was now saying. "You should have been there more often in my time. Oh, the smell!"
"Well, you know how it works," Soap replied, shrugging.
"Hey, Lucy," Scorpina suddenly said, distracting her from the conversation she wasn't following.
Lucy turned to Scorpina.
"When's your birthday?" Scorpina asked. Pisce looked interested, too.
"February 27," Lucy replied, wondering what this was about.
"Ah, I knew it!" Scorpina exclaimed excitedly. "See, Pisce?"
Pisce smiled and put down her plate and cup, then approached Lucy. Pisce then suddenly embraced her.
Lucy was surprised, not just by the act but also by how soft Pisce seemed to be. She carried the scent of a strange mixture of fish and soap.
"Ah... is that good?" Lucy asked, not sure how to respond to this.
"It's nice," Pisce whispered. After a moment she released Lucy and smiled at her.
"Wanna wander around a bit?" Scorpina asked. "Pisce doesn't like dancing so we usually hang out in here."
"Um, okay," Lucy said.
"Soap, Shu," Scorpina addressed them. They appeared to have been talking. "We'll be off now. It was nice meeting you."
"You too," Soap replied.
"A pleasure," Shu agreed.
"I'll be seeing you around, Lucy," Soap added, smiling at her.
The three of them, Lucy, Scorpina, and Pisce, began to wander toward a corner of the room.
They passed by a sizeable crowd of people dressed in various different colors surrounding a tall and gorgeous woman dressed in black with white glitter all over. They seemed to simply be admiring her eating what looked like rocks, ice chunks, and small fireballs as she occasionally spoke to them.
"Are you aliens?" Lucy suddenly asked. It was a suspicion she'd been having for a while now.
"Aliens?" Scorpina asked, obviously amused.
"I... I feel like nobody here is... normal," Lucy said. "I mean, no offense. I generally like weird things, but..."
"Don't worry about it, Lucy," Scorpina said, laying a hand on Lucy's shoulder. "We're not human."
The affirmation sent a mixture of fear and thrill through Lucy, and she found she didn't know what to say.
"The fact that you are," Scorpina continued, "is what is abnormal. I wasn't sure until you said this. Humans aren't supposed to be able to find these parties since, well, Carousel doesn't exist."
"Should I be afraid?" Lucy whispered, now afraid.
"As long as you leave before the party ends, you should be fine," Pisce murmured.
"Yeah," Scorpina said. "Otherwise, you'll stop existing conventionally."
"When does the party end?" Lucy squeaked.
Scorpina and Pisce looked at each other and blinked.
"Er," Pisce said.
" You don't know," Lucy said in a quivering whisper. "You... don't think it'd be rude of me to dart out of here, do you?"
"Go ahead," Pisce whispered. "We'll meet again."
"It was fun," Scorpina added.
Lucy then ran into the dance room. The music now sounded like generic techno music with a continuous percussive beat. Lucy began to thread her way through the crowd, wondering how she got into this mess.
Finally, she approached the entrance corridor and began to run down it, suddenly crashing into someone. A man.
The man fell back somewhat but didn't fall, and Lucy didn't either due to being supported by him.
He was dark in all senses of the word. His hair was black and messy, his eyes were hidden by black sunglasses, and there were minute signs of facial hair on the bottom half of his face. He was dressed in a black business suit, black leather gloves, and black dress shoes.
"I... I'm sorry," Lucy said, backing up somewhat. "I just..."
" Well," a young girl's voice chimed, "what's going on here?"
A girl appeared from behind the dark man. She had pale pinkish skin and black hair that reached her waist. Her eyes seemed to have a reddish tinge. She was wearing a sleeveless black shirt decorated with white dots, a short pink skirt going halfway down her thighs, detached light purple sleeves that went from her upper arms to her wrists, black-and-white striped socks that reached halfway up her thighs, and sparkling red shoes.
"What're you doing, getting all physical with my Ruin?" the girl asked, hands on her hips. She sounded younger than she looked.
"I was running," Lucy explained, "and I accidentally ran into him."
"Oh," the girl said, suddenly appearing to have forgiven the incident. "Who're you running from?"
"Well, nobody," Lucy began.
"Nobody can be pretty scary," the girl said, nodding and folding her arms across her chest.
"No," Lucy said, "I mean, I wasn't running from anyone."
"Anyone is pretty nice," the girl noted, visibly thinking.
"No, no," Lucy said, "I'm just trying to leave the party."
"Why would you leave?" the girl asked, suddenly in front of her and staring into her face in a rather disconcerting way. "Aren't you having fun?"
"Well, I guess," Lucy said, "but I realized that I don't belong here."
"Oh, don't be a silly," the girl said, suddenly hugging Lucy. "We can all accept you for who you are!"
"That's... that's nice," Lucy said, trying to disengage herself from the girl. "But I need to go now."
"You should stay!" the girl said. "We could be best friends! I'll give you lots of pie to celebrate!"
"Please," Lucy pleaded, "let me go."
"Zythia," a stern and matronly yet tired-sounding voice called.
Lucy and the girl both turned to see a woman.
"Lucie!" Zythia exclaimed and ran off to hug the woman. Lucy was confused.
"Stop bothering people," the woman said, removing Zythia from herself and walking on. Ruin and Zythia followed her, Ruin walking and Zythia skipping and dancing around.
The woman paused to look at Lucy.
After they left, Lucy realized she had no idea what the woman looked like, except that it made her afraid. What stayed with her was the impression of burnt eyes as old as sin.
At the door, Student only bowed graciously, saying, "We hope to see you again."
Outside, the evening air was chilly. Lucy did not hear Student close the door, but she knew the party was not there anymore. She turned around to see an old merry-go-round in the middle of the town square. She knew it was intended for decoration only, and hadn't been used in many years.

The Party at Carousel 1

The Party at Carousel 1
by Alexander "KG" Hwang

Randal Fiedler entered the building.
"Welcome to the party," said the man who had answered his knock. "Name?"
"Um," Randal said, hesitating, "Randy."
"I'm Student," Student replied. He certainly looked like a student: a young man of maybe twenty, two years younger than Randal, sporting a white dress shirt, sky blue jeans, circular glasses, and clean, short dark hair. "Remember the rules. No fighting, no vomiting. Bathrooms are at the end of either hallway. Don't take food if you're not going to eat it. Make sure you introduce yourself whenever you talk to someone, and congratulate them on how useful they are."
"Useful?" Randal asked, feeling lost.
"Or whatever is appropriate," Student amended. "It's technically a costume party, but you're allowed to ask them what's underneath. And watch out for Mister Siva. Be polite to him. He's the one hosting the party. If he gets upset at you, you might get... removed."
Randal nodded numbly and proceeded down the corridor, toward the percussive beat of what sounded like native African music, though he couldn't be sure. It occurred to him, as he walked, that he forgot to ask Student if that was his real name or not. He resolved not to go back and ask.
He came to two short girls, both wearing long yellow dresses decorated with various flowers. They seemed to be whispering to each other about something. One, with her back turned, had shoulder-length brown hair with a daisy stuck in it. The other had long black hair that reached down her back and a crown of cherry blossoms on her head. She peered over her friend to look at Randal curiously and waved. She looked Asian.
Randal waved back and slowed his walking to a stop, unsure if that wave was intended as a beckon or not. He could smell their flowery perfume.
The brown-haired girl turned. She looked Greek, or maybe German. Randal wasn't sure.
"Hi," the brown-haired girl said, giving Randal a friendly smile. Her voice was tinged with a European accent whose origin he couldn't place. "I'm Maia."
"Satsuki," the black-haired girl whispered, staring at Randal with wide eyes. She had a plain-as-day Japanese accent.
"I'm Randy," Randal replied, feeling a little nervous.
Maia laid a soft hand on Randal's chest. He resisted the impulse to jolt backward.
"You're nervous, too?" Maia asked, looking concerned. "I understand. We're both pretty nervous, even though this is our month. But you can't make friends outside your neighborhood if you don't take a few risks, you know?"
Randal nodded, believing that he understood what Maia was talking about.
Maia smiled and dropped her hand to her side, then reached with her other hand out to Satsuki. "Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Randy. You're very convincing."
Satsuki nodded and gave Randal a tiny smile before letting herself be led by Maia further into the building.
Randal smiled dumbly, wondering what Maia meant by "convincing", before following them into the large room ahead.
The room was larger than he thought it was, based on what he remembered from the size of the building, though, on reflection, he wasn't so sure he remembered how big the building was to begin with. There were maybe hundreds of people in the room. The ongoing conversation sounded like a constant wave breaking shore, and the percussive music almost seemed to complement that.
In his awe, Randal had lost sight of Maia and Satsuki. He frowned to himself and walked toward the crowd.
He very quickly bumped into someone. A boy. The boy jumped as if shocked and cried out.
"I'm sorry," Randal insisted. "I'm sorry."
The boy turned around. He was very thin. His hair was light brown and slightly spiky, his shirt was burgundy, his pants were khaki, and he looked shaven.
"What the hell?" the boy inquired, his voice deep yet young-sounding. "Is it really that difficult to watch where you're going?"
"I'm really sorry," Randal continued.
"Calm down, Matches," a girl said severely, though in a soft voice. She was even thinner. Her hair was wavy and blond and went past her waist, her blouse was pale green, and her long skirt was light blue.
"He bumped into me," Matches complained.
"That's nothing to explode about," the girl replied mildly. "He didn't mean to."
Matches grimaced and said nothing.
"I'm sorry," Randal said again.
"Don't worry about it," the girl said. "Matches is very sensitive."
Matches coughed loudly.
"I'm Air," she said. "What's your name?"
"Um. Randy," Randal replied. "Are those your real names?" Randal had been imagining Matches being spelled "Macchis" until Air said her own name.
"Of course," Air answered brightly. "Though a lot of people here like to give funny nicknames. It's the nature of these parties."
"Yeah," Matches murmured. "As a result, you get a lot of nonsense around here."
"Are you guys from here?" Randal asked. He had never been to Carousel before.
"No," Air replied. "We're from... pretty far away."
"We're not going back, though," Matches added.
"Of course," Air said, smiling and interlocking the fingers of one of her hands with one of Matches'.
Then a woman walked over. Her hair was frizzy and red and stopped at the middle of her back, her short red-and-yellow-sequined dress reached just above her knees, and she was wearing sparkling red high-heel shoes. She paused in front of Air and frowned with red lips. She smelled like incense.
"Oh, damn," she murmured, pouting and resting a long red fingernail on her lips. "I thought you were someone else."
"Hi," Air said warily. Matches' eyes seemed to be traveling down the woman's figure.
"Perja," the woman introduced herself. Her voice was smoky. "I also go by Hottie."
Randal smiled to himself.
"I'm Air," Air said. "And this is Matches and Randy."
"Matches, huh?" Perja remarked, glancing at Matches and wetting her lips with her tongue. "Well, I heard your name was Air and I thought you were a friend of mine, Gwynte. They sometimes call her Air, too, so yeah."
"I see," Air replied, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "Well, I'm sorry. We haven't met anyone by that name."
"Eh whatever," Perja said, looking around. "See ya." And she walked away.
Randal took note of the fact that Perja had never so much as glanced at him.
"Matches, I'm hungry," Air suddenly said. "Let's go to the kitchen."
"Yeah, sure," Matches replied, looking somewhat distracted.
"You wanna come?" Air asked Randal, who nodded.
He began to follow the two of them, looking around. Many people wore all sorts of different styles of clothes, but quite a few were relatively normal. He also noticed that of those who were dancing, very few of them actually danced the same dance.
The kitchen was also huge, though not as big as the previous room. Compared to the blueness of the previous room, the kitchen was a traditional white.
There was a plethora of food. It looked like Mister Siva had multiple cooks from different parts of the world. It smelled of all sorts of different places, though Randal could smell the spice of curry prominently.
When they reached one end of the table, Randal realized that the plates contained other things that he would not have considered food. He spotted meats, vegetables, fruits, grains, and cheeses, but he also saw candies, chocolates, pills, powders, rocks, bars of soap, toys, human body parts (including hair, fingernails, and teeth), bits of metal and plastic, small electronic devices, stacks of paper, matches (Randal noticed that Matches had paused at that plate for a moment), writing utensils, clothes, and many other things. Randal had considered taking some of the clothes that looked like they'd fit, but he remembered something that Student had told him and decided not to.
At the end of the table, they encountered a tall old man leaning on a lengthy umbrella and a slightly pudgy old woman carrying two books. As Randal approached, he got a strange feeling that there was something wrong with the old woman, but he couldn't say what.
"Good evening," the old man declared, sounding old and German. He wore a blue nightcap that covered his bald head, a long coat that seemed to be green or blue, Randal wasn't exactly sure, and dark red pants. "Liking the party, children?"
"Yes, thank you," Air replied, bowing to the man. "I'm Air, this is Matches, this is Randy."
"They call me Sandman," the old man said, inclining his head and giving them a wrinkled smile. "My friend, here, is the Storyteller."
"Good evening, dears," the old woman greeted them in a grandmotherly tone. She wore a fuzzy white coat over a long violet gown and had perfectly white hair. Randal felt that there was something very strange about her, but it didn't seem to be the fact that she was wearing two pairs of thick reading glasses.
"Please, eat with us," the Sandman implored them. "The two of us are too similar to have much to talk about."
The Storyteller chuckled and smiled.
Randal saw that the Sandman had a small personal plate, covered in what looked like eyes. He was taking one and popping it into his mouth on occasion.
Randal looked at his own plate, which had mashed potatoes with gravy, steamed carrots and broccoli, roasted turkey, and some kind of foreign chocolate balls. His cup was filled with orange soda.
Air's plate had gray and brown powders and paper. Her cup was filled with water.
Matches' plate had yellow powder, burnt pieces of wood, and unfamiliar vegetables that looked like weeds. His cup was filled with wine.
It occurred to Randal that there was something strange about this party. He then realized that he had been missing conversation and started paying attention.
"...to do my job," the Sandman was saying. "But then again, you have all sorts of others to lighten the load, like Morpheus, everyone knows about him."
"You get compensation, though, don't you?" Matches asked.
"Oh, sure," the Sandman replied, chewing an eye thoughtfully. "Probably my best option, all things considered. That doesn't make it much easier, though. Children these days..." The Sandman sighed.
Randal did not understand what they were talking about, so he began to wander around the kitchen.
He noticed a huge muscular man covered in jewels and feathers. His face was painted in black and yellow stripes, his black hair was thick and reached his lower back, his dust-colored chest was bare while his pelvis was covered by a jaguarskin breechcloth. His right leg ended in a pitch-black peg-leg. There was a small child on his plate and his cup was filled with blood.
The man turned to look at Randal, who shuddered, seeing utterly bloodshot eyes and almost fang-like teeth dripping with blood.
There was a tall dark figure who looked like a man but might have passed as a woman from certain angles. Though his skin was a striking pale, his shoulder-length hair, trench coat, and pants were all pure black. His plate held a steak smothered in dark red sauce, several chicken sandwiches, an unfamiliar violet drumstick, and a small mound of black colloid. His cup was filled with a dark soda.
He seemed to notice Randal looking at him and said, in a strong and unmistakably male voice, "Yes, I know I'm beautiful, but you don't have to rub it in."
Abashed, Randal looked away, seeing a group of four wearing gray business suits and standing near one part of the table where Randal saw nothing edible. Curious, he approached the group.
The shortest one was also the heaviest-looking one. His suit was the darkest gray, and he wore a matching bowler hat to cover his bald head. His skin almost seemed to take on a grayish tone.
Taller was the only woman in the group, who seemed to also be the lightest. Her suit had a reddish-orange tinge that appeared to reflect the color of her reddish hair that was tied in a bun. Her skin was tan.
Taller still was a muscular man, who might have been almost as heavy as the shortest one. His suit was a simple gray, and his dark gray hair was cut very short. His skin was a pale brown.
Tallest was a thin but stern-looking man. His suit was a very light gray, and his white hair reached down his shoulders. His skin was so pale it looked white.
Then Randal saw that all four of them had plates containing nothing but pieces of metal and electronic objects.
"Hey, boy," the shortest one said in a voice that sounded like a sledgehammer. "What do you want?"
"Hi," Randal said, suddenly afraid. "I-I'm Randy."
"Rando-" the short one began, when the woman suddenly jabbed an elbow into him and he became silent. The woman then smiled at Randal stiffly.
"I'm L-Plum," the short one eventually said, rubbing his side. "Randy."
"You can call me T-Wolf," the muscled man chimed in, his voice resembling a crate being dragged across concrete.
"Call me C-Cup," the woman said, her voice like coins clattering. "Our names are jokes, by the way."
Randal almost reflexively glanced at C-Cup's chest. He didn't get the joke.
"And I'm known as Sarge," the tallest one declared, his voice like a very sharp knife. He also had a knife in his mouth.
"You were in the army?" Randal asked conversationally.
Sarge looked up, as if remembering. "Frequently. But not often enough. That was usually Iron's department, if anyone's."
Randal got the impression that he had missed something important. There was a brief silence broken by L-Plum noisily crunching on what seemed to be a piece of lead.
"Is that a trick?" Randal asked, not sure what to believe.
"What?" L-Plum replied, examining one bit of metal. "Eating?"
"Well, I mean, you can't really be eating metal, can you?" Randal asked.
L-Plum paused and peered at Randal. He then grinned. Randal saw that all of his teeth were apparently replaced with some kind of metal.
"Ah, I see now," L-Plum said, sneering. "You're a softy."
"None of that," C-Cup murmured.
L-Plum backed off, but he was still sneering at Randal.
Sarge seemed to watch this exchange with disinterest.
Randal shrugged and walked on.
He saw a smiling black man with long dreadlocks and dressed in a casual Aloha shirt and shorts. His plate was stacked with all sorts of random pieces of fruit and meat, including several insects. The man was talking to a bearded Semite dressed in a simple robe that reached his ankles. His plate held only pieces of bread, though he also had a cup of wine.
"That is Anansi, and that is Yehoshua," a girl suddenly said.
Randal turned to see a short girl, her brown hair also short, her face freckled. She was wearing a chartreuse shirt too big for her, short denim shorts that were mostly hidden under the shirt, and knee-length white socks.
"Hi," Randal said, feeling absolutely unafraid of this girl. "I'm Randy. What's your name?"
"Is," the girl replied, staring at him with green eyes.
"Ah," Randal said. "What is your name, then."
"No, I wouldn't find a contraction demeaning," Is said. "Is is my name."
"You mean like Isabelle?" Randal asked.
"It is not a nickname," Is clarified.
"Oh," Randal said, confused. "It's an interesting name, I suppose."
Is shrugged thoughtfully. "Would you like me to accompany you?"
"Um," Randal replied. "I guess that'd be nice."
Is smiled at him and grabbed his arm possessively.
Randal, now feeling nervous and stupid, realized that the girl probably would want to dance or something. So he led Is back out to the big room, where the music had now changed to something Randal had never heard before.
"It is Bengali music," Is remarked.
"I was wondering," Randal admitted.
Is merely smiled.
They walked past two men and women, and Randal started coughing.
"Those four call themselves Al, Caffy, Nick, and Mary," Is murmured. Randal avoided turning his head toward the group and kept walking.
"Um," Randal said, after a certain point, realizing he should have asked this earlier. "Do you feel like dancing?"
"Dancing is a form of art with many styles," Is stated. "Which style are you talking about?"
Randal mulled that question over. "I'm not sure. I actually don't really know how to dance."
Is merely smiled. "When I was last at a party, Quiyoughkasouck danced with me, and it was the sort driven by passion, of a style ancient and lost."
Randal was not about to say something, but if he were, it would have been interrupted by a gasp from behind him. He turned to see a clean-looking man with a bleeding nose, apparently knocked to the floor by a bulkier man with a fist in each hand.
"You did not just punch Thox," a young, princess-y girl said, stepping up to the man. Her purple-dyed hair reached down to her thighs. She was wearing some kind of tiara with a pink jewel encrusted in it, a violet tube top, and a red short skirt. She was a good foot shorter than the man, who was not fat but not thin and wore a khaki-colored business suit.
"Stay out of this," the man growled, his voice sounding strangely monotone.
Then, Randal wasn't sure what happened. There was a blur, maybe a flash of light, then came the sound of something cracking open.
The next instant, the bulky man was on the floor, a piece of his head missing. Wires jutted out of it, sizzling and fizzing out. Randal smelled burning plastic.
Then, silence. The room was suddenly empty, except for himself and Is.
Randal looked around, confused.
"What happened?" Randal asked.
"The party is over," Is said. "The rules were broken, though that was initially Macintosh's fault. Everyone returned to their normal states, except for me. I remained here to inform you of this."
Randal looked at Is. She looked blurry, now. He wondered if he had gotten drunk.
"I advise you go home as well," she said.
"You don't come from around here either, do you?" Randal asked.
"Carousel," Is said, "is not a real town. So, nobody can come from here."
"Where am I?" Randal asked.
"It depends on where you want to be," Is replied. "Right now, you're anywhere."
"Congratulations, by the way," Randal suddenly said, remembering something. "I hear you're very useful."
"Thank you, Randy," Is said.
"Can I go with you?" Randal asked. "I still never got to dance with you."
Is smiled at Randal, then she stood on her toes to kiss him.
"If that is what you want."