2025-02-11 - Cirque du Cuir Rouge

It’s evening at Spellbound, not too long before the Big Top would start gearing up for its next show, and the text comes without preamble, or greeting, just picking up casually as though in the middle of a conversation.

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: You know, if you’d called me a chicken, it would have lent a certain symmetry to things.

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: You would be so lucky. Chicken's rule.

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: So? What's up? Not gonna lie, your timing is a bit shit. I'm about to kit up for tonight's show.

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: My timing is impeccable.

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: Guess where I am.

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: ...oh god. You didn't, did you?

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: Well that depends on what your guess is

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: But yes

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: I definitely did

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: Where abouts are you sitting?

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: [[a helpful picture comes, legs in jeans with Converse sneakers propped on the (empty, she’s early, hasn’t filled up yet) seat in front of her - there’s popcorn on her lap - and the ring just beyond]]

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: Front and center, sir, few rows back. So extra glitter tonight, yeah?

Jasper makes a tch sound from his position behind the stage as he glances at his phone. A wry smile follows.

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: Not front row? I'm offended.

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: Buckle up, buttercup. Enjoy the show.

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: Can’t seem too fucking keen

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: Break a leg, Red. I expect to be impressed.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, being inside the tent tonight feels different from when Louise was last here.

The grand spectacle that is Phantom's Reach - one of Spellbound’s ongoing hour-long shows - unfolds beneath the vast canopy of the Big Top. It's a seamless fusion of movement, music, and light, an intricate blend of fire twirlers who ghost through the misted stage floor, acrobats shimmering in sequinned costumes, contortionists bending into impossible forms, clowns weaving through the mayhem, and dancers sweeping like phantoms across the set.

Everything is alive. The show breathes with the rhythm of live music - soaring vocals, a sassy accordion, brass that wails like the wind, the reverberating pull of strings, and the deep heartbeat of the drums. The musicians remain part of the spectacle, stepping into the spotlight for solos before dissolving back into the shadows.

Inevitably, however, the lights shift. A ripple of anticipation moves through the crowd as attention is drawn upward. A single spotlight shines, illuminating a lone figure some forty feet above the ring.

Jasper.

Perched on a narrow platform suspended in the rafters, he stands barefoot, clad only in low-slung red leather pants. His torso is bare, but the spotlight catches against the smattering of glitter smeared across it. The glow of lanterns strung high in the canopy flickers against his frame as he grips some suspended straps in each hand.

The melody sways, and so does he. Then he steps off the platform.

Jasper doesn't fall like a man fighting gravity, but like a bird surrendering to the wind. His descent is smooth and unhurried as he arcs in a graceful sweep, passing directly above Louise and the sea of Spellbound spectators below. His body spirals and curls, legs extended horizontally to form a neat line of tension and control as the straps coil around his arms. With a taught yank of them, he lifts himself high before once again falling.

With a sharp flick of his wrists, the straps catch. His momentum transforms into a spin, each rotation folding seamlessly into the next. He moves in circular patterns as though carried by unseen currents, twisting and unfurling midair with unlikely precision. From there, his descents come not in reckless plunges, but in rhythmic, measured drops - each one caught, controlled, reversed. A perfect balance between surrender and command.

There are breaks in the action, of course. Occasionally he lands on the ground, shoulders heaving with effort as his body desperately tries to flush the accrued lactic acid from his body. However, with the ambient music settling to match these downturns, they almost feel part of the story being told. Once the music turns once more, though, it's not long before he's soaring high again.

The music swells. Trumpets shrill and vocals rise. Jasper releases the straps from high above, body curving into a slow backflip before he catches the straps again at the last moment possible. With a whisper of movement, he touches back onto the stage floor with a steadying exhale.

The last note lingers, suspended following the end of his five-minute routine.

For a moment, nothing. Breathe.

Jasper snaps his head toward the audience, perhaps at Louise and her popcorn, just as the lights cut to black. The redhead in his leather pants is gone once the ambient lights return, signalling the show's end.

Tlaloc

Oh, the whole show is entrancing, and Louise came to enjoy herself, so there’s due applause, whistles, cheers for every vibrant, saturated, humming moment of it. Beyond Spellbound’s particular idiosyncrasies, this is the closest thing to magic people can typically get.

It’s a shame, really, that it wouldn’t be easy to catch Louise’s face amidst the sea of appreciative onlookers while in the middle of an act, because tell you what, the girl gives good react. From the moment that spotlight turns on and she looks up (and up, shit that’s high might have gotten muttered aloud) — and onwards, through every death-defying turn, through all that strength, control, grace, and exposed sparkly skin — to the last beat. If he does catch a glimpse before the lights fall, it’s going to be a still Lou, while people on either side are giving appropriate applause and cheers. She’s still processing, wide eyes, fingertips pressed over her lips, because hearing about what he does was nothing as compared to actually seeing it. Expectations defied. Breathtaking, her breath was took, shut up about it already.

Still gonna be sitting on those bleachers when the ambient light comes up, lips pursed thoughtfully when she pulls out her phone to really consider what bullshit thing to say about that.

It takes a few minutes.

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: Not bad.

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: Wow.

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: That's practically a standing ovation coming from you.

Jasper snaps a quick selfie in the break room, surrounded by the post-show chaos of performers unwinding. The only difference to his stage attire is the large ice pack now taped to his shoulder - a consequence of defying gravity for as long as he has been. Behind him, the fire twirlers, musicians and acrobats lounge in various states of exhaustion, some still buzzing with adrenaline, others halfway through peeling off costumes. Some even wield cans of beer (Jasper included). Among them is Saint - an up-and-coming aerialist who didn't perform tonight but has already made waves as one to watch for the future.

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: The gang says hi and all that.

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: Tell them they were phenomenal.

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: You hurting?

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: I'm not wearing the ice because it feels nice, if that's what you mean. I told you about my shoulder, right? I'll be sore for a day or two. Nothing too sinister, though.

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: What brought you along this evening?

Lou is still looking at that photo, chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully — impulse weighed against restraint, and really there’s no contest. She’s up in a moment, texting back as she filters out with the last stragglers in the audience.

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: Whim - much like this. If Fancy Shoes yells at me again, I’m blaming you.

That’s all the warning he’ll have that she’s on her way. It is his fault really, he showed her where to go, the side door to the backstage area where the magic is brewed before being unleashed - but hopefully in the post show slump, no one will be minding much a wee pain in the ass making a nuisance of herself while she hunts him down.

As Louise nears the open side entrance, the contrast between now and her last visit is borderline jarring. Before, when she sat nursing a cup of sludge coffee, the space had been quiet. It was her, Jasper, Fancy Shoes and a handful of staff wandering around. Now? It's a whirlwind of movement. Performers fresh off their acts weave between stagehands dismantling set pieces, their faces still gleaming with sweat and leftover glitter. Crew members rush past with coiled wires and folded props, calling out to one another over the clatter of metal scaffolding being disassembled.

However, the more relevant difference for Louise is that this open entrance is guarded. Standing in front of it is a broad-shouldered man bundled against the cold. Given how he leans against the tent framing, he looks rather bored, but present nonetheless. The radio clipped to his shoulder crackles occasionally, a reminder that he's prepared for trouble even if he's not actively scanning for it.

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: Dunno what you've got planned, short stuff, but I'd pump the breaks if you're looking for a way in. I'm heading out for karaoke with the gang, anyways. We can catch up another time. When I don't have so much glitter itching at my skin.

[TXT to Louise] Jasper: Let me know next time you plan on showing up, you bum.

Stymied. Lou ends up looking at that uniformed wall personified, hands on hips and lips pursed. Listen, it’s not like that would have stopped her. She would have figured it out, already working on it — but it stops her long enough for her phone to buzz in her pocket, and put a kibosh on whatever she intended. There’s a face scrunch, but she puts the big top to her back.

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: Gonna sing a little Sabrina? Have fun, Red.

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: Good show

[TXT to Jasper] Louise: Not getting off so easy next time