Hi, guys. So I know a lot of you weren't expecting me to start this story for at least another couple of months, but... I kind of got inspired. Really inspired. I planned the whole plot and wrote the first chapter in the space of two days. So, yeah. I'm not sure what exactly is happening with Room Service at the minute -- I'm just going with the flow on that one. This is my next serious full-length novel, and I hope you enjoy it :)

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            They say time is a circus, always packing up and moving away.

            In many senses, that's true, and I'm more than qualified to comment. But saying this is also missing something; it only paints half the picture, cutting out the best part.

            You see, for there to be packing up and moving away, there first has to be the pulling up and unloading. There has to be the pitching of trailers, the cranking of rusty metal, the hauling of ropes until the colors of the big top sail amongst the clouds. Then comes the clinking of loose change as coins exchange hands and the tangible buzz of speculation that precedes the first show. It all comes before.

            And for me – someone who'd lived, breathed and slept this cycle for as long as I could remember – that was always the best part.

            At first, Sherwood, California was just another brief stop on our cyclic road trip: another thumbtack on the giant map of the United States pinned to the inside wall of Aunt Shelby's trailer. It had been there for years, stretching well beyond a timespan I could remember, and over its lifetime had collected such an abundance of pins that the entire American landscape had been severely butchered. I didn't know exactly how the ritual had got started; all I knew was that each time we pulled up in a new field, the first job of the day was to stab a permanent hole in our new location, and the pin would sit there long after we'd gone.

            Sherwood sat at the northern end of California, close to the Oregon border to an extent that its red thumbtack couldn't be contained within the state itself. There was nothing spectacular about it in the slightest; when we'd pulled up onto the vast stretch of greenery that was set to be our home for the following two weeks, it held no features that could've distinguished it from our previous settlement. The town itself was unassuming, its very essence neither daintily small nor dauntingly huge.

            It was nothing special. Then again, neither was I.

            The elements that constituted our arrival into that town – and all those before it – were a strange mix. Of course, there was the communal atmosphere: the nervous energy fuelling frantic conversation about openings and finales; the creaking of training equipment in last-minute sessions; the long-awaited showers after finally being hooked up to a water supply. On top of this, though, I had habits of my own.

            In many ways, it was like the map on Aunt Shelby's wall; I couldn't pinpoint exactly when or how it had started, but it had become a recognized ritual amongst us. And so when, hours after we'd piled into our newest field of residence, usually after a grueling training session under Silver's watchful eye, the other guys realized I was nowhere to be found, they could always work out where I'd gone.

            I wasn't superstitious, or anything of the sort, and struggled to find an explanation as to why it always happened that the quality of the food in the first restaurant I came across foreshadowed the fate of that evening's show. The method may not have been strictly tried-and-tested, but I'd yet to come across a place it'd been wrong. Take for example Claremont, Idaho: after leaving the diner halfway through my nauseatingly undercooked meal, ticket sales for the opening show hit an all-time low, leaving the evening to turn out a total flop.

            Good food, good show; bad food, bad show. And everything in the middle. It was just the way things worked.

            Joe's was a small, vaguely fifties-style diner which sat on a corner a few streets away from our pitch. Its blinking red sign looked worryingly close to giving out altogether, its J only illuminated in sporadic bursts, and the parking lot was mostly empty. It neither demanded attention nor looked like it intended to. That, along with the fact that it was the first food outlet I'd come across – Rule Number One of my system – was perhaps the reason I found myself drawn to it.

            A bell tinkled overhead as I pushed inside, the cool blast of air conditioning sweeping over me the moment I stepped over the threshold. Tile squeaked underfoot, the squared pattern so regular and rhythmic it seemed to induce cross-eye if I stared too long. Lined up at the counter was a long row of bar stools, about half of them occupied, while worn red leather booths made up the opposite wall. Once inside, it was difficult to shake off the feeling that I'd stepped inside a lackluster window of the fifties where everything was compressed and condensed into a small space.

            Still, it wasn't like I wasn't used to it. I'd lived in a trailer almost my entire life.

            I took a seat on one of the stools, ending up sandwiched between an empty seat and a young-ish guy to my right, who was trying to remain absorbed in his open textbook while chomping down on the burger on his plate. I didn't pay him much attention at first, instead just grabbing a menu from one of the holders and letting my eyes scan over the laminated card.

            I guess I must've been pondering a while, though I wouldn't have noticed myself. It was only down to the menu's sheer length, boasting every type of burger I could imagine plus ten more – and that was without even starting on the milkshakes – that I found myself in such a deep thought. I just didn't expect to be pulled out of it so abruptly by the voice of the stranger beside me, who'd finally looked up from his reading.

            "Don't even think about leaving this place without trying the curly fries."

            I blinked, not realizing initially that the voice was directed at me, and looked over. "Excuse me?"

            It was only then that I got a better look at the boy, now that I had an excuse to look right at his face.  He was fair, his milky complexion lightened beneath the diner's overhead spotlights, with a head of dark blonde hair swept into a neatly messy style. It looked ruffled, yet at the same time calculated and very much intentional. A lopsided half-smile was curling his lips, but there was somehow an impossible symmetry about this, too; he seemed to have a polished air about him, even if it was accidental.

            "Sorry," he apologized with a sheepish smile, "I'm butting in. But you looked like you were on the brink of a decision, and I couldn't let you escape without at least tasting the curly fries. They're legendary. Ask anybody."

            His eyes flickered momentarily around the room, as if I was going to do just that, instead of staring blankly back at him.

            "I'll let you get back to deciding," he said, when I still hadn't given him any sort of response. "It's a pretty intense choice, anyway. Just... bear in mind about the curly fries, okay? You're not in Sherwood if you don't eat Joe's fries."

            He looked about to turn back to his textbook, as well as his plate, which – I now noticed – was piled high with a hearty serving of those very fries. I couldn't see exactly what subject the textbook was on, but it seemed to be something important, judging by the way he'd been engrossed just seconds beforehand. Now, though, my voice made him pause. "What's so special about them?"

            "Order them and you'll see," he returned easily, with a small smile.

            I wasn't sure exactly what compelled me to do it, but moments later, I'd slapped down the menu card onto the counter, caught the attention of the waitress hovering by the milkshake machine, and was placing an order for, I quote, "Exactly what he's got." At this, the boy grinned, evidently satisfied with his work of persuasion and having forgotten about his book completely.

            "You're not from around here, are you?"

            I quirked an eyebrow. "And what makes you say that?"

            "Oh, it's easy," he told me. "There's nobody in Sherwood who hasn't heard about Joe's curly fries. Like I said, they're a local legend."

            "You know, you're building up pretty high expectations here. If they're not totally out-of-this-world I'm going to be severely disappointed."

            But he was as confident as ever. "They are," came his simple answer. "And I'd like to officially take responsibility for being the person who introduced you to them, and therefore changed your life forever. Hi, I'm Luke."

            "Corey," I said, taking his now outstretched hand and shaking it.

            "So, Corey. What brings you to Sherwood?"

            I could feel the smile curling my lips already. Though others in my position might've been embarrassed, I'd always secretly reveled in telling people about the way I lived. I relished the moment I changed in their eyes, transitioning from the ordinary girl in front of them to the mysterious, exquisite circus performer I'd always longed to be. A trapeze artist, I'd tell them. And there was the image, already dancing right across their minds, of poise and elegance and wonder and everything that performers like Silver embodied. On the trapeze I became an enhanced version of myself, something beyond what came across in person. Trapeze was beautiful, and I was beautiful by association.

            Naturally, not everybody shared such a positive view. Wherever we went, there'd always be the looks of restrained disgust, whispers behind backs, vulgar insults shouted across fields littered with beer cans. But that was the beauty of life on the road; we didn't have to stick around to deal with it. As soon as trouble flared, most of the time we were already packing up and dismantling, taking to the road before it could even touch us.

            Life on the move was easy. It was being stuck in one place that made things complicated.

            "The circus is in town," I told him, "and I came along with it."

           And there it was, all perfectly in sequence: the surprise; the impression; the curiosity. "You're in the circus?"

            "Yup. Trapeze artist in training."

           "Whoa." He let out an impressed breath, escaping from his open-mouthed smile. "That's pretty cool. Cooler than any of my local Sherwood knowledge I was going to try and impress you with, anyway."

            I laughed. "It's okay. I'll pretend to be impressed if it protects your ego."

            He sighed dramatically. "No, it's fine. I guess I'll just have to suck it up and accept the fact that I've been majorly upstaged by a super cool trapeze artist."

            "I'm sorry. I tend to have that effect on people." But I was grinning, and he was too.

            "No kidding."

            By the time the waitress returned, my order balanced precariously on her tray, we were in the midst of a conversation about how on earth I avoided falling to my death while hanging from the ceiling on a flimsy bit of rope. Whatever Luke had been studying had been utterly disregarded, his textbook now closed and shoved to the side to make room for his elbow on the counter. He was fascinated by the concept of trapeze, and I could talk for hours about it; really, it was a lethal combination. His enthusiasm was quickly redirected, however, once the plate of curly fries had been set down in front of me, leaving me to wonder if he'd pick up the incessant questions later.

            "Now, seriously, prepare yourself," he told me, as I spun back around on the stool to face my plate, "because you're about to have a life-altering experience."

            "You are way too emotionally involved in this," I said. "They're just fries."

            He scoffed. "Yeah, okay. We'll see if you've still got that attitude in thirty seconds' time. Come on. Eat."

            I shook my head, smiling affectionately at the way he was jabbing his finger at my plate, but did as he said anyway. It was mostly down to curiosity: to find out if Luke's enthusiasm was justified. And though I doubted they would be – as he so confidently put it – legendary, I dunked my first into a dollop of ketchup and stuck it into my mouth anyway.

            It was in that moment, right there, that I found myself well and truly proved wrong.

            I didn't know what I'd bitten into, but it tasted suspiciously like heaven – heaven covered in ketchup, that was. Maybe Joe's were grating edible gold dust or something of the sort and adding it to their fries, but whatever it was, they were freaking good.

            And Luke knew it.

            "Didn't I tell you?" he asked, smirking, when I'd swallowed my entire mouthful and wasted no time in diving in for a second. "Legendary."

            "Okay, okay. You were right."

            "Of course I was. You see, you might be a fancy circus performer jetting off to every corner of the country, but nobody knows Sherwood and its curly fries like I do."

            "You know what? I don't doubt you for a second on that one."

            It took no time at all for me to scarf down an entire helping, though I knew Silver would be more than pissed if she discovered I was straying from the carefully constructed diet she'd set me. Nevertheless, that wasn't enough to stop Luke persuading me into staying for a round of milkshakes, which extended my stay by another forty-five minutes. I had to get back soon, I knew, because a full dress rehearsal was mandatory before the opening night, in order to check everything was running smoothly. People would start getting agitated if I wasn't back in plenty of time, and though this thought had been lingering in the back of my mind the entire time, it had been surprisingly easy to ignore it while engaged in conversation with Luke. He was enthralled by the concept of trapeze, and the circus as a whole, but his continuous stream of questions had yet to grow tedious. I found myself enthusiastically detailing the sequence of our everyday lives, explaining how exactly I'd started as a beginner without inadvertently killing myself, even admitting how attached I was to life on the road. I couldn't get tired of it. Being the object of somebody's wonder and curiosity was one of the things I lived – strived, in fact – for. Once somebody got me started, it was almost like an addiction.

            But when the Elvis-themed clock on the wall by the door hit three thirty, I knew I was really pushing it. As much as I'd have liked to stay and skip rehearsal altogether – if the fries were anything to go by, we were in for an incredible opening night – I knew that I'd be in for a stern talking-to from the rest of the guys if I so much as dared. The circus was my entire livelihood – and therefore never worth the risk. We may have thrived on the thrill of danger, even making a living from it, but outside the circus everything had to be played safe. Blurring the boundaries was a potentially deadly mistake.

            "I'm sorry. I really have to go," I said to Luke, already beginning to gather my stuff together.

            "Really? Already?"

            "We super cool trapeze artists are on a tight schedule," I joked, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Especially super cool trapeze artists who are still in training. Silver won't be happy if I'm late."

            "Silver?"

            "She's, uh... my mentor, sort of. Lead trapeze. She taught me everything I know, but she likes things done properly. Absolutely no slacking."

            He smiled, almost sympathetically. "I know how that one feels."

            "Yeah, well. It's tough, but it's got to be done. I wouldn't have got where I am without her."

            He was still smiling, but its essence was of something I couldn't quite put my finger on. It seemed to mimic a sort of contentment, like he'd be happy to freeze the moment and live in this window of conversation forever. Yet there was still something else, swimming amongst the abundance of curiosity and awe and amusement – something, if I hadn't known better, that appeared almost melancholy. His eyes spoke volumes, but in a language I couldn't understand.

            I shook it off quickly. "Yeah. Like I said, I better be going."

            "Wait," he said. "Are you just going to tell me all this stuff about you and not even invite me along to see you in action?"

            The smirk was creeping in, materializing on my face by the time he'd finished the question. "Are you saying you want to come along?"

            "Well, I wouldn't say no if you asked."

            "Well, I'm not going to ask." I waited for the flash of disappointment, barely visible, expertly concealed beneath his polished demeanor. Everything about him was eerily calm and composed, and I wondered if it was just something that came naturally, or whether he had to work at it. "How about I just give you this instead?"

            I was fishing in my bag now, fumbling until my fingers enclosed glossy paper. It was a merely a coincidental moment of chance that I'd remembered; I wasn't usually a walking advertisement for the Cirque Mystique. Really, it was just luck that Aunt Shelby had printed too many flyers, landing me with a pile just before we'd left the last town. She'd told me to pin one up if I came across a good spot. Now, I handed it over, my eyes catching a brief glance of the bold advert as the paper exchanged hands.

            "We're here for the next two weeks," I told him simply. "The show starts tonight at seven. Maybe I'll see you there."

            "Maybe you will." He folded the flyer neatly in half, tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans. "I'm intrigued."

            "Too right. How often is it that the circus and its super cool performers rock up in this little town?" I grinned. "Bye, Luke. I'll see you around."

            "Bye." It was only once I'd started across the restaurant, nearing the door until I was close enough to reach out and touch the handle, that his voice sounded again. It was slightly quieter than necessary, not bold enough to attract the attention of any of the other diners in the vicinity. They remained as unconcerned by our conversation as they had been for the past two hours, absorbed in their daily papers and strong cups of coffee, letting their surroundings blur into an unfocused happening that continued without their attention. "Good luck tonight, Corey."

            It was nothing more than a simple gesture of politeness, regardless of the warming effect Luke's voice seemed to have on me: something I'd heard many times before and was likely to hear just as many in the future. It was thrown back and forth countless times between cast members in the lead-up to every show, a safety blanket to make up for the lack of the one in the ring. From Luke it was no different: soft and comforting, but not something I thought I'd desperately be needing.

            I was wrong. I knew that now, of course, but I didn't as I shot him a grateful smile over my shoulder, pushing through the door to face California's outside warmth, and setting off down the street with my bag relieved of the insignificant weight of one simple flyer.

            Good luck tonight, Corey, he'd said. That was all. Four simple words, unfamiliar by no means.

            I didn't know it was those that I'd be clinging to hours later, gripping onto the string of letters as if they were my last hope.

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I hope you liked it! I'm really excited about this story. Although I need to get on and do some more circus research, haha. But I'm not complaining -- it means I get to sit on YouTube for hours and watch trapeze and other circus acts which is always fun.

Side note: this is my first story in a while that's set in America. And I'm British, so my little British phrases and spellings might have a tendency to slip in unnoticed. If you see anything distinctly non-American throughout the course of this entire story, please point it out. I probably won't notice otherwise.

Anyway, drop me a comment and let me know what you thought! :)