Only the Ringmaster wears the hat And the first was my grandfather.

The top hat, found in a box on the floor Of a tired little shop. The tent, old fabrics sewn together. The costumes, bits and pieces from flea markets And clearance bins. The performers? Foundlings. Lost and then brought together, by him.

It was all him. The song and dance The flips and turns and jumps The intrigue and suspense The throngs of happy faces and delighted laughs That came from afar to see the magic Under his tent, and he under the hat. Until time moved him along.

Only the Ringmaster wears the hat And the next was my mother.

The tent, the costumes More polished, more vibrant But the hat remained as she brought The fire.

Fire that enchanted So they kept coming back. Fire that flickered and sparkled Through each daring jump and flip. She commanded the fire to grow Even bigger, more formidable Even as performers fell With singe marks on hair And burns peppering skin.

The Ringmaster wears the hat. The Ringmaster always has the final say. The Ringmaster knows how to keep them, Those happy faces and delighted stares, From leaving How to keep them laughing and yelling and Begging Begging for more. They will never leave So long as we keep them here With fire, with embers that fly Higher than any have flown before.

And the Ringmaster, with a sleek black top hat Beckoning them closer. See us, she says. Love us. Never leave us. And we will never stop jumping through fire No matter how it burns us If you will only stay.

Only the Ringmaster wears the hat And my mother has passed it down to me.

I was raised among fire And faces And burns And magic that comes at a price.

I wear a black top hat Found in a tired little shop And I stand before a crowd Screaming for more.

What else can I do? How else would I make them stay? I wear the hat I give the command And the fire burns before us all And the only way to keep on Is to jump right in.

Carla’s last client burst through the door fifteen seconds before closing time. Carla rolled her eyes, turned toward the woman before her, and wailed.

“Oh, Rosa.” She couldn’t believe her eyes. “Rosa, what did you do??”

“I did what I had to do!” The woman barked back, and then lowered her eyes to the floor. “I…I know it’s late. I had nowhere else to go.”

“Ay, díos mio.” Carla couldn’t stop herself from staring in horror. Rosa’s entire head was puffy like a marshmallow and curly like that movie about the little orphan girl. Instead of brown, her hair was not only platinum blonde, but quite damaged by bleach. It looked…painful.

“How…how could you…is that a perm?!” Carla stammered.

“Long story. Just fix it. Please. I can’t sleep like this.” And with that, Rosa plunked herself into the salon chair.

Carla didn’t know what else to do. She was supposed to go home, this would take hours, and yet…she couldn’t just leave the poor woman with hair like that. It was a tragedy, an utter tragedy. She couldn’t allow Rosa to go any longer like this.

Rosa groaned from the chair. “I’ll pay you extra, I’ll pay you double, just—“

“Shush. I’m doing it.” Carla whipped the chair around and fastened the cape around Rosa’s neck. “For your hair. Your real, beautiful hair. Not for you.”

“Fair enough.” Rosa leaned her head back. Carla took the atrocious perm in her hands, wondering where to start. “I have half a mind to shave it all off.”

Rosa whipped the chair around to stare Carla down. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Who is bothering my Carla at closing time??” Called a voice from the back rooms, and then Daniela emerged. Her exasperated expression quickly turned to a horrified stare. “What on earth—?”

“It’s a long story!” Carla and Rosa yelled at the same time.

Daniela raised an eyebrow, and Carla shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry, mi amor. We will be staying late tonight.”

Daniela sighed and eased herself up onto one of the tables. “This story of hers better be long enough to get us through this night.” She crossed her legs and settled her gaze on Rosa.

Rosa executed a masterful eyeroll, almost as good as Carla’s. “Fine. Do my damn hair and I’ll talk.”

“Poor Rosa.” Carla filled the bowl at the hair washing station with warm water. “She wrecks her beautiful hair, and then she has to talk out loud. Her least favorite thing.”

“My least favorite thing is when I have to talk out loud to a snippy hairdresser twice in one day,” Rosa snapped as she lowered her head into the bowl. “I didn’t choose this. I had to go to a salon undercover for my job.”

Carla raised her eyebrows and Daniela leaned forward. “No me diga,” they breathed.

The two salon ladies listened intently as Rosa told the story. She had to find some criminal who dated a girl in Brooklyn who ran a hair salon. The girl didn’t talk much until Rosa invented some story that pushed her to talk about her ex. She had to keep asking for more hair catastrophes to get all the information she needed. First a disastrous cut, then a dye job, and then…

“A perm.” Rosa groaned. “At least we got the guy. It wasn’t for nothing.”

“And at least you know the best hairdresser in all of New York City,” Carla said as she towel-dried Rosa’s hair. “The water deactivated the perm, and the shampoo should help with the bleach damage. Now I just have to dye it back to brown.”

“Great. That should be fast,” Rosa grumbled.

The dye job took hours. Carla and Daniela took several of them trying to get Rosa to talk more.

“Tell us about your work friends,” Carla prodded her. “Tell us who’s getting married and who’s having affairs.”

“My life is too boring for any of that,” Rosa retorted.

“Oh, she is difficult,” Daniela said with a smirk.

Rosa proved Daniela right. All of Carla’s other clients sang like songbirds, telling everyone in the room all the gossip on the block. Rosa liked to act tough, but sometimes Carla could crack her if she had the time.

Carla and Daniela spent the next two hours talking Rosa’s ears off. Business, friends, family, love, until finally Rosa talked just to shut them up.

“If I tell you about my friends’ wedding plans will the two of you please stop blabbering about all of your date nights?” She snapped at them.

Carla grinned. Rosa was difficult, but she liked a challenge.

Finally, her client’s hair was a deep, chocolate brown, flowing in its natural waves down her back.

“Wow.” Rosa stared at herself in the mirror. “Thanks.”

“I added some highlights, just here and there,” Carla explained with a grand gesture. “Something to add to its natural glow, but also a reminder: that is all the blonde you need. No more, ever.”

Rosa rolled her eyes again, but then she smiled. “I owe you one. Seriously.”

She paid double, then left. Daniela shook her head as she and Carla finally locked up.

“You deserve triple,” she told Carla as they walked out, but Carla just smiled and took her hand as they went home.

She didn’t understand Rosa at all. She had her own way of doing things. But she came to Carla, because she knew she would deliver.

Sometimes, Carla liked the difficult clients. She liked a challenge.

Thanks for reading to the end! While most of the story is original, these characters are not mine.

“What’s out there? I can’t see. I can hold myself together quite well, When I am in this dark, chilled box. I am whole and I am firm. But if I am to leave this place, The world may not keep me so cool. I am so easily changed, With even the gentle pressure of a finger. It wouldn’t take much to melt me. What would happen if I were taken outside And the world began to melt me down? If I became soft and started dripping And sagging and became smaller? Would I disappear entirely?”

I do not know what is out there, Beyond our cold and dark box, But I am here to protect you. I am wrapped tight around you Just as I always will be To keep you firm and whole, To preserve your shape and your chill. I will make sure you do not melt Or become soft and start to drip And if warm fingers try to press down, I will be your shield against them. And should you disappear, I will disappear right along with you, Covering your softening body As we sink into each other And into the warmth of the world.

I wish I had never let go.

I lashed out in anger And severed a tie That cannot be healed again.

I told you to leave To pack up your things And you waited for me to turn around To change my mind and let you back in To take you in my arms But I never did. Instead I let go.

Can I ever undo this? My baby, how could I cast you out? I took your house from you, Your security, your safety And for what? Because you confided in me. Because you trusted me. Because you confused me for someone Who would care. Who would help.

Maybe I confused myself for something else On that day. A monster, a cold figure A disappointed mother Who has no idea What she is doing to her daughter. My baby, I’m sorry. I can’t fix this. I wish I had never let go.

How is there no one here?? I edge my head over the cliff, looking down at the clear water. The air is scented with about five different floral notes, and they seem to swirl around the place. “Hello?” I call out, but there is no voice in return. There’s got to be someone tending to all these gorgeous flowers. Or at least appreciating them. I take a tiny pebble and drop it into the water, watching the ripples and silently hoping the motion will summon someone here. Still, there is no one. I guess I have some time to kill.

Well, I’ve smelled every kind of flower twice, climbed the highest cliff face three times, and even took a small dip, (okay, actually technically I fell) into the clear pool of water, and now I’m drying off in a patch of sun on the rocks. I think I’ve decided that my favorite flowers are the pinkish orange ones, but the yellow ones smell delicious, almost citrusy, and—

“They’re my flowers.”

I almost fall into the water all over again. For some reason, my first instinct is to roll, and then the rocks hurt my back, so instead I rocket upward.

The only thing I see is a fox. And all it really does is look at me.

I look beyond the fox, by the cliffs and the water. “Who said that? Who are you? You can come out now!”

“I told you, they’re mine.”

I sigh and look at the fox. “Am I going crazy? Are these flowers making me high?”

The fox’s head shakes from side to side. “My flowers wouldn’t do that.”

The voice is clearly coming from the fox, but its mouth doesn’t move at all.

I shake my head and turn my head up to the sky. “Okay. I’ll bite. How are you talking to me right now and how are these your flowers?”

The fox sits on the rocks by the water, and I slowly follow behind, and then somehow I am sitting beside a fox in a flowery quarry.

“The flowers weren’t always here,” the fox says. “They came when I came. I’m the one who watches them and trims them when there are too many.” It eats one of the pink blossoms as a demonstration.

“And how did you come?” I ask.

Its bright green eyes turn to me. “How did you?”

I shrug. “I was just hiking. Trying to get away from everything for a while.” I find myself lying down on the rocks. “I wish I could stay here instead of going back.” That seems like enough exposition for me. “Now you answer my question.”

The fox lies down too, and looks into the water. “I wanted to get away, too.” Its nose twitches. “There were people crying my name and hiding their faces and I didn’t like that. So I came here instead. The flowers started to grow almost as soon as I arrived.” It licks its paw. “And that’s when I started being a fox.”

I try to understand. “You weren’t always a fox…”

“And now I will be. Forever.” The fox stands back up. “I don’t dislike it. I get to watch over the flowers and the water. But usually people don’t come. I haven’t seen people in a long time.”

I look out at the flowers and the water and the cliffs and the sky. “Can I come? I mean…I could come back. If you want a visitor.”

The fox seems to look happier. “And if you ever want to get away…”

We look at the water together. It’s only been a few hours, but I feel lighter. The scent of the flowers drifts beside us.

“I have to go back,” I finally say as I stand. “But I’ll come back here, soon.”

The fox seems content with this arrangement. “Good.”

I hike away from the cliffs and flowers and water, already thinking of when I will return.

I didn’t always live here.

I came here when she died.

She was a very old lady and nobody was surprised, but everyone was sad. All the family members used to talk loudly and jump and play when they visited her, but now they looked sadly through all the things she left behind. They started to take things away, and one day a family member found me alone on my bed.

At first I was afraid. I had never left that house before. I loved that house.

But then I was brought to the little girl.

I’ll rephrase. I was brought to the Little Girl Who Isn’t So Little Anymore.

She smiled when she saw me, and I think we both made each other happier. And that is all it took for me to start my new life.

The bed I live in is more crowded now. My Not So Little Girl sleeps in it every night, and so do many other animal friends. They tell me their stories, and I have always loved listening to stories. Every single one of them has a story, our girl made sure of that.

There is a poodle with pink matted fur. Long ago she used to be a superhero, and she shows me her paw to prove it. There is a colorful “W” with a gold ring around it, and she says it helped her travel into a computer and back out again. Everyone believes her and some of the older animals swear they saw it themselves.

The three raccoons all have different stories. One came from a place called The Mall and one came at Christmas, hiding in a stocking until morning. The third has the most exciting tale— he went on a real stage with real colored lights and put on a performance with our girl. She likes to act, he explained, and he is a puppet, so he sat on her arm and the two of them acted away. The audience cheered and clapped and everything.

The oldest story of all is from a brown dog like me, but he is smaller than me and he is not very soft. He has a big hole in his back, but that is just because he is a combination of old and very loved. He came when our Little Girl was a Little Baby, and even now he still sleeps against her face sometimes.

Our Girl Who Has Grown Up Considerably sometimes holds me while she sleeps. Sometimes it’s because she wants to, but sometimes she needs to. She holds me tight and my fur is still soft, so she can bury her hands and face in it whenever she needs to and no one else will see it in the dark.

One spring, the spring when people started getting sick, we all went to school with our girl. I guess she has superpowers too, because she traveled through a computer to get to her school, and we got to listen to the lessons.

We all learned so many things. A man named Raskolnikov did something bad but then he felt guilty about it. A tibia is a leg bone that humans have, but stuffed animals don’t (we all checked). And precalculus is when you make lots of curvy lines on a graph and then get frustrated and scribble them out. There are probably no other stuffed animals with all this knowledge.

One day, our Wishes She Were Littler Girl groans at the graphs on her paper and then thinks for a moment. She places my paw over her calculator and takes a picture with her phone. The teacher who lives inside the computer doesn’t even notice.

She sends the picture to someone in her phone and says “Darby’s doing my work for me.” I think this is hilarious, because I can’t even press the keys, and the friend in her phone also thinks this is funny.

A few days later, she gets a story-writing app on her phone, because in her words, “I need to keep from going insane somehow.” She says writing stories helps her, and we all agree with this because we love stories.

There is a thing called a profile photo, and at first she doesn’t know which photo to use. Then she remembers the one she took of me and the calculator and she smiles.

You don’t need me anymore, I think without saying it aloud. She wouldn’t be able to hear me even if I did say it.

I’m so proud of her. She’s grown so much. She went from a shy, mousy little girl who needed to invent her own friends, to a confident seven year old, who raises her voice and speaks to so many real friends.

I can feel myself fading away, but I smile. This means she’s okay. She can do it all on her own now.

While I fade from existence, I’m doing what I love: looking at her. I gaze at her smile and that bright look in her eye…and those little hands that used to hold mine…and her whole beautiful being…

Goodbye, Ruby. I’m proud to have been yours.

Something is wrong.

I open my eyes. That’s a warning sign right there, because I should not have eyes. I should not have anything. 

And then I see Ruby.

Oh, my little girl.

She’s curled up on her bed with her knees against her chest and she’s crying, her whole body trembling. She hasn’t cried like this in a very, very long time.

She’s not little anymore. She may even be an adult, by now. I can’t tell exactly, she’s curled up so tightly, but she must be at least eighteen. Her wallet and keys are splayed onto the night table she’s had since she was five. There are papers and books, thick ones that I never would have understood when I last existed. 

Her head lifts up and her wide, watery eyes emerge and look into mine. And I see the girl who brought me into existence in the first place, the little child who was scared of the dark and who trembled at doctor’s appointments. The sweet little girl with the vivid imagination who needed a little extra help to be brave.

I understand why I’m here. She needs me again. 

I don’t know exactly what I am, but I am soft and cozy and I have arms for hugging. I come closer and sit beside her on the bed. She doesn’t speak, but she cries harder and leans against me. I wrap my arms around her and speak to her.

“What’s wrong, Ruby?”

She spoke to me in just her thoughts when she was little. She does this again now, but her thoughts have changed tremendously. They are tumultuous and angry and loud, louder than she ever was, even when she turned seven. 

She thinks to me about all the awful things that have come with growing up. Breakups and friends leaving and classes that are too hard. Going to doctor’s appointments all by herself and questioning her religion and things that she never ever thought of when she first thought me up.

And I’m so angry with myself for being so scared, she thinks to me. Why am I so scared all the time? It didn’t used to be this way. I thought I was doing so well. I thought I didn’t need you anymore. Nobody else cries like this. 

I put my hand on her head, the way I did when she was small. “That’s not true,” I say. “You’re grown up now. But everything is changing all at once. You don’t have to be brave and strong all the time.”

I pause for a moment and consider everything while she cries. Eventually I softly say, “I will stay here as long as you want me to. You’re right, you don’t need me anymore. But I will be here when you want me.”

This arrangement seems to calm her a bit. I sit with her until she has cried herself out, and then she becomes drowsy and lies down. She can tuck herself in now, but I sit with her until she falls asleep anyway. Only then do I fade out again. 

I come back when she wants me, just as I said. Instead of playing games and inventing stories, nowadays I listen to her thoughts and hold her and tell her all the good things about her. I watch TV with her at midnight and sit with her when she’s doing work at her dining room table. 

I don’t know how long I will exist, but that’s never mattered to me. It’s always been about Ruby. And as long as she wants me there to remind her of who she is, I will be there.

As I stared up at the clouds in the skies They started to fracture in front of my eyes.

The blue filled with cracks, the white scattered down In spite of it all, a smile took my frown.

Your beautiful face soon came into view I knew that you wanted to take me with you.

You reached down your hand, you held tight my face But couldn’t quite pull me into your embrace.

We knew then, my angel, I had to stay here And trust you would always be holding me dear.

When it is my time, then it will do To split the sky open and come home to you.

Until then dear angel, I still see your eyes Each time I gaze up into those blue, blue skies.

How could you have done this to yourself? All because of me? I see your tears fall. I see your sleepless nights, Spent picturing my face. You always said your heart Beats just for me But now each beat is hollow, And your heartstrings stretch taut As if they could break at any moment.

You even loved me so much That you stayed when it happened. You watched the light leave my eyes. Now I’m doomed to watch the pain in yours. If only you had walked away That first time. I would rather you’d never known me, Than watch you go through this grief now.

Oh, my love,
Each day I see your face. 
But it is not your unseeing gaze,
Nor your still, broken form,
That I picture.
I picture a sweet smile,
Hear a beautiful laugh,
Smell a certain flowered perfume,
That I could not imagine life without.

My tears are many,
And they are well spent.
What a worthy tithe,
In exchange for those precious days 
That I hold to my heart like a salve,
Soothing the heartstrings that stretch,
That bend, but don’t break,
As my heart continues to beat. 
Each beat is still for you. 
Each beat is worth the pain.

“No…no, no, please no.”

I heard the broken voice, felt the warm grooves of her hand, but my eyes remained shut. I could not move. I could only listen.

“Amy…baby, I’m so sorry.” It’s her voice. “I’m so so sorry.” What happened? What is she sorry for?

It comes back to me slowly, like a wave washing over me. The car ride with Clara. The accident. The surgery. The feeling like I was floating above my body, and then the slow shift back into it like a puzzle piece.

“Amy.” Clara’s warm hand sharply contrasted the cold underneath me. “Amy, what will I do without you?” Was I lying on a table? “What will I…?”

She couldn’t go on, she could only sob. I was on a table. She said “without” me…she thought I was…

Clara. Clara. I couldn’t say her name, I couldn’t move, only listen to her pain. I had to do something, I had to show her I was alright.

I screamed her name inside my head, I willed my fingers and toes to move. Clara only wept, stroking my hands and face. My heart pounded uselessly, silently in my chest.

Oh. My heart. Clara, touch my heart. Place your head against it like you always do. Please, please.

“Clara.”

Was that me?? Did I just say that?

“Feel her heart, Clara.”

“Who are you?”

It was not me. Someone entered the room. They had an oddly familiar voice.

“You will learn soon enough who I am. But first, feel her heart. Press your ear to her chest.”

I had no idea who this was, but Clara listened to them. Her warm head fell against my heart like it did so many times before, on cold nights and before sunrises and during long days. Instinctively, as if something were pulling me to her, my hand rose and came to rest against her hair. My fingers shifted against her almost on their own accord, moving through the motions they knew so well even when I couldn’t do them.

“Amy?” Clara’s head moved against me just as my eyes fluttered open, entirely on their own. I tried to smile at her, but before I could her arms were around me, and we held each other close.

“How is this possible?” She asked. I did not know.

“I will tell you, but we have to go.” The person next to us snapped their fingers and then I was up, walking with my arms still around Clara for support. “I revived you, or I harnessed Clara’s energy in order to revive you. It’s a long story. But we have to go now. There are some who would prefer Amy to be dead.”

Suddenly we were moving, and confused, but Clara was with me and she knew I was alive, and somehow I had been brought back to her. For the time being, that was all I needed.