Julian saw his father plummet to a silent death metres below. He only saw this on his worst days. Most days he coped, maintained the charade.
He would be rich and famous because of his father’s efforts. This circus was his life, and Julian would be the best high-wire artist in the world, after him. But every performance reminded him how he loathed it.
He heard his cue, the signal to step out and join his father in their intricately timed double act. Poised, balanced on the wire, he checked the net below, and for the briefest moment Julian hesitated.
This is for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This is the second photo in just a few weeks that has sent my imagination wandering around the notion of disgruntled circus performers. I’m not even all that interested in circuses, I might add.
Click here to read all the other 100 word stories prompted by this week’s picture.