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into this new world, two happy children clutching tickets to
the big top. How could I deny them? Children loved the
circus.
I saw it first as a dancing moon in the displaced sky,
spinning like a giant top. The circus was descending the
impossible stretch of night caught beneath the ceiling of the
forest. Instantly, the cavernous woods became the backdrop
upon which was projected a gigantic magic lantern show,
coagulating light and shadow sculptures of lurching freak
shows, crooked lines of groaning carnival rides, secreted
shadow puppets pressed grotesquely against the taut skin of
lurching circus tents.
Then glided down nameless, faceless crowds, whispering
out from the deep recesses of the surrounding woods. They
took their places among the congealing spirits of the spectral
circus, gawking and cheering at the solidifying sights.
Once the circus was entirely manifest, I felt myself
drawn to the tent with the brightly overstated banner that
announced, The Inimitable Mister Gone and His Magic
Box from the Great and Vanishing Nowhere. I merged
with the surging crowd pouring beneath the banner and
into the high-steepled tent, the sounds of blazing autumnal
leaves cackling underfoot. I eagerly took my seat among
the spectating specters, hoping to see what might pass for
magic in this newer, darker world, where wonder walked
without worry or consequence.
Within moments, intricate lanterns dimmed where they
squatted atop alabaster pillars, all of them semi-circling a
stage of polished stoned, now wet with bleeding light. The
darkness created by the dying lanterns gathered at the center
of the stage, wheeling and tumbling like a galactic spiral,
ever growing. A form, tall and gaunt, stepped without the
curling dissonance of sight and shadow, its leanness broken
only by a ridiculously oversized magician’s hat. Here was
Mister Gone, no doubt.

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