The Mask Maker

Unnatural Selection

It was raining the day the circus came to town. 

I watched their trucks pass from our window, awed as any thirteen year old would be by the strange and mysterious posters plastered to the trailers; signs that read things like The Alaskan Wolf Boy, The Human Tapestry, and Big Bruno: He'll eat anything!

In the corner of each poster was the name of the circus, painted in a dripping green: The Circus of Unnatural Selection. The name was on the tickets lying on the coffee table; three of them, one for my sister, my father and myself, for the big show tonight at seven.

***

The rain had settled to a hazy mist by the time we all piled into the car.

The big top tent was set up over the baseball diamond where the other kids and I played every Sunday. As I watched the looming castle of felt and canvas emerge out of the ghostly fog, all I could think was that I hoped they didn't find the lucky stone I kept hidden under the home plate.

As we got closer, I began to hear music floating lazily on the wind; a peculiar tune formed by sounds I had never heard before, produced by instruments I could have never named. The rustle of people soon perforated the song: the shriek of laughter, a cry of terror, the cacophony of conversation. When we passed the parking lot, it was easy to see where it all came from.

It seemed as if every person in town had come to see the Circus of Unnatural Selection.  

Leading up to the poignant big top tent, a crowded market of the macabre had been erected where only hours ago there had been only wet grass and wind. Though unlike other markets that operated in things, trinkets, and knickknacks, this one sold amusements, memories, and mistakes.

I watched in silent amazement as people lined up to throw balls at pins set too far apart, toss rings on bottles with brims too wide, or shoot balloons with a gun that didn't want to fire straight. 

Jugglers danced and threw knives into the air while a barrel chested man blew plumes of flame. As I passed, a deranged clown swallowed a sword down to the hilt.

My sister squealed with glee as her eager eyes drank in the scene.

My dad smiled warmly at her and asked me what I thought. 

I told him I hoped my lucky stone was still under home base. 

He smiled and ruffled my hair like he always did when he had nothing else to say to me.

***

I left my dad and sister playing one of the carnival games and pushed my way through the clusters of people gathered at every attraction, making sure to track my movements so I could find my way back again. 

Past the snake charmer, around the mime rowing an invisible boat and left at the gypsy fortune teller reading the young couple's palms.

By force of habit, I looked to the ground and saw the familiar dirt lines connecting the bases running beneath the stands, converging towards home plate, except when I followed them to where the base should be, I found instead, a small lonely tent.

It was made of a white and black fabric that floated in the gentle breeze, like a ghost. A welcoming orange light flickered in the entrance flap, as if a fire burned within, yet there was no chimney or smoke to be seen.

I hesitantly made my way towards it. I seemed to be the only one who took any interest in the solemn tent; other families passed without so much as glancing at it, as if it wasn't even there. When I reached the entrance and gingerly pulled the flap aside, I was greeted by a thousand staring eyes.