The Circus Caravan by Alina Gao

It started with a circus caravan on the night before Halloween. A bearded lady, a trapeze artist, the tallest man in the world, 9ft and 2 inches! Yet those aren’t names that draw the coin throwing crowds. It’s the woman concealed in curtains, hidden in the shadows, viewed behind glass. It’s the most beautiful woman in the world, preserved in ice like a corpse. She had hair like liquid midnight, eyes gazing into the heavens, cheekbones like sculptured ice. At night hidden in a mausoleum, because where else does she belong if not being displayed? Spectrals visit in the night, trying to find meaning in their shells.

In the daytime, audiences gawk, wide jawed, eyes bulging, wondering how this is existing on the same earth as all the evil sins of humanity. They look back to their lovers and see macabre faces in ones they used to trace at night, lost in love.

Luther Chernyskyvny knew better than to look. He was the popcorn vendor at the circus, and every night he would do his best to keep his eyes on only the popcorn kernels. Ever since the lady showed up, people would come, blood leaking out of their eyes and forming tears. Popped up, like the popcorn kernels rattling around the machine. No one else would see them, because they appeared only in the early morning light, and by then the ring leader would have given orders to drag them away. Don’t you dare make us look bad was the line spat out from tobacco-stained teeth.

Late one night, Luther was just about to head home. A circus worker stopped him, a lad he talked to here and there. His job at the circus was to bring everyone to the curtains before the show started and back when the show ended. Hey, d’ya reckon you could wheel in the lady for me tonight? I got my own waiting for supper, it’s our anniversary. Do a chap a favor, won't cha? Luther said he would help. Good man.

The lady always stayed backstage shrouded in white cloth after the performance. Ya bunch of ugly ol’ chaps would tarnish lady’s pretty little face. Luther silently gripped the handles and started wheeling the cart away. He thought about the people showing up with bleeding eyes. So strange… He wanted to see. He wanted to see the lady. His life was ugly, couldn't he have this one taste of beauty? He was Tantalus, always scrambling, always reaching for the fruit. Imagining the ripe fruit between his calloused fingers, sickly sweet juice dripping down his arms, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh of the apple. Luther didn’t even like apples.

Now he was outside the mausoleum. Gods from above seemed to be mocking him. Mortal, stupid, weak they taunted.

The apple was brushing his fingertips...

Luther lifted the cloth.