#ddcluna

[pull--yourself-together-blog]

You have got to be kidding me. How am I suppose to keep my sanity in here? With all these filthy creatures? 

[not-the-dumb-one-blog]

[leftonthedrawingboard]

Ambivalence Avenue || Oswald & Luna

Oswald had become absorbed in nothing but his work since arriving at the Carnival. Lucifer made it kind of difficult to do anything else, but instead of going out and enjoying the sights and sounds of everything, he found himself stuck almost obsessively around the Carnival grounds. In fact, he was currently wandering around with a sketchbook propped against his hip and a charcoal pencil staining his fingers.

He stared wideeyed at the blank page. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. His quotient since he'd arrived had been two finished posters a week, and after so many weeks of a draining demand like that, his mind was completely blank. What the fuck could he turn into Lucifer that she hadn't seen before? Would she notice if he recycled a rejected idea?

As he was staring at the white page, a drop of water suddenly landed on it, startling him. He glanced up at the dark grey sky. "Fuckin' shit." He swiftly flipped the large sketchbook shut, and pressed it to his chest, dashing to one of the nearby tents as the sky suddenly began to weep, big crocodile tears splashing on the ground.

He made it into the tent considerably dampened, but his sketchbook mostly dry. He puffed out a breath, setting it on the bleachers, and looking around to try and determine which tent he'd run into.

Then his eye was caught by the unraveling trail of silk hanging from the ceiling. He stopped, mesmerized as the operator of the trick began wrapping around the silk, using it to suspend themselves. This could do nicely for a circus poster.

He stepped closer, eyes still on the performer-- they really should have been on the steps. He easily missed one, and found himself tripping down the last few and landing in a sprawl on the ground. Ow. Good job, idiot.

His face was burning now and his ribs hurt, and while he was unsure if the performer had seen it, they'd surely heard it, and he quickly pushed himself to his feet, wincing at a sharp twinge in an ankle. He began dusting off his sketchbook.

[carnival-confessions]