The strongman exits the big top at eleven-fifty-one at night and begins walking. He is not sure where he is going. To him, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters.
Everything is quiet. Everything is still. There are no crickets here, no cicadas, and no frogs. No one is partying, as they would in other towns. On some nights, he would appreciate it. He always thought that the beauty of society was expressed in its more raucous moments. Men and women were, in his mind, infinitely more wonderful when letting their inhibitions go.
He reaches the edge of town, where the trees were thick and the hard-packed dirt roads lead elsewhere. A cold breeze blows through, and he shivers involuntarily as he continues his journey. He walks along it for hours, until the moon is high in the sky and his feet are sore.
There is a bridge in the woods, crossing what used to be a creek. It's dried up now, and the plants that once thrived in it are all dead. It's about a thousand feet down, or, at least, it seems that way from the top of it. As he reaches the middle of the bridge, with the wood plank creaking beneath his feet, he realizes that he has reached his destination.
He folds his arms on the railing and leans forward to watch the world below him. It isn't much, but, in the moonlight, it seems better than before. They came across this bridge with the caravan two days ago; he's surprised that he remembers it. So much has happened between then and now. When you're standing on a bridge, feeling some obscure sorrow because the bearded woman won't talk to you and even the frog boy is starting to poke fun, it's easier to just start walking and try to forget yourself and everything else. What's the point of being the strongest man in the circus when everyone still laughs at you?
So he stands there, trying not to think too much about it. The thought briefly crosses his mind that he could jump, and it would all be over. He pushes it away; he thought he was done with that. It would be better, then, to begin the journey back to the big top-- better than falling forever and never seeing the light of day. He would like, at least, to see the sunrise over the tiger cage once more.
So he turns around and begins to walk, back to the town, back to the lamps that are few-and-far-between, back to the one thing he knows: the circus.
YOU ARE READING
Snow On The Tombstones: A Collection of Flash Fiction and Vignettes
Short StoryA young man makes a serious mistake; an extraterrestrial explorer makes contact with an old temple; a group of friends sneak into an amusement park after hours; we are all tombstones; we are all here and gone.
