Death and Other Fun Stuff (#Wattys2015)

CIRCUS

I am nobody.

I wander the dusty plains, passing through the occasional shriveled town, spending my endless days lost in thought. And, I follow the circus. They're the only entertainment the dusty people out here will ever enjoy. They set up tents, striped with bold reds and blues, a vibrant pop of color. They nail posters to every house, every door, which the children flock around, exhilarated. The news of their arrival passes swiftly, and a cloud of lifelessness seems to be lifted from each town.

I would never join them, I have nothing to show. Their antics are something to fill my empty days. I have watched with fascination as the circus devours town after town, sucking out the heavy blandness and replacing it with a bright spirit. Each town they victimize is never the same after a visit from the circus. They move swiftly between, never pausing too long, but never rushing.

I always find a spot in the distance to watch the action unfold. Family after family arrive at the tent, lured in by orange- clad clowns with painted smiles. Children drag their parents, the mothers' faces shielded from the relentless sun by calico bonnets, the fathers hooking their thumbs in leather suspenders, boots thumping heavily in the sand.

The children are all smiles and giddiness, marveling in awe at the animals- elephants, tigers, and monkeys; they pace behind metal bars. The townsfolk crowd around the vendors, who wander the vicinity, waving bags of buttery popcorn and crisp, salty peanuts. The man at the ticket booth wears a faded pinstriped suit, and greets each family in a pleasant, booming voice. His smile is almost shark- like, and his teeth are a bit too long and sharp, but no one notices, too swept away in the colors and chaos and boisterous music.

Finally, when the entire town has filtered in, I lie in the dust, eyes fixed on the sky, and just listen to the sounds of the circus. The audience claps and hoots wildly, gasping occasionally if a particularly perilous stunt is performed. I imagine what they might be watching. Night falls after a few hours. I like to relax, I daydream about the circus and my life and all the towns I have seen. It's funny, how mesmerized these people are, how they don't leave the tent, they waste the day away watching the same acts over and over. It's funny how unnaturally, eerily, enthralled they are.

When the crickets are chirping and the moon hangs lazily in the sky, the screaming begins, a chilling chorus of terror. There are the high pitched shrieks, there are the howls of terror, the wretched sobs and the roars of agony. I listen to every sound and wonder who it belongs to, and what is being inflicted on them to provoke such a noise. Screams are my favorite sound. They hide nothing, as if a pipeline straight into the depths of their soul is tapping into every raw emotion. No lies, nothing to cover up.

After a while, the screams fade to silence. I pitch a tent and let the quiet carry me into a heavy sleep. I wake in the morning when the sun first appears on the horizon, cook breakfast over a small fire, and watch as the rowdy bunch that makes up the circus packs up and treks on.

I like to wonder where they're headed next.