The Greatest Show

We climbed down from our platforms and out of the ring, inhaling deeply of sawdust and popcorn, sweat and dung. We turned out the lights and broke down the tents, ropes biting into our palms. We watered the elephants and fed the lions; we waved at stragglers and kissed our new lovers goodbye. One last campfire, one last harmonica bray, one last cloud of dust kicked up by our dancing feet. One last paycheck pressed into our hands. No train tomorrow. No makeup, no spangled costumes. We’ll tip our heads back, way back, and spread our arms for the net.

From Guest Contributor Tara Campbell

Tara is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Previous publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and Strange Horizons. She's the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and three collections: Circe's Bicycle, Midnight at the Organporium, and Political AF: A Rage Collection.

Personal History

Adulthood in Texas means being old enough to get the electric chair if you kill someone. In 17th century England offenders sent to the pillory were pelted by the crowd with dung, dead cats and dogs, rotten vegetables, and, in extreme cases, stones and even saucepans. Some, though, flung flowers in Defoe’s face. It’s the difference between weather and climate. The least you can do is pretend to care. In Jewish tradition a righteous man is buried with 144 prayer books atop his coffin. When my Uncle Lou was buried, they put the books in cardboard boxes labeled Kitchen Utensils.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.