The circus arrives in June, scarlet red and mustard yellow blazing a trail across the dead grass. Ticket curled in the palm of her hand, she wanders through the tents dotting the field. One cotton candy please, she says at the concession stand. The expanse seems to stretch on for miles as she runs her tongue along the sugar strands crusting her teeth. Today is the day she turns seven: the number of days in the week, colors in the rainbow, inches in two crayons. It is a good number.
The circus arrives in June, pink neon sign boasting circus merveille propped above the ticket stand. Sitting in the front row, she gapes at the lone woman high up in the air, spotlight glinting off the dangling silks. She wonders if the woman is afraid – it must take so much courage to soar without wings. After the show is over, she orders a funnel cake with extra powdered sugar on top. Today is the day she turns twelve: the number of sodas in a pack, donuts in a box, days of Christmas. It is a good number.
The circus arrives in June, a trickle of people passing through the gates. She sits under the shade of an elm tree, head resting against the bark. She stays that way, a swarm of flies buzzing over her bag of uneaten caramel popcorn. Today is the day she turns sixteen: the number of protons in sulfur, cups in a gallon, assignments she hasn’t completed. She wishes it were a better number.
Elizabeth Lei is a high schooler and Tolkien admirer. In her free time, she can be found baking banana bread, reading fantasy novels, or scribbling lines of poetry. She aims to write prose about real experiences that speak to the human heart.
Painting by. Margaret Preston (the fish bowl, 1910)
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