Miracle Issue 6 you, man. I don’t get your whole thing. If it’s some sort of existential, philosophical trick your pulling, I’m not buying it. You’re not some deep, confused nihilist. And even if you were, sure, I’ve read Nietzsche, but that dude was full of himself. Why don’t you just go away so everyone’s life can be better?’ And leave is exactly what Orson did. Here is where the author begins to run into trouble. Orson is still a boy and a young one at that. He must run away. That is how the story must go. But the author is sweating. In order for his story to maintain any possible shred of plausibility and not lose all sense of reality, Orson’s escape has to make sense. The circus. The circus is the truth, as it is always, the author thinks. The author does have to admit he has always had a soft spot in his heart for the circus. When he was eight, he recalls, he saw the Big Apple Circus. He was utterly astonished. On the author’s arrival home, he would, he says, proceed to destroy his room in the process of attempting to tame his tiger (stuffed animal) Leo. Plus, he scoffs, one of the only inescapable and undeniable truths in the world is the whimsical and unpredictable circus. And kids often get picked up by carnies. Because, along with mirrors, child labor laws and/or abduction do not exist in this story. Phew, he emanates. Orson originally held a lot of optimism in his running-away-to-the-circus plan. Though he had yet to make any human connection to anyone before, he figured that the same must be true of carnies and that they would therefore accept him as one of their own. He was woefully mistaken. After a few years of touring, most in the troupe had already begun to despise the young child. At first, the carnies thought his strange look and quirks would gain favorable traction amongst the most avid of circus-goers. And they were right. Orson was a hit. His bit, which for the life of him the author cannot remember, was sandwiched in between the bearded lady and the Cyclops. Soon, however, Orson’s life’s story caught up to him. Things began being questioned; the rumors, the whispers that must have seemed to him at this point background music played loudly in his ear.
Despite garnering good business for the circus, Orson was eventually asked to leave. Even the most outcast of all creatures on this earth could not accept him. The ringmaster, a bald-headed, chicken-legged fellow by the name of Augustus of Rhome (Texas, in case you were wondering), simply could not have Orson amongst the troupe. ‘I’m sorry boy, I really am. You’ve done good work, but it is just too weird, just too good. I’ve gone beyond the limits of my capabilities. Here’s a train ticket.’ Hurt though he was, Orson was not unused to banishment. So off again he went. But, as he was cleaning out his adorably and hilariously small locker, Orson spotted his replacement. She had what appeared to be a green, scaly skin, like that of a fish, plastered onto her own original skin. Though he could see flashes of white flesh from beneath the paint, Orson wished those gaps had been covered. She wore the same, strange, acrylic clothing Augustus of Rhome made him wear, but it seemed to fit her better. She looked right in them, as if they were meant to be worn on her and could not exist otherwise; and vice versa. She looked the type of gorgeous that transcends words or even wordlessness; she surely was beyond even not saying anything, Orson thought. Now, the author needs to reiterate, Orson had not yet hit puberty so his feelings were surely platonic, but it might as well have been love. Who really cares, everyone loves a love story. But Orson could not stay to chat or suggest how crazy the weather was recently. He had to be on his way. Though he was only a year or two older than when he had left home, Orson felt he had aged millennially. Daily decisions no longer scourged him like his biological counterparts. He was independent. He lived in some small apartment right off some exit of some highway running through some armpit state. And this is where Orson would stay for a while. Then, proper routine would set in, and his landlord would eventually cringe enough to kick him out. And the cycle would refresh itself. It was no way to live, but it was the way Orson knew. Another pastel
30