Preface

We wrote this piece on 06/05/25 and attempted to have it published sometime later. That, clearly, did not happen. There's not much of a backstory to this one besides simply being a creative idea that fizzled like a sparkler.

The Nature Of

Clara started smoking at an early age. Performance life was no joke. Wender’s Traveling Circus tore through towns like tornadoes through flatland. Everyone wanted a piece of the excitement. What else was there to do? You could nurse a beer on the couch any other day. But it was special to see the trapeze angels, the monstrous elephants, the colorful harlequins, the dancers, tigers, magicians, and of course Clara. Yes, it was indeed special. The crowd didn’t just like being entertained. They liked to be amazed! Take a chance of fate! Walk the tightrope, ride that elephant, and twist yourself until you can’t tell if the sky is up or down! Don’t just put on a show…LIVE! That is the nature of the circus. The nature of performance. The nature of life. The audience hungers for something, anything at all to beat Death. That thing that makes you crazed and sulky. You want to see it lose. You want to see Death get socked in the face by a woman in a feathered leotard doing somersaults in the air.

Clara was the only sideshow attraction Wender’s Circus had. You’d think that little girl was on the cusp of mid-life with the sound of her rasp. And with that little harsh voice, she could tell you what life’s got planned. Clairvoyance is what they call it. Shapes and intrusions of the future danced in her head, making theater plays of what was to inevitably come.

In a small Wisconsin town, far away from where Clara was born, the circus planted its temporary roots in a wide-open meadow. Summer swarmed with feverish heat even in the evening. The circus lights signaled to the miniscule population that amazement was on the cusp of climax. The audience pulled smiles that would one day transform into wrinkles, but not for a very long time. Or at least that’s what you’d like to believe. But the facts are facts, and Death follows us all.

Death fought a lively boxing match with Wender’s Traveling Circus. Punches from larger than life figures were powerful. Sword swallowers and beautiful women magically sawed in two were tough fighters, yes. But Death always won. Acrobats fall to their deaths. Lions drop dead from neglect. Lead poisoning takes another face-painted clown. These casualties were common in any circus, unimportant, and forgettable. Unless you really looked. Looked at the dark corners of the circus tent. The vexing loom of black that surrounded the tent. The spotlights warded the darkness away. Death watched like an emperor in a wild coliseum. But it’s only a matter of time before Death gets bored and strikes the final blow.

Clara knew the shadows well enough to stay far away. She saw the secrets of the natural and unnatural world. In her youthful but ultimate wisdom, she knew good from bad. And she knew things were very, very bad. In her purplish tent, across from the main tent, she waited for another smiling person to wander in and see the secrets of their future. There was desperation in their eyes that she noticed over the years. A want for something great, something big and beautiful. A spotlight to ward off the dark. But on that night, nobody was interested in fate. In her mind, there was a frenzy of intrusions. Something big and beautiful was wrapping itself around the girl. It coddled like a loving mother. Something was coming, and it was coming with great force. It was everything the girl had ever wished for in all her pain of loneliness and aimless exploitation.

Death took another swing to the gut. The feathered acrobats' knuckles bled.

In the craze of the night, the circus carried on and on. The clowns tumbled around the ring, the lion tamers tamed, and the flying acrobats flung in the air like weightless birds. Men rode frightened elephants decked with golden and red robes. All moving in a harmony of chaos. This is the nature of the circus.

Death hunched over, if it had blood, it would be bleeding. But Death is bigger than that, bigger than a tap out, and bigger than a performance. No matter how spectacular.

Clara stepped out of her tent, taking in the night air. The tall, gentle grass of the meadow began to sway with anticipation. Within seconds the sway became a forceful wind. The grass clung to its roots, desperate to stay in place. The circus tent flapped wildly in the breeze. And that was when the crowd began to notice. They were not afraid, not at first. The smiles were still stretched wide. It wasn’t until the unmistakable roar of danger was heard that the crowd panicked.

“Death’s got the acrobat in a headlock!” a frantic announcer cries out in the shadows of the unnatural world.

A sound that was scarily similar to a freight train overpowered the circus fanfare. Trapeze artists dropped like flies, gravity and Death seemed to have made an unfortunate agreement that night. The elephant’s clumsy feet trampled the sequined dancers. Jugglers attacked by terrified lions, tigers, and bears. Oh my.

Clara didn’t cower at the freight like sound. The sky was as dark as pitch, but she didn’t need sight to know the miracle that awaited. A swell of clouds and vicious wind. A big and beautiful tornado. A miracle.

Death rattles its bones in appeasement as the feathered acrobat lies lifeless on the boxing ring mat. Pollice verso.

The circus tent was swept up in the shadows of the monstrous clouds, people lifted from their seats and hurdled into the air. All in the black of night. Clara waited silently for the storm to pass, as all storms inevitably do. And as the wind died and the clouds disappeared, she stood champion of the ring. The facts are indeed the facts, but Clara was as big and beautiful as Death that night. That is the nature of the circus, of performance, of life, and Death.