The Pale Circus
The rain fell in silver sheets. It hammered the iron roof. The sound was a drum. A constant, dull thrum. Captain Elias Thorne slept. He dreamed of the circus. It was always the same circus. The tents were pale. The air smelled of sawdust and old blood. He was a child. His father held his hand. His father’s hand was cold. The leather of the glove was stiff. It creaked. Elias woke. The clock...
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