Bedtime Stories for the Faithful

Circus

 The Black Top Circus was a grim form of entertainment. A place where people perused the hideocities of life. Torture, morbid wakings, and dare say, even death, were welcomed.

Tonight's show was like any other. The ringleader introduced the trapeze artists who swung around for a bit. And when one athlete fell and broke her arm on the solid ground, the audience roared with delight.

Next the ringleader let the clowns take the stage. They spun around and danced. Elegant as they were, they were no match for the lions. The crowd grew loud with laughter as the felines picked their teeth.

And for the final act of the night, the ringleader in his dark velvet suit and white fringed mask, acquainted the audience with one Samuel the Satan.

"Tonight, Samuel shall bear the weight of the world on his shoulders," he dreadily cheered.

In the opposite ring, under a single spotlight was a pale, raggedy man, harmed by malnourishment, which fit well for the scene.

The ringleader pointed his cane to the ceiling and swung it down in time as a humongous rock was dropped from the sky onto poor Samuel.

Samuel, though a mere weakling, carried the rock, unafraid of being squished. Though the weight grew ever more.

The crowd erupted in hatred and scorn. They had wanted Samuel to perish. And so more weight was placed on his back. More and more until his spine snapped and he was crushed.

What an applaud the audience gave. They were pleased.

"Thank you all for coming," the ringleader bowed. "Join us tomorrow for Samuel's next performance."

Given their dues, the audience left and the ringleader strode to the remains of the boulder. T'was no mere act. All the despair was real, and yet the ringleader bore a grin.

Thump...Thump...Thump...

Out of the rumble, Samuel crawled, dragging his crippled body behind him until he was at the feet of the ringleader. "I'd stay down if I were you, he whistled. "Getting up is not like the lowly riffraff you are," he said and took his leave.

Regardless, Samuel stayed down but only to rest. Then he dragged his body to the caravan behind the circus.

Matilda the Mender was of a magical sort. She could heal the broken, but the pain remained. Whether she was worth her salt depended on who you'd ask. Samuel slunk into her wagon and rested on a pile of cushions. Matilda loved her guests to be comfortable.

"Hold still," she whispered, dancing her fingers along Samuel's back and legs. She hummed a tense and misfortune tune, but with her magic, Samuel could sit up and talk again.

"Thank you, Mattie," he humbly bowed his head and hugged his arm.

"You all keep me in business," the youthful witchlet sighed, turning her back to the young man. "You should get to bed. I can only imagine what Ring Leader has planned for you tomorrow."

"Whatever it is, sleep will not fix it," Samuel confessed.

"Hmm..." Matilda groaned and went to one of her cabinets. She pulled out a small bobble and gave it to Sam. "Take this."

"What is it?" he asked, taking it gently.

"It's chocolate. It will make you feel better."

Sam unwrapped it and found a tiny clump of dark chocolate. He admitted he ate piggishly but this was such a privilege. He bid Mattie adieu and went to his quarters, which sadly was a pile of hay behind the animal cages.

In the morning, Samuel walked around the caravans, hands in his pockets. He was but one face among the many who had sold their soul only to be here.

The gymnasts practiced their cheers, the jesters practiced their dances, and the musicians practiced their songs. The designers designed their next show. Still no one could tell Samuel what was to become of him in his next appearance.