“Out of Sequence”
Freakshow was started by J. Curtis of Tiny Worlds, because his mind just works that way.
List of FREAKSHOW Chapters (will be updated as they are released):
Chapter #3: FREAKSHOW - Chapter 3 by Keith Long of Loser’s Fiction
Chapter #5: FREAKSHOW - Chapter 5 by Paul R. Pace of Paul Runs His Mouth
Chapter #6: FREAKSHOW - Chapter 6 by Pablo Baez of Chrome Hearse Express
Chapter #7 FREAKSHOW - Chapter 7 by Jon T of Ferns of Columbo
What You Missed So Far:
Freakshow’s been running her whole life, lifting secrets, futures, and memories with a single touch. It’s a dirty gift, and it’s made her a hunted thing—especially by her father, a powerful and dangerous man who never let loose ends breathe for long.
After a bad call and a worse betrayal, she walks straight into a setup, lured in by the only person she ever trusted, Phil. Cornered, bleeding, she does the unthinkable: summons Byleth, an ancient creature whose visions tear apart the seams between memory, future, and nightmare.
Now she’s carrying something she can’t unsee—a vision of her mother, dead in a pool, maybe years ago, maybe not yet. The lines are blurring…
Listen to: “Artifices” by Chapelier Fou. Listen here.
It’s the song that wakes her up, the doppler shifting of the music box. She must’ve passed out. No idea how long. She shoved the dumpster aside, the scraping grinding against the concrete. At least she’d had the sense to hide. The fact she didn’t remember doing it worried her. She had to find shelter. She was in no state to run.
And where was that music coming from?
As she walked, dragged really, heading west down the alley, she swore to herself under her breath, “Damnit, birthdays always make you weak.” She stumbled, every step boneless and wrong. The alley stretched around her, tilted and swimming.
Why the hell had she thought calling Byleth was a good idea?
This time, the aftershocks seemed to be starting immediately: summoning him was like pouring battery acid onto her neurons—was it going to be even worse this time? She realized the music was coming from inside her head. The beat became rapid, followed her—drove her along. She felt like she was getting jolted behind her ribs by jumper cables—at least the feeling kept her awake.
She had sworn, after the last disaster, she’d never call him again, but Phil’s betrayal must have cut her deep, made her panic.
Why does my birthday always make me a blithering sentimental dumbass?
"Fuck Byleth. Fuck Phil," she muttered under her breath, feeling suddenly dizzy, placing her hands on her knees, letting her head sag.
No time to rest now. They were still after her. Gotta clear my head and make a plan.
Last time, she’d barely survived the aftershocks of Byleth’s ancient math-mind visions.
She was always better off without his peeled raw, naked-lit truths.
But now she needed to find shelter, and piece through everything she now knew.
She managed to get herself standing again, but the alley shifted diagonally, the lights doubling with kaleidoscopic revolutions.
You didn’t want to know the shit Byleth showed you—your mind couldn’t take it. Couldn’t tell if you were seeing the past or your own mind. Or the future.
Futures were the worst, can’t help but try to change them. They could make you go mad.
Was it already beginning?
The alleyway was blinking, first in pale pastel morning light, then pitch night with the dull glow of distant lights, then bulb lit and stark.
She had to think, had to find shelter, and quick. Had to go see her mother, that much was obvious. Mother’s hands, almond oil, the sound of silk rubbing, crumbs on a plate…
How long had it been since her mother spoke, drooling and empty-husked in that home? She would have to touch her. Read her memories. Would they still be there? Under the fog and fray? Would that zombie mind still emit images?
She needed to get back on her feet, literally. She found herself on her knees, in a puddle, her elbows buckling, barely holding herself off the ground. The city was unspooling around her, hot, thin, and flickering. Her head was going light, her vision breaking up into colors.
When she blinked—and her blinks were too long—she saw the hair in the pool: black as ink. Dark the way she remembered her mother’s once was. She could see her mother, reflected in the puddle, her yellow dress, her black hair. She reached out, shattering the image.
Was it already done? Or was it still coming?
Her mother’s hair was grey now, her face swollen in the photograph they sent… When she saw those milk-filmed eyes, she thought: That is not my mother. The locket around her neck had been right—the lips, the forehead, hadn’t they?
She’d thrown the photo in the trash, thinking: That’s not my mother anymore.
Whatever was left was just a vacated hull. She hadn’t really been lying when she told Phil, the only person she’d ever opened up to, that her mother was dead.
Fucking Phil.
Her elbows crumpled and she pitched face-first into a shallow puddle, the water blinking up at her like a mirror. Orange city glow. Rusted fire escapes. Neon sign stuttering.
And then—reflections of pool light on porticos, the flickering light of a bonfire. She was crouched low in the bushes, leaves and branches scraping at her arms. Her father was there, laughing. Her mother’s voice, shrill and shaking: "I’ll tell them all, you son of a bitch. I'll tell them what you are. What you did to her, what you are doing to all the others."
Freakshow looked down at herself—at her white socks and shiny black shoes catching the light. Her crumpled yellow birthday party skirt, her scraped knees black in the low light. On her lap, carefully arranged, was her doll. Named after her: Francesca. Franny.
The one her grandmother had stitched by hand from scraps her cellmates had given her. Grandma sang as she sewed, "Each bit carries a flick of their power, each stitch a fleck of their skill and sorrow."
Freakshow held her breath, seeing her mother turning toward her, the firelight flickering across her face.
That was not her mother.
The mouth pulled wrong at the corners. The bones behind the skin didn’t fit right.
Why is that woman wearing my mother’s body?
She woke in the alley, her cheek in the cold puddle. Running footsteps faded down the street. They were going to find her if she kept passing out.
There—a basement window well. She dragged herself toward it, managing to get back on her hands and knees. She threw herself into it, rattling the loose glass with a weak kick. The window groaned but didn’t break. Teeth clenched, she kicked again—harder.
The glass shattered inward, a brittle gasp of noise, and she clawed at the edges, ripping the shards free with her shaking hands. Dragging herself forward, she slithered through the frame, every movement an act of pure will.
She fell through the window and dropped onto the basement floor, landing with a dull thud on the concrete—falling like a rag doll—darkness swallowing her whole.
Chapter 9: baton passed to J. Curtis for the completion of a full cycle of writers back to its creator.
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