The circus was coming to town. I, for one, was not excited.
“Circus” means peanuts, clowns. It means carneys, small hands, and frowns.
It means my co-workers won’t shut up. I thought I hated talking about the circus more than the circus itself.
How completely wrong I was.
My boss volunteered me, so I walked into the ring, visibly reluctant. The crowd got a kick out of that.
As expected, the carneys were aliens. They beamed me to their spaceship. Now I’m 42-billion light-years from earth, a distance I’ve been told by “scientists” was impossible to cover in forty-five minutes.