The Circus Done Come to Town

by George

By dawn, our pockets bled empty, hope hemorrhaging. We mortgaged our tomorrows to jesters who conjured laughter, their painted facades dissolving like watercolors in rain. Magic crafted to blind us from our own unraveling. When the caravan uprooted, it carried more than tattered canvas and tentpoles. It bore our wages, our dreams crushed like peanuts beneath wooden wheels. Scattered in its wake, we stood - drained of everything save the lingering scent of distant elephants.

6S

George is writing to relieve the pressure in her head, because the Advil isn’t working, and a gun is out of the question.