Scattered everywhere were her tarot cards, some of them bent in half or torn, and this gave him a kernel of hope. Gia took the cards very seriously. They were her religion, her spiritual guide. She never made a decision without first consulting them, and she usually kept her deck wrapped in a silk bandana to protect their pure energy. She charged $5 for a reading, and lines would form a quarter-mile long for her insight. Couples would enter her tent together and come out kissing or fighting depending on the information she gave them. Boy didn’t know whether any of it was real, but he knew she was good at seeing when someone needed a little compassion, and she softened her messages for those who were heartbroken or lonely.

People were often surprised by Gia’s appearance. Expecting some dark-haired mystic with long, ringed fingers and a crystal ball, they were thrown off by her blonde hair and barbed wire tattoo, dressed in jeans, flip flops, and a t-shirt that read Yoga Kills. Italian by blood, she was originally from New Jersey but had moved many times over the course of her life. She was compassionate but tough. Several times Boy had seen her throw out some macho man for not taking a hint or trying to intimidate her into saying what they wanted to hear.

Squatting in his untied sneakers, he collected her cards one by one and admired their worn illustrations. He’d never been able to really look at them before. He lingered on The Fool, who stepped blindly off a mountainside with a naive smile pasted across his young face. He then shoved the card back in with the others, slipped the neat stack into his pocket, and headed for the creek.

The circus was all he’d ever known. The night he was born his mother was only 16. Jane, leader of their troupe, had been a midwife in her younger years, so after the late-show crowd dispersed they laid out every blanket and sleeping bag they had, and he was born right there on center stage. Under the hot lights, his mother held him to her chest, delirious, the roar of the crowd still in her ears. Jane asked what she would name him. Her brow furrowed as she traced his tiny nose with her pinky. She remained quiet for a long time. “Boy,” she whispered, and it stuck.

Boy’s job was linespuller. Perched in the shadows just off stage, he was responsible for maintaining the right amount of slack in a line attached to the acrobats or aerialists. Hold too tight, and the performer can’t move, can’t fly through the air or roll along the draped silk. Too loose and they meet the ground and serious injury. His parents being the main acrobats in their troupe, he most often held the line for them.

They had always encouraged him to pursue an act of his own, but Boy preferred being out of the lights, supporting the other performers and observing the crowd. His father in particular had wanted him to learn sword balancing, a traditional act that many circuses banned years ago for how dangerous it was. Two swords, balanced on top of one another from the performer’s mouth. These days prop swords were used, crafted from unsharpened, lightweight aluminum.

From the crowd’s perspective you couldn’t tell they weren’t real, but true carnies scoffed at this. It wasn’t real without the element of danger, death right outside the door. Jane kept two real swords, which she had from the old days and stored beneath the stage in one of the unused trap rooms. Boy had tried them out a few times but lost interest, so they collected cobwebs and disappointment.

He spent most of his days exploring the creek out behind the main tent. It was filled with treasures and artifacts from decades past, and he sifted through them carefully, cataloging anything he found interesting. One afternoon he found a genuine arrowhead, which he kept wrapped in paper towels and stored in the hollow of a nearby tree along with other prized possessions: an abandoned wasp nest, several baseball cards, and a few crayons.

This is where he intended to store Gia’s cards until her return. At the base of the tree, he pulled them out of his pocket. Again the memory of the night before appeared in his mind, along with a knot of regret in his stomach.

After each show, Boy would meander over to Gia’s tent to keep her company as she wrapped up her cards and blew out her many candles. She’d tell him about some of the more interesting readings she gave or offer him a bit of chocolate. Sometimes, if she wasn’t too tired, she’d give him a reading. She’d shuffle the cards with a mischievous look in her eye, which would make him blush. Usually she offered some silly platitude. You will live a long, happy life. or You will fall in love with the most beautiful woman… when you’re older. Again he’d feel his cheeks go hot.

But sometimes she was withdrawn, and Boy knew then that an earlier reading had gone south. That she’d had to deliver some kind of bad news. Those readings drained her energy and left her morose and distant. On those nights he sat for a while in silence, giving her quiet company before slipping back out into the twilight.

The previous night she had been in a grand mood. Some rock song blasted on the radio as she hummed along and sorted through her trinkets. She startled when she turned around and saw him there, and she reprimanded him for sneaking up on her. It was her smile then that encouraged him to do it, to present his plan.

“I don’t want to be here anymore.” His heart beat in his ears.

“Hang on a sec.” She lowered the music and turned back to him.

Insecurity flared up in his chest, but it was too late now.

“I want to leave, and I want you to come with me. I’ve been saving up tip money and I have enough for both of us. There’s a bus that comes early in the morning—I’ve seen it.”

Gia remained silent for a moment, and her face drained slightly of color.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

“Please, Gia. I love you. You’re my best friend.” She grimaced and looked away.

“I think you should leave—I’m feeling pretty tired and I think you are too.” She rubbed at her temples before turning back around to continue closing up.

And that was it. As he ducked back out of her tent he felt sick with shame, and he tossed and turned throughout the night thinking of how to fix it. He hadn’t explained it well enough. Maybe if she had some time to think about it she would come around.

Now he shuffled once more through her abandoned deck, looking for meaning in the characters’ solemn faces and ancient symbols. He never understood how she could get so much insight from them, but he couldn’t deny their beauty. Each card really did have its own energy and weight. One card popped out and landed facedown in front of him. He flipped it over to find an old man seated on a silver throne gazing back up at him. He wore a golden crown and long, blue robes over sandaled feet. In his hand was a mighty sword, and a halo of white butterflies danced above him. He had a self-assured expression, strong and authoritative.

A new anger surfaced in Boy as he recalled Gia’s reaction the night before. He now understood that she viewed him as a child, not a real friend. He crumpled the card in his hand, the thick corners stabbing his palm. He blinked away hot tears and felt some part of himself harden. If Gia did come back, he wasn’t going to be caught crying like some baby. He threw the cards on the ground and stomped off to make his own fate.

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Boy slid back the heavy trapdoor. At first the compartment seemed empty and he felt panicked. Maybe Jane had finally gotten rid of them. But he lowered himself down into the darkness and there they were. They sat in the far corner, ends crossed over one another, wrapped in brown leather sheaths that buckled at the hilt. They were heavier than he remembered, and he struggled to pull one out. Its blade was cold, almost sterile. It glistened in the dim light like a beacon. He pressed his thumb to the edge of the blade, and a tiny bead of blood was released. Adrenaline pumped through him. He knew what to do.

That night, instead of manning the acrobat lines, Boy waited patiently backstage, the swords stowed away in the shadows. His parents and other performers rushed around as usual, laughing and yeehawing as they changed costumes between acts. The show went on like any other. He was so familiar with the routine by now, and he knew exactly when his chance would be.

As the first half came to a close, the performers filed off stage to prepare for intermission. Before anyone could stop him, he gathered a sword in each hand and ran out into the heat of the stage lights, up onto a raised platform where he towered above them all. Instantly the crowd, not knowing any better, began to cheer, and he thrusted the swords into the air, bathing in their applause.

He could hear murmurs from the other performers backstage, but he ignored them and began setting up his trick. He rested the tip of one sword onto the tip of the other, raising them higher and higher, until his arm reached as far as it could. Already the crowd was amazed—gasping and cheering even louder.

He placed the hilt of the first sword into his mouth. The metallic taste was familiar, instinctive, and he closed his eyes to savor, basking in the lights and noise of the crowd. Somehow they began to chant his name, and although he couldn’t see how many there were in the bright lights, it felt like thousands, like a Roman colosseum.

The swords glinted and gleamed. As his fingertips left the blades, he began to lean back, balancing unnaturally. He imagined his parents and Jane peering out from backstage, hands over their mouths. Eager to witness their shock, he opened his eyes. That’s when he noticed her.

At first he saw her in the front row, where a small child had been just seconds before. He thought the lights might be playing tricks on him, but through them he saw she held the same expression as the night before. Disappointed, pained.

Then he noticed next to her, another woman who had the same cropped, blonde hair and barbed wire tattoo around her bicep. And next to her, another, and another, until he was surrounded by Gias. Backstage, where his parents and the other performers had been just moments before, he now saw only Gia’s concerned eyes calling out to him, begging him to heed her warning.

Refusing to be thrown off, he closed his eyes again, pulling his pride to the very surface, expanding his chest and leaning back even further. This is who he was meant to become, who they all wanted him to become. He was consumed by the glory of it all, his kingdom, his birthright. It was at his fingertips ready to be seized if he could just reach a little further.

On an inhale, he felt the heel of his foot slip a single centimeter, just enough to throw his balance. His eyes broke open and his palms reached for the swords. As he fell toward the wooden stage, the two blades seemed to be suspended above him, twisting and turning in an angelic light. He felt his body stiffen, felt himself contract into his own silver edge, cold and unfeeling. As the lights cut off he came down with a final clang.

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After the watering, things become eventful. We watch in amazement as the chickadees, stellers jays, robins, and hummingbirds flit above us. Back and forth all day they bicker. Occasionally a crow lands on the lip of our bed, turning his head side to side to get a good look at us. What’s it like to fly, we ask. The crow’s black eye softens, but he gives no response. The birds feel sorry for us, grounded as we are. But we know our Purpose and take comfort in having a singular goal. Their lives move too fast for us—we prefer our own rhythm. Still we are curious what it’s like from up high. Surely being closer to the sun would be nice, and to feel the wind lifting you up up up.

By late afternoon we’ve made good progress, and after a few more days we’ve risen above the walls of our bed. Our roots burrow deeper and deeper into the dark soil—we stretch from both ends. Each day a new vantage point brings new perspective and understanding. We can now greet the Japanese maple, and during the night a family of raccoons slinks through the yard to feast on raspberries. An army of slugs descends upon our neighbors. They probe for new lettuce, and their eyestalks glow iridescent in the moonlight. It worries us, but they are hungry too and must eat. As the weeks pass, coyotes, rabbits, and deer all make their appearances. We remain focused.

The woman continues her daily visits. Sometimes she hums a tune for us or whispers a secret. In return we grow heavy with fruit, protecting it beneath our canopy, and we are delighted when she snaps it from our vines. She seems pleased, turning it over in her hands and admiring our work. Encouraged, we produce many more. We give with wild abandon. We know this season of life is temporary, and are eager to fulfill our Purpose—to do so elates us.

Like most things we have no memory of ourselves before this life, before emerging from the dark earth. But we don’t need to remember. One day soon we’ll begin our descent back from where we came. A veil of frost will settle over us, signaling a quiet return. Without realizing it, the woman will have come and gone for the last time. There will be no grand ceremony. Although we become dry and weak, there’s no sadness or regret. We know we have given and received equally, which is the greatest privilege.

The birds will go on without us, and they caw in protest. We remind them of their own Purpose and of the days we spent together. Go, we say, fly toward the sun and breathe gloriously.

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We were all a little afraid of him if I’m being truthful. He could be so quiet you’d forget he was there, especially with Lacy always blabbing on about something or other, but if you said the wrong thing you’d know it. He’d give you this stare that made you feel like he was reaching right into your soul and stirring things up, rooting around for whatever’s in you that had set him off.

Lacy seemed to handle him better than most. She wasn’t exactly immune, but she was good at being intentionally oblivious to his moods, and I guess that made him feel safe enough that they were almost always together. Quite a pair, the two of them. Her chattering on or humming some tune or laughing at her own jokes. Him sullen and wrapped up in his own mind. Me? I just tried to do what was right. Being the first born, I figured it was my duty to set an example. Show them both what the world had to offer, especially Paul.

We were used to tragedies and disappointments, and to a certain extent so was everyone else we knew. Growing up out here is like living with a curse placed on you, and it can feel relentless if you don’t find some way to deal. Most folks choose God or drugs or baseball. Those who can’t cope end up either dying or leaving. Or that’s probably how Paul saw it anyway.

I’d tried my best to teach him what I knew. I’d been pitching for a whole season, determined to someday make it professionally, and with neither of us having a daddy we ever met, I figured this was a place where I could step in. I damn near had to force his hand into one of my old gloves, and I arranged his scrawny limbs into the right position. Almost like Lacy with one of her dolls, making the elbows bend. The hot afternoon sun enhanced the smell of salty sweat and dirt on his skin. The cheap cherry-scented shampoo we all used. He was so resistant to the whole ordeal that I just gave up after a while. Can’t force a horse to drink water and all.

Grandma said he’s pretty much always been like that. Like he wasn’t sure he was even supposed to be here on this planet. Like he was against the whole act of being alive. Probably on account of mom leaving shortly after he was born. No one knows exactly where she ran off too, but we all missed her. And maybe Paul blamed himself, but we never saw it like that. Sometimes people just leave—whether they die or just get up one day and start walking, it doesn’t make too much difference. But I guess some people can never get over things like that. They let it worm inside them and eat away at who they are.

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At the time we lived on some property that butted up against an old sheep farm. The farmer himself must have been near 100 years old, but you’d still see him out there every so often, shearing those sheep by hand, hauling the thick rugs of wool up onto his truck bed. Their bleating rang out constantly throughout that summer. At a certain point it became background noise to me, but it seemed to bother Paul. I’d catch him out back staring at the old man as he sheared. His body was tense, fists clenched. I tried to explain that the shearing was for their own good, but I don’t think my words made it through to him.

One morning I awoke to Paul and Lacy shaking me by the shoulder, saying they had somethin’ to show me. It must have been 4:00 in the morning. I couldn’t tell you why they were up so early or how they knew what had happened, but in my half sleep I stumbled along behind them through the fields. The high grasses were covered in dew and felt cool on my skin as we made our way. The sun was barely over the horizon it was so early, and it sent a hot orange glow through the wooden slats of the barn. The old man was there waiting on us, and he led us back to one of the stalls where a mass of slimy, bloody lambs were piled together, all screaming out in the most awful noise. I looked over at Lacy to see she was just as disgusted as I was, but Paul had a different look than I’d seen him have before—soft almost. Like he’d fallen in love. He knelt down beside them and reached out with a shaky hand.

“Where’s their mama?” he asked without looking up. He spoke so rarely I’d almost forgotten what his voice sounded like. It was deeper than I remembered—harder.

“Dead. Didn’t make it through.”

I noticed then the dried blood on the farmer’s clothes and hands, a weary look on his face. Paul’s hand fell. Lacy started getting antsy and I admit I was ready to get out of there too—my bed and sleep were calling me, and the smell of mucus was making my throat feel thick.

“C’mon man let’s go home—I’m gonna be sick lookin’ at those things.”

That was when he finally turned to look up at me, like he was just noticing I was even there. I had offended something in him—that much I could tell. His stare pierced through me, and he held my gaze for what felt like an eternity. Eventually he stood up and stomped right past all of us.

After that he was even more withdrawn than usual. You’d say somethin’ to him or ask him a question, and by the look on his face you could tell he was somewhere else. He spent a lot of time wandering around the field between our place and the farm. I don’t think he was sleeping much because I’d hear him walking around outside my room at all hours of the night. Looking back now maybe I should have intervened somehow or apologized for what I’d said.

I don’t think he meant to set the barn on fire, but it happened anyways and I guess that’s all that matters. I’m told he drove the truck right through the weak barn walls, gathered up every last lamb and hit the road. By the time Lacy and I got out there the whole thing was ablaze. You couldn’t get too close or you felt like your skin would start bubbling. I’ve never seen a fire like that before. Like the ground opened up right there and let a little bit of hell out. No one knew the farmer was inside until much later, when it was all just smoking embers. Not that we could have done anything at that point anyway.

Everyone keeps asking me where I think Paul went off to, and I keep tellin’ em your guess is as good as mine. We didn’t have anyone else in this world but each other, and I guess that wasn’t good enough for Paul. Or his lambs. Maybe someday he’ll come back and explain it all, but I doubt it. If I had to guess he’s the same place everyone is when they leave here. Long gone.

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It’s me—I’m my captor.

I’ve been on Substack for a while now, watching secretly in both horror and jealousy as so many have had the courage to be vulnerable on a new stage. So many moments I’ve thought maybe I could just post something small… before quickly talking myself out of it.

I’m not a writer.

I’m not a photographer.

I’m not creative.

I would just fail and everyone would scoff at my sad attempts to be something I’m not.

These are the lies I’ve been telling myself to avoid being hurt, and now I must pay the ultimate price: Starting over.

I don’t know exactly what this might be—if it will be anything at all. But if you’re interested in film photography or the ramblings of an insecure 35-year-old (especially the latter), consider subscribing! Or don’t. No pressure! It’s like totally fine if you don’t!

Tomorrow I might change my mind but today I’m choosing to be brave.

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