Bigby: Super clown (Story Preview, aka everything I have so far)

This is another work in progress, starting its development earlier this year. Let me know what you think.

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A fog of curry drifted over the Bazaar, leaving Ofir's mouth dry. The sweat dripped from his light hair down his thin face, his narrow frame perfect for sliding through the crowds.

He shifted through the wide marketplace, between groups of women with baskets on their heads, men arguing loudly, and donkeys passing through. He was so busy, in fact, that he could barely see the ornate decorations adorning the buildings, the drapes of purple and scarlet silk.

He needed to find Aarav, fast. The boy had been at his side until a second ago, and if he didn't bring him back to his Mother, he'd be done for. He had to tie his shoelaces at the exact moment a band started playing nearby. That kind of act would've gotten him a stern look from his commander. He followed the noise, a percussion of drums with a harmony of sitars, bansuris, and pungis. The crowd dissipated as he grew closer to the music.

It was through a small crowd that he saw Aarav race back to him, with his seemingly lost Mother in tow. The two of them shared smiles as Ofir found his sister and nephew.

"The crowd is spreading and getting thinner. What's going on?"

Noa turned to her brother, a head shorter than her, and replied back in their native tongue. "It's another big wedding going on. They're having a big dance before the reception."

"In the middle of the market?!"

She smirked. "It's only a few minutes. Besides, it's beautiful to watch, and we have an enjoyable view from the middle of it."

They migrated towards the sidewalk as the music grew louder and more harmonious.

Hundreds of women in scarlet satin slid down the street in synchronized swaying. Their henna-covered hands reached to the heavens as the music crescendoed into a ballad.

A woman, dressed in yellow and adorned with henna and sparkling jewelry, sashayed within the group of women, the sounds of Hindi flowing melodically from her lips. The group moved as one, dancing with the band to their own rhythm.

Farther down the street, an assembly of men stomped to their own swing of the same song. Dressed in green tunics and headpieces, only one of them stood out, a red flower in a field of living grass.

"Ofir, we should join them!" Aarav tugged at his mother's and uncle's pants.

Ofir's eyes lit up, to Noa's concern.

"What a great idea! Noa, can we-"

"Absolutely not."

"Oh," Aarav moaned, shoving his hands into his pockets and shuffling his flip-flopped feet.

"Can I at least go?"

Noa looked down at her brother, raised his head up, and in the calmest voice she could gather, said:

"You're 16. If you could travel to India from Tel-Aviv, then you could certainly do this. Just remember, if anything happens to you, Imma will kill me, and then you. Hevanta (Understand)?"

"Ken (Yes). Hevanti (I understand)."

To Aarav's protest, Ofir raced into the Men's dance, entering the field as the red flower contorted and waved his hands above and around his body.

Being on the outside of the circle closest to the women, he got caught as they danced towards each other. The two groups raced towards each other, then between each other. In his tan shirt and khaki jeans, he looked like a piece of dust in the sea of green and red. The red and yellow flowers danced as one, with the rest of them dancing in a different flow.

Soon enough, Ofir caught on to the beat and mastered the dances. Soon he looked like a flower as well, dancing along with the women in red and the men in green. The group circled the two flowers as they danced atop a growing podium in the middle of the marketplace as if planned in the architecture since the beginning. He wanted a better look, so he moved in closer to see the two lovebirds as the priest married them on the spot. Only when he felt the rice hit him did he realize that they had just gotten married.

Now he became stuck in the inner circle. With no way to get out and relearn a new dance they had just begun, he resorted to doing the one thing he wished he didn't have to do; dance his own way, among strangers, in the middle of a celebration that must have been planned for weeks, including rehearsals...

Then the dancers saw him miss steps, clap at the wrong times, and as the music stopped, see him continue to dance to his own rhythm.

He never made that many people laugh at once. Even before he found his super-power, he never had been able to pull it off. Even Noa and Aarav couldn't stop laughing.

He grinned along with them. He knew they were laughing at him, but in this case, it was perfectly fine. Since he found his power to make people laugh, he knew that he was going to be the butt of the joke. Yet that was a risk he was going to learn to make.

Ofir Yitzhaki traveled to India to figure himself out, similar to most Israeli soldiers on Holiday. Yet after discovering this power to make people laugh, he ponders what that will mean for his life. With the help of an Ethiopian girl and his supportive older sister, he'll learn what it truly means to make people laugh.

Learn to laugh, learn to live.

While this story was planned for later, I'm curious what you think about this concept. Would you want me to write about this now over everything else? Let me know! Thanks, bye!

-Zach

Story Idea- Manta's Riot (Working Title)

Here's an idea I'm working on that's taken me less than a day so far:

MANTA’S RIOT

Monty Russell joins his uncle’s racing squad in his gap year, diving headfirst into the world far beyond New Amsterdam.

The tracks move above gravity and physics, the cities are larger than life, and the world is bigger than you think.

A look into racing culture outside and inside of urban areas, looking at the burgeoning combination of racing and automation.

His foot tapped the pedal as the needle moved towards 150 mph. He gripped the wheel ferociously, his white knuckles matching the whites in his eyes. The car tore down the track, sending debris flying across the road. What stood in front of him would be another test. The track began to twist into two paths, the audience stared in awe as the road took a life of its own.

“Take the one on the right, slick! The other road’s a dead end!” His coach barked into his ear through aviator goggles and three hours of sleep. His car waited for the choice as many drivers took the road Stanley suggested.

“I’ll believe you this time, Stan! Let’s do this!”

He took his car to the right side as the world separated away from the track. The road curved away into a loop, our driver silently thanking his magnetic tires. The loop reached a plateau as the leading cars started heading down. He pushed the pedal down further, sending his beloved Riot into the fray. Some cars weren’t so lucky. Their magnetic tires gave way, sending them straight down as they reached the peak.

“Now’s when you push it, kid! Send the Riot into overdrive NOW!”

He shifted forward like he was physically pushing his car, as Riot screamed forward, its engine spewing fire out the exhaust.

The straight line down sent him aerially. The tires left the track. He floated in his seat. The back of the car began to spin as gravity tried to dominate over his car.

Not today. 
He narrowed his eyes as he pressed buttons and shifted his gears.

A signal was sent to the tires, the balls of rubber and magnets that only hovered in the wheel bay. A compartment opened up from within the tires, sending exhaust flying from the back wheels.

Both Stan and his mechanic prepared for this moment. For racing in this climate, you had to be ready for anything.

At that moment, the Riot glided down the bottom half of the loop, sailing over other cars and hundreds of feet of track.

Through the sunroof, he saw his next problem. Drivers screamed helplessly as their cars careened towards the bottom of the loop.

“You have to outrun those cars before they get to the bottom and blast apart the track!”

Before Stan finished, he knew exactly what to do- at least what he thought would work.

He turned the burners towards the track as he shut off the tires' engines. The Riot jumped even further away from the track, straight towards the falling cars.

“Monty! What the fu-”

The Riot collided with the other cars, sending them ricocheting away from the bottom of the track. He reactivated the tire burners, sending the Riot spiraling towards the bottom of the loop. With a touch of the burners and a strategic wheel turn, the Riot landed all four wheels on the track. He heard Stan’s string of expletives as a sign of approval.

The race wasn’t close to over. Monty held the wheel firmly as the track moved into further contortions that defied gravity and physics. Yet he soldiered on, the Riot his chariot, the track his path to victory.

Now it was about placement. He was still in 19^th place, three higher than he started. For his tricks, other drivers had more. His jetpacks in the wheels were exhausted, his chassis looked beaten up, and the sunroof was cracked from the impact with the other cars. Yet his engine kept thundering on as the Riot stormed across the track, catching up to the armada of other cars.

He zoomed past Cobalt Striker, Jetstreak, Eclipse, and Hyperious one after the other as the track seemed to favor whatever choice he made.

Also, HEY THERE! HAPPY BELATED NEW YEAR...yeah, the timing is so bad, it's lower than the Mariana's trench. Anyways, it had to be said. I hope you enjoy some good ol' fashioned concept writing.