This week's judge of of the Cavalcade of Words - Five Words edition, Dragon5616, has chosen his favorite entry for this week, and it is a doozy.
This week's winner is Jaxpagan, with his entry,which I would entitle "Salmagundi".
The writing contest this week is 100 Words. Write an entry on a theme chosen by this week's winner, that is precisely 100 words long. Any style or genre is acceptable.
Go below the fold to read Jaxpagan's winning entry, and to learn what his theme for this week's writing contest will be.
First, the winning entry:
Paxon finally found him over on 7th Street, next to Chandler Park.
He’d spent the morning searching among the buskers at the strip of cafés on Avery, at Ellis Square, along the canal . . . musicians, gymnasts, silver-skinned living statues, even a few magicians. He’d dropped coins and dollars in hats and jars and guitar cases, every time asking:
“Salmagundi?”
Most looked back at him with fear-stained eyes, shook their head, and then worked hard to ignore him. A few genuinely seemed to not know the name (or were simply better actors than their brothers and sisters). An acrobat by the canal finally (and reluctantly) sent him over to Chandler Park.
A girl in a worn gypsy skirt was playing guitar extemporaneously at the corner. He dropped a few coins for her, more out of habit this morning than anything, and crossed the street to where the juggler was performing to no one in particular.
Salmagundi was swinging and catching wooden clubs – five of them, Paxon finally managed to count. The juggler was fast. He did a small, foursquare dance while he swung and caught, swung and caught, moving with a feline grace. His eyes stayed in the direction of his clubs, but never seemed to quite be paying attention to them.
He wore some kind of long tunic that was an irregular patchwork of colors, leggings with blues, greens, yellows in a harlequin pattern, a kind of tall jazz boot – one red, one green. Silver bells jangled on his sleeves as he moved. Silver bangles woven in his brown hair danced as he moved. Only the plastic sports bottle hanging at his side put him this century.
He paid Paxon no mind as he walked up. Paxon pulled the ring out of his pocket and dropped it into the cup on the sidewalk. As it clattered heavily among the loose change, the juggler looked at him.
Only gold, he’d been told. If you’re going to ask him for something, only tip him gold. 24-karat, be sure of that. He can tell by the sound, and he’ll ignore you for life if you stiff him.
He’d been told that eventually. Robert had opposed him every step of the way. He’d had to badger him for weeks just to find out how he’d taken care of his . . . problem. And when Robert finally broke and told them about the juggler, it was weeks more to get details about how to track him down . . . and how to buy his services.
Robert had implored him not to. He’d actually broken down and cried, the last time Paxon saw him.
“You don’t understand, you don’t understand,” he’d said. But if what Robert had told him was true, Paxon didn’t need to understand.
He needed Salmagundi.
The juggler had an anonymous face, but striking green eyes. A faint shadow of a scar creased his left eyebrow.
“I –,” Paxon began, but the juggler cut him off with a wave of his hand. His other hand caught the raining clubs and somehow steered them to the sidewalk beside him. His eyes never left Paxon’s.
Salmagundi seemed to appraise him for a moment. Then his left hand darted like an eel into one pocket of the tunic. He pulled out a small bottle – dark purple, with a waxed cork. He tossed it up casually, bounced it on his right bicep and somehow made it roll up his arm into his hand.
“For you,” he said. His voice was oddly lilted, almost sing-song.
“I haven’t told you-“ Paxon started to say, but Salmagundi cut him off again.
“For you,” he repeated, a bit more firmly.
“What is it?” Paxon asked. He eyed the bottle suspiciously. He hadn’t asked Robert much about what the juggler had given him – the results had been enough to convince him. And Robert had seemed more reticent about it than about the juggler himself. If Paxon hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Robert didn’t quite remember.
The juggler just smiled.
“Your remedy,” he said simply.
Paxon took the bottle tentatively. No label. He turned it over in his hand. No embossing on the bottom. No mold seam that he could see. The glass was thick, like a medicine bottle his grandmother might have had.
Snake oil, he couldn’t help but think. He gave a laugh inside that just reached to the corners of his mouth.
But it wasn’t snake oil. Not if it did anything like for him like whatever he got did for Robert.
He looked back to the juggler, who was watching him bemusedly.
“Paid in full?” he asked, nodding at the cup.
Salgamundi smiled. He gave a little bow.
“Paid,” he said simply.
Paxon slipped the bottle into his pocket and, with a last, wondering glance at the juggler, turned and walked back toward his hotel.
Great stuff; I could read a lot more of this story.
Thanks to the other entrants, who provided wonderful offerings. Go here to read them.
Now, on to the order of business for this week. Jaxpagan has chosen the theme for the week, and it is:
Spectre
Fascinating choice. Could be spirit, ghost, remnant...It could even be James Bonds nemesis. Seems to me this week's them ought to be a lot of fun to write about. Perhaps even some poetry entrants, or an essay on the debt limit...
The deadline for entries is Thursday midnight.
Good writing, and above all, have fun.