Metrofear 2015 by Met Media

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METROFEAR MASQUERADE PARTY Friday, October 23, 2015 8:00 — 11:00 pm

Backstage Coffee 1000 14th St #1B-1 Denver, CO 80202

The act youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been waiting for...

Editor-in-Chief Carlos Escamilla Associate Editor Sean Rhodes Creative Director Kenzie Sitterud Art Director Jorge Ed Perez Garcia Literature Contributors Amanda Berg Jené Conrad Edwin Lobach Pacific Obadiah Sean Rhodes Art Contributors Alexandra Miller Kevin Norris Jorge Ed Perez Garcia Ben Rabinoff Ben Tarver Copy Editors Sabrina Hallberg Edwin Lobach Heather Pastorius

Met Media Steven Haigh, Director Jennifer Thomé, Asst. Director Kathleen Jewby, Production Manager Elizabeth Norberg, Office Admin. Met Media P.O. Box 173362, CB57 Denver, CO 80217-3362 Printed by Colt Print Services, Inc. Special Thanks to Jill Price at Colt Print Services, Inc., and the production, administration, and advertising staff of Met Media. © 2015. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior permission of Met Media, except in context of reviews.

PROGRAM 1. Curiosities

2. Ink

3. The Wayward Traveler

4. The Golden Peanut

5. The Atrocious Accident

Curiosities

Story by Amanda Berg Illustration by Jorge Ed Perez Garcia

ost people just glance at the tent as they walk by looking for a bathroom. Some pause for a minute, playfully daring each other to go inside before heading back to clowns and cotton candy. You stayed behind at the circus, told your friends to go ahead and you would catch up. None of them was as curious as you were about the long tent set up at the back of the property. None of them cared about the rumor of a secret act, a ding being performed after hours in this tent. The garish canvas signs warn passersby about “Oddities, Curiosities, and the Very Worst of Humankind,” but the illustrations are comical at best. A few performers are posted out front, eating fire and swallowing swords to entice a crowd. You linger just inside the fence, pretending to watch the performers. By now it’s getting dark, and when the ticket-taker turns again to talk to the demon-faced man, you sneak into the tent through a side flap.

The inside is dimly lit and smells faintly of fresh grass, fresh shit, and cleaning solution. The handful of display cases toward the entrance hold dried bird feet, empty turtle shells, and shriveled monkey heads. Further back the cases hold jars of pickled punks, Fiji mermaids, a stuffed twoheaded fawn. A sign stands in front of the curtained entrance to the next railroad room. It cautions both children and the faint of heart to turn back. You proceed. Display cages fill the back of this room. In the first is a woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall. The shoulder that is holding her upright ends at the joint. On her other side, both arms hang down. The top hand clasps and unclasps fingers with the bottom, like indolent affection between two lovers. You blink and blink, trying to clear your eyes; you can’t be seeing what you’re seeing. Her eyes are glassy and her mouth is slack, but her eyelids open and close. You move on to the next cage.

The woman is naked. She is seated on a high stool near the back of her cage. She sits with her arms wrapped around her bare torso, her brown feet neatly paired beneath her on a steel rung. Dangling off of her lap are two pale legs—a child’s legs. They are bare and limp. From a distance, one could assume the sight to be a woman cradling a sleeping child. From where you stand, you can see the child’s legs merge into the woman’s own abdomen. It could be a trick of the light. You aren’t close enough to find out. Just beyond the last cage is a closed curtain, sectioning off this space from the next. You hear a sound muffled by the heavy partition. You step closer and pull back the curtain. The sound is clear now. A whistled tune. Unhurried. Joyful. As you let it drop behind you, you feel a sharp prick in your neck. The whistling stirs you. It takes a while for you to come around. The fluorescence seeps through

your eyelids, so you take your time adjusting. One eye opens, then the other. The cleaning chemical smell from the foyer is much stronger here. You try to rub your head, but you cannot move your limbs. The table you are strapped to is slightly raised at the head. To either side of you, you see metal trays, a few stools. You’re within a bright, lantern-lit circle. Just beyond the circle’s edge sit a group of people, chatting, laughing, watching. Just inside the circle, the whistling man is tying an apron over his clothes and gloving himself. He walks toward you and the room grows silent. He runs one finger down your bare chest toward the space between your hips. You thrash your head, the only thing you can move. From one tray, he selects a large, round-bodied needle. From another, he selects a packet of silk thread, braided and thick. He slides the sutures through the needle’s eye and then presses the point through the heart of your right earlobe, through the dense canvas of the padding. He

pushes it back out again, pulls the thread taut and your head turns to the right. He rethreads the needle and anchors your left ear to the table, pulling your face upward. Someone in the audience laughs. You feel a sharp prick again and your muscles start to relax. The man chooses his instruments and splits your abdomen stem to stern. You feel your body expand out. There is no pain, just dull pressure. There is no pain, but you scream anyway. The sound is lost somewhere in the thickness of your throat. From your vantage point, both his hands have disappeared. His elbows jut out from your body. The subtle dance of his forearms echoes his hand movements. Nimble fingers are buried inside of you working, working, working. He whistles the same tune, over and over. The song never stops. Not even when he lays his instruments down and removes his gloves. Not even when he offers a humble bow. Not even when the audience’s eager applause threatens to drown it out.

THE END

Ink

Story by Edwin Lobach Illustration by Alexandra Miller

was already imagining the 100% mark on the paper I’d just finished writing for Ms. Daly’s class. Walking through the dark campus beside the Tivoli, hands in my jean pockets, eyes stuck to the cement walk, my phone blipped. A text from Tim: Lots of heavy drinks? I stopped to respond but noticed an opening between the chain-link fencing behind the Tivoli. A construction worker must have left this open. I pulled the fence back and squeezed into the dirt area—causing more noise than I preferred—and beyond I heard festive music. I stepped by and over dirt mounds and holes, and various materials for whatever they were constructing. The music slowly amplified, but I saw nothing on the other side of the restricted area. It continued to grow louder as I stepped forward until it was just behind me. I spun around, startled by the small round, white and red tent standing before me, lights and silhouettes dancing about the tent walls. Someone hastily brushed out through the flaps. “Señor?” remarked the tall man in a Spanish accent, dressed as a bullfighter. “Have you found what you are looking for?”

“And what’s that?” I asked, ignoring the fear trembling in my throat and gut. “But a job, Señor.” “I was just…” and I gestured behind me. “Come, Señor. The crowds await.” He turned stylishly with his cape, and vanished through the tent flaps. “Hey, wait,” I said, but for naught, as he was already in. I looked around at the flat landscape. There was no longer the fencing I snuck through, no Tivoli, no campus or buildings anywhere; only stars meeting flat horizons. I wasn’t on Auraria Campus anymore. I wondered if my circumstance was an acceptable excuse for missing class tomorrow. I checked my phone—no service in the middle of nowhere— then hesitantly stepped through the tent flaps. I bumbled to my hands and knees on the dimly lit wood floors, as the whole setting began to move like a wagon on rutted dirt roads. A gruff laughter grabbed my attention.

“Manolete!” a large, bearded German man shouted, sitting beside me against the dark wall. “Who ist der bastard?” “Peace, Klaus,” said a woman in the far corner, rocking side to side from the bumpy ride. A lantern shone next to her, hanging on the wall. The narrow compartment sat roughly ten figures, faces toward me, expressions hard to discern in the dark. The movement of the carriage ceased and a trap door above was pulled open, spilling heavy light into our compartment. A rope ladder fell. “Grüsse Gott, Miststück,” laughed the enormous, bearded man. “Señor,” came from the opened trap door. “It is time.” “Time for what?” I asked a muscular, dark-skinned, vested man across from the German. The muscular man had a curved sword beside him. He did not reply. I turned to a woman who had a snake moving about her shoulder and arms. No response from her either.

The lady from the corner said, “Go, boy.” I looked to her. Her sunburst hair lay all about the bench and floor. “Go to Manolete. The crowds await.” I stood and mounted the rope ladder before me, looking up into the blinding light. I climbed onto a large, circular hardwood stage, trying to block the light with my right hand, spotlights blazing down from all around, making it impossible to see into the darkness. “Señor,” he said beside me. “You are the opening act with me. We sold out tonight. I will climb up and trapeze above you.” He slapped a hand on my shoulder. “Wait,” I chirped. “What am I to do?” “But you are the one who talks to tigers, no?” he said, nodding his head, gesturing behind me. I heard the low rumble before I could turn. A rope fell beside Manolete and he began pulling himself up, bringing the rope along. I turned slowly. And there it was: the tiger, twenty feet from me across the stage, seemingly

uninterested in me. Manolete shouted from above, “Señor!” I looked up. I couldn’t see him beyond the bright lights, but scattered leaves of white printer paper fluttered slowly to the stage, one just beside me. I bent down and saw my last name and a page number in the top corner. I was confounded. Ms. Daly isn’t going to believe this one. I looked up and saw the tiger approaching me. I took two steps back before tripping over the handle to the trap door. I quickly maneuvered and tried pulling on the handle to escape and almost yelled, but the words caught in my throat. I stood facing the tiger and held my hands up, hoping he’d stop. “Whoa, Mr. Tiger,” I trembled. “Take it easy.” The tiger slowed at my voice, I took a step back again, and the tiger bobbed his head and growled under his breath. He dipped his head and his gait pounced into a swift hurry. In an instant he was at me and I froze up. He toppled me over and began

licking my face like a dog, and I squirmed my head back and forth. I tried pushing him off, all 400 pounds of him, but could not. I heard laughter and applause burst from the invisible crowd. Then came a loud snap and the tiger bounced back. I looked up and the vested man was pacing with a whip in hand. The young tiger, having nothing to play with, began ripping up the papers on the stage. I stood quickly. “No,” I said. I approached the tiger, and continued, “Mr. Tiger, drop it,” but it was too late. I sighed. A loud thud and crack sounded

on the stage beside me. Manolete, legs and arms askew, lay unmoving on the stage, along with a dark shape, absent of color, scrambling away from Manolete’s body, trailing black bile. The tiger growled. Lights in the stands snapped on and dark figures stepped down the stairs, silently, toward the stage. Vest man unsheathed his sword as I saw the snake slither by. The lights began flickering as the crowd approached. The lady with improbably long sunburst hair was levitating with her limbs out, eyes white. As the figures walked into light, they never illuminated. They

climbed the stage, hundreds, like silhouettes in three dimensions, swallowing light, contrails of ink behind them. Klaus yelled to me, “Renne!” The tiger nudged his head under my legs and bumped me up onto his back. We darted and the tiger thought to me, We used you to lure the absent ones. The figures clambered onto both me and the tiger, dripping their inexistence over us, blackening me out. I awoke to being licked. I opened my eyes. A tiger was in my face and I squirmed back. I put

my hands up saying, “Okay, Mr. Tiger.” I was in the construction area behind the Tivoli, the tent gone, the cold night air present, and I was covered in a wet ink. We can bring the multitude to light, the tiger thought to me. He turned away in a lazy slink, stopped, turned his head, And it’s Ms. Tiger, ass. She jumped onto a ledge and over the fence, off into Auraria Campus, toward the sleeping city. I sat in silence. I checked my phone. Sun would be up soon. I thought about Ms. Daly.

THE END

The Wayward Traveler Story by Jené Conrad Illustrated by Ben Rabinoff

he sun finally set below the horizon several miles back, and the night sky is a smattering of stars that almost light Olivia’s way on the meandering road as she moves farther into the interior of the mountains. She has her brights on and is careful not to accelerate around the corners. She doesn’t want to find herself in a ditch with a dead phone and miles to the next town. Not that it would matter. Her window is open and the warm air whizzing past her is the only significant sound. Her stereo broke along with her air conditioner back in New Mexico. But long ago she learned to live without such luxuries. Still, she is grateful for the mild mountain weather and the reprieve from the summer heat.

Olivia sighs as her body moves into the turns. She pulls her long black hair behind her ear as if to get it out of her line of vision. Her meager belongings clutter the back seat and the floor of the passenger side. Her carnival gear is in the small trailer hitched to her car. Old road maps pile up in the seat next to her. She’s never trusted the GPS. Nor does she want to chance any possibility of being followed. Invisibility is more important to her than convenience. Driving is a luxury she can’t think of a time she didn’t enjoy. She would drive forever if gas permitted. She’d been thinking that once she got to Oregon it’d be smart to convert her engine to biodiesel. In all the years she’s been alive she can taste the difference climate change has brought. Olivia brakes. Her tires screech in protest. Her clown doll hanging around her mirrors smashes into the window setting off a cascade of cackles. She notices a man leaning against a Harley, arms crossed. His head is

bent as if taking a quick nap on the side of the road. Olivia shifts into reverse and moves backward, aligning her car and trailer with the bike. As she rolls down the passenger window the man walks up and leans into the frame. His jaw is hard, and Olivia would even call it strong. In the light of her car she notices that his five o’clock shadow accentuates his jaw line. Not her usual type. His hair is blond, white almost, and his skin is pale. On these roads he could easily be mistaken for a ghost. Olivia shifts in her seat. His eyes are an unnatural green, and he stares at her with an intensity she doesn’t see often. “You need a ride?” He looks back at his bike. He tilts his head. “Offering a ride can be—” “Dangerous, I know,” Olivia interrupts. “You could be a serial killer. Blah, blah, blah. In all my travels the worst a hitchhiker ever is, is smelly.” He chuckles. The sound is smooth like cotton, and there is an

edge of an accent in his cadence. “Fair enough.” He looks at his bike. “You can put it in the trailer. Should be enough room.” She kills the engine and grabs her keys. The sound of the car door shutting bounces off the walls of the canyon. He follows close behind her around to the trailer hitched to the heap of metal she drives. His breath raises the hair on her neck. He smells of wet dirt and metal. She unlocks the door. “You look worried.” He shrugs. The door swings open. He looks inside with hesitation. The trailer is packed to the brim with costumes, masquerade masks, HulaHoops, and various poi accessories. Long chains clatter along the side of the trailer. Pinwheels, tarps, and tents line the other side. Chinese lanterns hang from the ceiling. There’s a jumble of swords tied together resting atop a chest crammed with jars filled with oddities. “See? No bodies, well ’sides the

dummy in the trunk.” She grins and the man appears amused. “You headed to Burning Man?” Olivia laughs. “Hell no. I might be a carny, but Burning Man is nowhere near as interesting as people let on.” She opens the door wider. “No, I am headed up to Portland to meet up with some old friends.” He nods to the trailer. “There enough room for this thing.” “Oh, plenty.” He pushes the bike in and is surprised to find it fits in nicely. Olivia locks it up and directs him to the passenger side. “It’s a bit tricky to open.” She holds the handle as she pushes the door in and up to open it. He settles into the seat and shoves his pack into the back. The car rattles as Olivia slams her car door. The clown laughs. “That...” “You don’t like clowns?” she asks. He shrugs. “That’s my good luck charm. I picked him up while traveling through Louisiana.” She flicks the

clown. It remains silent as she pulls onto the road and starts to drive. The man studies Olivia, a question hovering on his lips. She runs a brown hand through her thick black hair. Her brass bracelets rattle along her arm with the movement. Her fingers curl around the steering wheel. She reminds him of the travelers back home in his youth. But nothing seems to give her away. She seems normal enough. He shrugs, letting the vibration of the car soothe him. He stretches his legs in the seat. His steel-toed boots hit the carriage of the car. He runs a hand down the side of his face as he watches the car take another turn, heading deeper into the mountains. “I’m Olivia, by the way. What’s your name?” “Giles.” “From England?” “How do you—?” “There’s a hint of Kent. ’Sides, with a name like Giles all people can think about is Buffy the

Vampire Slayer.” “Slayer?” he asks. “You don’t watch much television do you?” “Can’t say that I have.” “You should. Great show. Who doesn’t like watching a few vamps get staked.” Giles nods. “Not much of a fan of television,” he admits and grips the arms of the door trying to find enough space for his large frame. Olivia taps her finger on the steering wheel three times. “But how can you hear it?” Giles asks, “the accent I mean. I thought I’d done a good job of getting rid of it.” “I’ve spent some significant time in England.” “When?” “Spanish Inquisition?” Surprise creeps into his face as his eyes narrow. The woman reveals nothing in her features. “What are you?” Olivia shrugs. A smile dances in the corner of her lips. “You tell me, Nightwalker.”

He looks at her, racking his memory. The shadow of recognition crashes against the barrier of his unnatural eyes. He sits there staring in masked horror. “Olivia Drake? The Olivia Drake. You were thought a myth.” She smiles. “Do I look mythical to you?” The road evens out as mountains change into foothills. The vampire’s fingers shake slightly. Olivia can tell he’s young but wise enough to fear her. Sometimes the young ones are careless and think they’re invincible. “Please don’t kill me.” The plea rushes from his lips. “Well, that depends.” “On what?” Olivia lets the silence stretch between them. The wind is haunting as Giles moves to try the handle on the car door. The door doesn’t open. “The doors are spelled.” Her fingers tap lightly on the steering wheel and she hums as if to a phantom tune playing on the broken radio. If his heart could

beat it would be racing. “What are you going to do to me?” “That depends.” “On what.” “If you can pass my little test.” “And if I don’t?” “We only have five hours before the sun rises.” She looks at him then. He can see the years hidden behind her youthful face. Her stare is warm and caring but there is something sinister as well. “What must I do?” “Tell me about your life. I have always enjoyed a good story.” “Where do you want me to start?” His voice slips back into his English accent. “Why not at the beginning.” “The beginning of what?” “Your death.” Giles curls his hand into a nervous fist as he stares at the clown doll. It mocks him. He takes a breath. “Very well.”

THE END

The Golden Peanut Story by Sean Rhodes Illustrated by Ben Tarver

t was Garrett’s first circus and his parents weren’t excited. The big top was always at the edge of town, but it only opened once a year. Usually at the start of the fall. During that time the denizens of the town of Tusker gathered. Garrett, of course, was anxious to go. He’d heard so much about it. The older boys talked about it all the time. “Yeah, the first time I went it was boring until the end. The final act… That’s amazing.” Unfortunately, the circus was off limits until the age of thirteen for the younger people in Tusker. This, of course, gave many children a bleak curiosity as to what the circus was. Garrett heard other comments growing up as well. “I got lucky. I was one seat away,” was one Garrett heard once, but he didn’t know what that meant. One seat away from what? When he turned thirteen the only thing Garrett could wait for was a chance to go to the circus. All the townspeople went while the children stayed at home, doors locked and in bed by seven. No later. Each year his parents went to the circus as they were told. Each year they came back., usually muttering something like, “It was the Johnsons this time…” or “Poor Mrs. Mayweather…”

These comments weren’t lost on Garrett. Over the years his curiosity increased more and more. Until now. It was the fated day. The day everyone was required to go to the circus. Everyone older than thirteen that is. The other children would stay at home, where they’d be watched by the authorities in town. The same authorities who ordered everyone above the age of thirteen to go to the circus. “Come on, Garrett,” his father said, though not excited about it. “It’s that time of the year,” his mother said. The family made sure to dress nicely for the occasion. Garrett dressed himself in a black suit with a matching tie and a white u n d e r s h i r t . “ Yo u l o o k s o… presentable,” his mother said. They left their home and marched toward the big top. Garrett was excited. It was the first time he’d be able to see the circus and to understand what all the others were talking about. Although other families didn’t

dress in their best, their children did. Boys were dressed in dark suits and girls were dressed in white dresses. It was as though everyone was going to a fancy party. Was this what the circus demanded? That parents be casual and collected while the children be presentable and proper? Garrett wasn’t sure. Outside of the big top were several booths serving all kinds of delicious treats. At one booth was cotton candy. At another were cupcakes. And at another there were soft pretzels with a side of cheese for dipping. There were booths with other assortments as well. Hot dogs, burgers and turkey legs. “Let’s wander around,” Garrett’s father said, “before we have to take the gift.” Gifts? We get gifts?, thought Garrett. Gifts like for birthdays and for Christmas? He didn’t have time to think about it before his parents pulled him along. There was a dunking booth where people were tossing

softballs at a target, trying to hit the center while a man insulted them. There was also a pool where pigs were constantly diving in, and someone else had to dive in and grab them. “This is boring,” Garrett said. “This is the good stuff,” his father replied. His mother walked beside them in silence. The event booths were boring and Garrett wasn’t hungry. This is the circus? What was so great about this? They walked around a little bit more, until someone in a top hat, red coat, trousers and black boots walked by, almost in a hurry. Garrett watched him walk into the big top. “Who was that?” “The ringmaster,” his mother replied. “That means it’s almost time. Why don’t you spend some time at the petting zoo?” “Because the petting zoo is boring,” Garrett said. “I’m not a little kid anymore, Mom.” “You’ll wish you were soon enough,” she replied. His father shivered. “Don’t

say that!” “Why not?” she asked. “You damn well know why.” They walked by the petting zoo anyway. There were ducks, dogs, pigs and cats. Just as Garrett thought … boring. Not even enough animals. “Ladies and gentlemen!” a voice rang out over the loudspeaker. “It is time! Everyone please make your way to the big top. And don’t forget to grab your young man or lady a gift!” Garrett’s father sighed. “Okay, here goes.” He looked at Garrett. “We’re going to get in line for your gift okay? You are not to open it until you are told to do so. You just hold it, got it?” Garrett nodded. The crowd made their way to the big top, stopping by a booth at the entrance. Each family with a young adult was given a small box wrapped in purple with a bow on top. Garrett received his and that was that. The gift was no bigger than an apple. “This is it?” Garrett asked.

“That’s it,” his mother replied. They went into the big top and saw the bleachers. Several rows for several families. “Let’s go to the top,” his father said. They went to the top and along a row of seats and sat in the middle. The bleachers began to fill in, with only a few rows left empty. The ringmaster came out. “Ladies and gentlemen, young men and young women,” he said, referring to those who were not quite adults but also not quite children. “Tonight is a special night. Once a year, we want to give you a show. Something to remember. I hope you enjoyed the time you had with your families.” Everyone applauded. “Now, for the show.” At first Garrett didn’t know what to think. He sat with his purple box. Bored. First came a man with a chair and a whip who tamed a lion. Boring. Then came a man who had trained several hundred mice to toss him back and forth. Between each toss he made sure

to do flips and strike poses. He also landed on the mice in several different positions. First with a headstand. Then on his belly. At last he landed on his back and the act was done. Once again. Boring. Another act showed a man juggling knives while playing a harmonica and balancing on a ball. Boring. The ringmaster returned, also appearing to be bored. “And now the moment you’ve waited for,” he said. “Time to see… who has the golden peanut!” At the sound of “golden peanut,” everyone talked among themselves. “You know what happens if you have the golden peanut,” he said. Everyone understood. “Now let’s see who has it. Young ladies and young gentlemen open your gifts.” Parents looked worried as the young boys and girls began to unwrap their gifts. The lights dimmed at once. “Go on,” Garrett’s father said, his voice trembling. Garrett did as he was told and ripped the paper away. A plain

tiny box was underneath. He removed the lid and pulled it out. The golden peanut. It looked like an idol and glowed like a flickering candle. “Oh no!” Garrett’s father said. He tried to snatch it, but it was too late. A spotlight immediately shone on Garrett. “We have our chosen one!” the ringmaster blared. “Come down! Come down!” Garrett ’s mother started to cry while Garrett’s father closed his eyes. Garrett marched to the center of the big top, golden peanut in hand, thinking perhaps he’d won something. The ringmaster removed his hat. “You’re a brave young man,” he said. Another spotlight came on, this one pointed at the other end of the tent. From the shadows marched a mighty mammoth, snarling and making its footsteps heard. Its flesh was falling away, but its tusks looked sharp and splendid.

“Please don’t make me watch,” Garrett’s father whispered. “We have to,” the mother replied. The mammoth roared, another chunk of flesh falling from its body. “It’s just not fair,” Garrett’s mother said. “It’s just not fair!” The mammoth wrapped its trunk around Garrett, lifted him high above its head and opened its maw. In an instant it dropped the boy into its mouth and swallowed. There were no screams from the audience. Only sighs of relief from parents that it wasn’t their child… and then thunderous applause. The mammoth marched away, content.  “The beast has been satisfied,” the ringmaster said. “It won’t bother us for another year. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Young men and young women. Until next year.” The auditorium dispersed. Families went home and the big top was closed. Until next year.

THE END

The Atrocious Accident Story by Pacific Obadiah Illustrations by Jorge Ed Perez Garcia & Kevin Norris

ohnny shuddered. It had been years since he had visited the place of his greatest performance. He took a step forward, then paused. “I could turn back right now. I could just leave and never come back here,” Johnny said to himself. The sun was setting over the pier, and it cast odd shadows onto the circus tent. Johnny thought of what kind of shadows would be lurking inside the tent. He tried to cast away the thought, but it came back to him. He closed his eyes and swallowed, then took another step forward. Johnny’s mind wandered to how everything started. With his eyes closed Johnny walked forward until he reached the center of the circle. He knew exactly where it was; he performed this exact routine every night. The audience cheered. Johnny felt the warmth of the spotlights on his face. Slowly, he opened his eyes and saw the vast darkness that made up the audience. He outstretched his arms in a grand manner. The audience cheered louder.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The audience continued to cheer over Johnny’s words. “Tonight I have a truly amazing set of acts for you!” Johnny stood outside the flaps of the tent. He studied the dirty smears and handprints that stained the striped fabric of the tent. Pushing the canvas flaps aside, Johnny walked into the circus tent. It took a moment for Johnny’s eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. Everything was dilapidated. The wood that held up the tent was old and swollen. The far side of the tent had caved in, and the only light inside came from the setting sun shining through holes torn in the canvas. Johnny walked past the risers and into the center of the tent, where he stepped onto the raised platform of dirt. “And, as our show draws to a conclusion, I know what you’ve all been waiting for! You’re all awaiting the ‘Amazing Vanishing’ act, aren’t you?” The crowd cheered, Johnny smiled. “Well, before I do that, I have one more act for you. I call it, ‘The

Atrocious Accident.’ Are you ready?” They cheered. They always cheered. “For my next act, I will require a volunteer. Are there any lovely ladies in the audience?” Hands rose into the air, and Johnny took a step toward the audience. He searched the audience until he found a suitable lady. He pointed at her. “ You there, ma’am, with the blonde hair and the white dress, would you come down here?” The woman stood, walked to the aisle and down the steps of the risers. As she walked onto stage, Johnny offered her his hand and helped her up. Together they walked into the center. “Will you tell me, and our audience, your name?” Johnny asked. “Why of course. My name is Alice.” The girl smiled. “What a lovely name.” Johnny smiled. “Now, my assistants are going to wheel out something many of you have likely seen before. You’re all familiar with the trick of sawing a woman in half, right?” The crowd emitted gasps as two men wheeled out three boxes all

stacked on top of one another. Johnny reached over and opened the boxes one by one, showing they were all connected. “Now, Alice darling, if you wouldn’t mind, would you please step into the boxes?” Alice obliged. Her head poked out of the top. Johnny closed the boxes and latched them shut. From behind the boxes he pulled out a hand saw. “I warn the queasy and faint of heart to leave now!” Johnny stood in silence for a moment, looking over the audience. Satisfied that no one had left, he began to saw into the boxes. Alice squirmed uncomfortably as the saw cut deeper. Alice suddenly gasped, the audience started to mutter, and Johnny continued to saw. Johnny took a second to stand in the center. He turned and looked out into the audience. He fondly remembered when the audience was brimming with people all eager to see his show. He smiled and raised his arms. Johnny opened his eyes, leaving his fantasy and letting his smile

drop into a stern scowl. He turned back to his original direction and walked backstage. Darkness seemed to drape over everything. Johnny could barely distinguish the outlines of the various props and boxes that lay around. Johnny pulled a small LED flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on. The flashlight did very little to light its surroundings. Johnny continued on, stopping only when he saw a purple door with a golden star. The door was ajar. Johnny nudged it open farther with his foot. It slid open a few inches, then was stopped by the floor. Johnny chuckled to himself. Johnny turned toward the audience, and then pressed a finger against his lips. As the audience silenced, he pulled a black cloth sack from his pocket and placed it over Alice’s head. Then, again, he started to saw. The audience shouted obscenities toward Johnny, and people started to get up from their seats. Then, Johnny grabbed the

black bag containing the severed head and held it high for everyone to see. Blood dripped out of the sack. Everyone in the audience froze. “Now now, I know you must all be quite alarmed, but I assure you, this is all a part of the act.” Johnny gripped the bottom of the head with one hand, and with the other he pulled off the black bag. A shriveled head rested in his hand. Nervous chuckles emitted from the audience. He walked over to the three boxes and started to unlatch them. The bottom one was empty, as was the middle, but in the top box, from a rope hung a small doll wearing a white dress much like Alice’s. “Hmm, now, this is strange, isn’t it?” Johnny pulled the doll from the box and ripped off its head. Then, he affixed the shriveled head to the plush body. Johnny then placed the doll in the bottom box and re-latched them. “Now, here’s the magical part.” Johnny started to walk around the stacked boxes, then stopped once he had made three full circles. Johnny again

went through the process of unlatching the boxes, starting with the bottom. As he swung the door open, everyone gasped as they saw Alice’s feet. Then, as the second one opened, it revealed Alice’s white dress. Johnny hesitated, looking into the audience, building suspense, and then unlatched the top box, and slowly opened it. Out of it stepped Alice, but her head had been replaced with an oversized shriveled head. The audience laughed. Johnny grabbed the head by its hair, and cut three black strings that held it onto the white gown and ripped the head off. Alice looked out towards the audience, and smiled. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Have a wonderful night. Always remember, magic is in the air!” Smoke begun emitting from the side of the stage. Once it had built up, Johnny turned around and walked off stage. Backstage, the other performers of the circus all nodded at him as he passed. He walked to his dressing room, turning the worn golden knob attached to the purple

door with a golden star. He pushed it open. It creaked open a few inches, then was stopped by the floor. He pushed against the door harder. It slid a few more inches against the concrete floor. He pushed the door once more. It didn’t budge. Sighing, Johnny squeezed into his dressing room through the partially open door. He sat down in his cushioned armchair, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the sweat off his forehead. Johnny put his shoulder against the door and pressed against it. The door slid forward a few inches, then stopped. He squeezed his way into his former dressing room. His flashlight illuminated the room fairly well. Johnny pointed it toward the arm chair that sat in the corner. The silhouette of a man sat in the chair. “Hello again, Johnny.” “Truly, that was the best act I’ve ever performed.” Johnny said

to himself. “I agree,” a voice whispered in his ear. The purple door to his dressing room slammed shut. Johnny jumped out of his seat. He held his breath. Then the feeling of a cold and heavy hand fell upon on his shoulder. Johnny turned and saw the silhouette of a man. “How will you ever outdo yourself after that?” the Shade whispered. Sweat began to form on Johnny’s brow again. “What the hell are you?” asked Johnny. “You know the answer to that already, don’t you, Johnny?” The shade took its hand off Johnny’s shoulder and slowly circled around him. “I’m here to take what belongs to me.” The beam of Johnny’s flashlight lay on the silhouette. “I knew you would come back. After all, how could you continue living as you do?” the shade said, before emitting a deep, guttural laugh. The silhouette grabbed the

top of its head, and with each hand, pulled outward, tearing away the shadowy shell and revealing its true makings. Johnny’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to scream. The monster leapt toward him. Nathan splashed cold water on his face and wiped it with a paper towel. He smiled, stretched his arms out and exhaled a deep breath. He walked out onto stage: “I am Nathan the Marvelous, and tonight, I present, ‘The Atrocious Accident.’” The crowd cheered. The crowd always cheered. THE END

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