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    Magic in the Mud Show
    Magic in the Mud Show
    Magic in the Mud Show
    Ebook78 pages1 hour

    Magic in the Mud Show

    By Nick Wisseman

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    About this ebook

    A famous circus. A sick elephant. A dead artist encased in wax.

    What does it all mean? Neva, a bone-bending dancer, isn't sure. But she needs to find out before she ends up in wax herself.

    Magic in the Mud Show takes place in the Barnum & Bailey circus of 1892. The story was first published in the Winter 2020 issue of The Colored Lens and serves as a prequel to Witch in the White City.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherNick Wisseman
    Release dateJul 15, 2021
    ISBN9798201578770
    Magic in the Mud Show
    Author

    Nick Wisseman

    Nick Wisseman lives in the woods of Michigan with his wife, kids, ten dogs, sixty cats, and forty horses. (The true number of pets is an order of magnitude smaller, but most days it feels like more.) He’s not quite sure why he loves writing twisted fiction, but there’s no stopping the weirdness once he’s in front of a computer. You can find the complete list of oddities on his website.

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      Book preview

      Magic in the Mud Show - Nick Wisseman

      This novella first appeared in the Winter 2020 issue of The Colored Lens magazine. The story serves as a prequel to the novel Witch in the White City.

      Chapter 1

      Homestead, Pennsylvania: August 1892

      As the train slowed , Neva cracked open the door to the advance men’s bunkroom and peered inside. Well, you’re not supposed to be there, she murmured to the room’s petite, petrified occupant. But her words were drowned out by Brother Paste, who rapped the window at the other end of the railcar and shouted, Damnation! It’s a sticker war!

      Neva had made her observation to a pale girl who couldn’t have been more than sixteen—the age Neva had been when she joined the circus four years ago. The girl looked more terrified than most runaways, but maybe that was because Brother Paste, whose voice was every bit as immense as the man himself, hadn’t stopped shouting.

      The bastards stole a march on us! he roared as the train eased into the station. They papered over all our mummies!

      Neva mouthed Be still to the runaway and then leaned back to see where the big man was pointing. Lithographs of wild animals and near-naked performers coated the saloon opposite the station, the bar’s sagging walls mummified from top to bottom with advertisements for the circus. But while the eye-catching colors were familiar—grassy greens and peacock blues and molten reds more brilliant than any you’d find in even the best magazines—the name was wrong: Ringling Bros. instead of Barnum & Bailey.

      Would that saloon be ‘The Tipsy Cow?’ asked Floy, the only other regular advance man on board. Unruffled, he was checking the list of pasting contracts.

      Brother Paste, halfway through yanking his smock over his head, grunted what sounded like an affirmative. He’d spent the previous hour brewing a barrel of his flour-and-water-based adhesive in case they needed to post some last-minute ads. He was probably cursing himself for not making more.

      Advance Car 1 signed the bar’s owner—a Mr. Wilcox—to a pasting contract back in May, Floy noted. Cars 2 and 4 confirmed it in June and July. He struck a line through that portion of the list. No complimentary tickets for him.

      He’ll still get a piece of my mind, Brother Paste growled, finally out of his smock. He hefted one of the rolling pins the advance men used to flatten the lithographs against their intended surfaces. After we make sure the Ringling crew is good and gone. Come on, then—get yourself something to knock heads with.

      This last was to Neva and the other fill-ins, especially grizzled Ceburn, who was almost as large as Brother Paste. But Ceburn said what he always did—nothing—and the significantly shorter Gemi and Dorian crossed their arms.

      No one said anything about paying us to brawl on our day off, Neva reminded Brother Paste. Come get us when you’re sure the Ringlings are gone, and we’ll put up your posters.

      The advance man glared at her, muttered something about Old men and colored midgets, and stalked off the car.

      Once Floy followed, Neva turned back to the runaway, who’d had the sense not to repeat whatever she’d done to make the incriminating noise Neva had heard a few moments earlier. You picked the wrong train, little rube. This is Car 6. It works for the circus, confirming supplies and spreading the word. But it’s not part of it.

      Dorian squeezed his head under Neva’s arm, winked at the runaway, and stretched his face into a wide-eyed smile so ridiculous the poor girl couldn’t help giggling.

      This one, though—he’s an act to himself. Neva tugged his hair until he withdrew, still beaming like a jack-o’-lantern. A clown on and off the job. Normally us performers wouldn’t be here, but most of Brother Paste’s team is sick.

      Dorian slid under Neva’s arm backwards this time, clutched his rear end, and made a long, wet farting noise. The runaway giggled again as Gemi—her hands hairier than most men’s—grabbed hold of Dorian’s shoulders and returned him to the main cabin.

      No one asked for an illustration, Gemi growled.

      The rube came to see ‘The Greatest Show on Earth,’ he protested.

      Then stop disillusioning her.

      Neva couldn’t help grinning. The rest of the circus will be along tomorrow, she told the runaway. Stay out of the way and we’ll get you sorted.

      The runaway nodded.

      What’s your name?

      Rassy, she whispered, her voice threaded with hope.

      I’m Neva—Neva Freeman. It’s nice to meet you.

      Before Rassy could respond, Brother Paste bellowed Trespassing bastards! from somewhere outside the car. Neva motioned for Rassy to hide, then closed the bunkroom’s door and ran to the nearest window. A second later, she jerked her head back as a pail of paste thunked against the car and coated the glass in white goo. She moved to the next window and did a quick count of the sticky, shouting men outside. There are at least seven from Ringling’s—no, eight.

      Gemi joined her at the window to watch. Brother Paste and Floy were standing back to back, dripping with paste from another hurled bucket. Even so, they were giving better than they were getting. Brother Paste had laid out two of the rival advance men with his rolling pin,

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