The tattered tent stands on the hill, silhouetted by the full moon. The breeze twists the torn and shredded remnants of a pennant, which once read CIRCUS. Years ago, it was the main attraction in town. On Friday nights, everyone would go to see the strong man, or the acrobats, or the tiger. Girls would visit the fortune teller, who would predict their future husbands. Search lights would illuminate the sky and could be seen for miles, drawing in the crowds. But that was before the main highway was rerouted, taking tourists around the other side of the lake. Before people slowly moved away, leaving only an empty husk.
The entrance to the tent is still open, as if the last person to leave was expecting to come back. Rats scurry among the empty bleachers. Red and white popcorn boxes are littered carelessly in the ring, providing homes to thriving families of cockroaches. Extensive spider webs stretch from one side of the tent to the other. They are the last acrobats to perform in the deserted arena.