Let Us Remember Midget Wass

Twitter Fiction Festival Flash Fiction #6. Epitaph by @ammatte and  @KyleMunson. Fiction by Jennifer Wilson

Here reposes Midget,

a curious poetic mix

of playfulness and wisdom

Yet she but three and six.— @ammatte

Daughter of Pearl the Bearded Lady and Ed the Sword Swallower: Midget Wass was a miracle just for being born the moneymaker act she was. It allowed them to stay in the show. They loved the girl, they loved each other, but mostly, they loved the work that allowed them to live freely and without shame.

Circus life was the only halfway comfortable one for freaks, what with Pearl’s scrubby face and all the holes in Ed’s neck. It was the only home they knew.

The circus train was Midget’s lullabye, and it was assumed by all that, though she was a wee thing, she’d end up with the handsome (and admittedly short) Rodney, son of Steve the Lion Tamer. Rodney and Midget played together mostly behind Pearl’s tent, which was pretty safe considering all the creeps hung out at the booby-show. But when they were over at the lion tamer’s, Pearl and Ed worried. That tiger wasn’t exactly tame. He was almost fully mature when they snatched him from the steppe. Plus, the circus wasn’t a big-dough business; the owners scrimped on meat.

It was terrible the day Rodney grabbed the ball and pushed Midget playfully, she’d fallen right through the tiger bars and into the sawdust. The lion moved like the flash he once was, and Midget lie in shreds.

They shipped what was left back home in a shoe box, trusting her granny (the one who carried the midget genes) would find a suitable resting place. Somewhere with a little space, where she could hear the trains at night.

The circus freaks didn’t judge Pearl and Ed for sending away their daughter for burial in a place they didn’t even know. Freaks don’t leave the circus without considerable trouble, and Midget was a circus baby. She knew, in that place beyond that the show had to go on without her.

Join me @WriterJenWilson Sunday Dec. 2 at 12pm-1pm EST (11 CST) and you’ll be featured on the Twitter Fiction Festival Page— four grave images per hour and you tweet the epitaphs. Use the #TwitterFiction hashtag. Let’s make stories together … and tweet the dead.