Author: Trinity Lisk, Editor-in-chief
In the circus, there is no keeping track of time. There is only before the show, during the show, and after the show. He doesn’t let us eat before the show. The man who carries the stick with the braided tale that’s bite stings worse than a million fire ants. His feet always smell like the greasy black ooze that he shines their covers with; it makes our noses burn. His toothy grin resembles the sinister crocodiles that live in the rivers of the land where we were born. It mocks us. We pace in tight circles and stare at him with empty eyes.
He wants us to be hungry. When our bellies are full, we don’t feel the desperate rage that the crowds come to see. The aching, gnawing, gripping, digging, burning, nauseating void of hunger. It clouds our vision. In the ring we bellow and claw. We bare our fangs in fierce displays. He cracks his stinging rope at our legs, and we rear up on our back feet in the same dance we do every show. He laughs and parades around the circle, charming the spectators. We sit on tiny platforms, run in circles, and jump through hoops. Music thunders through our ears. The man forces us into cowering submission, an artificial exhibition of gallantry, and the audience celebrates.
They gasp and laugh at our pain. They don’t know that we’re starving, or that they robbed us of our mothers before we were done nursing. They don’t know that when we’re not in the ring we’re suffocating behind steel bars. That our bones and flesh ache from confinement. They don’t know that they poisoned us and ripped our claws out from our feet while we were sleeping. That the burnt orange and black of our fur has faded and lost its shine. That all our days blend together. That when they bring their children up to our cages, we aren’t trying to scare them with our voices, we’re just begging to be free. Please help us, we cry.
We watch from our cages the birds that fly free and the squirrels that roam the grass around the great red tent. We can’t remember the last time we stretched our legs like that, but we do dream of it. We dream we can smell the fresh earthy air of our home. The feeling of clean moving water passing through our lips. The taste of meat that isn’t rancid. The feeling of a full stomach, and strength in our muscles. We dream of having shelter to take cover in when it rains. We covet the liberty of relaxation. Most of all we dream of the thrilling joy of freedom. The incomparable warmth in your heart reminds you that you are alive. They say that we are dangerous. We are violent. We are killers. Yet stuck inside their wooden crates we feel no warmth in our hearts. Stuck inside their wooden crates, we are dead.
Middle Mouse Press 
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