The Grit
& The Glitter
Rodeo Clown
by Sierra Spirit
Washing Mud From a Busted Lip
The dirt in the arena always looks softer from the stands than it actually is. When your shoulder hit the ground, the collective gasp of the thousands around me swallowed the dull thud of the impact, but I caught the way your jaw clenched tight before you rolled. You stood up, wiping a fresh smear of red from your chin with the back of a leather work glove, your mouth immediately stretching into a wide, unnatural grin for the audience. The people in the row ahead of me spilled their cheap beer in their excitement, clapping for the man who trades his own bruises for their momentary relief. I just watched the heavy, uneven way your boots dragged against the sawdust as you finally turned your back to them.
"There is a peculiar kind of exhaustion that settles deep into the creases of a face forced to smile for too long."
Later, behind the rusted chain-link fence of the staging area, the cheap rhinestones on your jacket caught the flicker of a dying streetlamp, highlighting the fresh split in your lower lip. You fumbled with a crumpled pack of cigarettes, your bare hands trembling just enough to drop the first match into a muddy puddle at your feet. You are constantly building a grand, towering version of yourself for strangers, pulling the heavy scaffolding down the moment the stadium lights shut off. It is an exhausting cycle of climbing up onto the ledge merely to learn how hard the ground can hit you when you fall again.
You twisted the metal cap off a plastic bottle of dark liquor, taking a long, unblinking pull to wash down the grit of loose tobacco and arena dirt still clinging to your teeth. The liquid burned a path down your throat, a sharp, stinging reminder that you were still breathing after another near miss with the heavy hooves. We stood there in the quiet dampness of the parking lot, surrounded by the smell of truck exhaust and wet animal hide. You have always thrown yourself into the chaotic center of the ring, hoping the deafening cheers would somehow serve as a map to figure out where you belong, yet with every roar of the crowd, you seem to stray further from whatever path you started on.
The last image I have of you isn't the heroic wave to the bleachers, but the sudden, terrifying stillness that followed when the beast finally threw you hard enough that you didn’t immediately stand back up. A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the strangers sitting shoulder to shoulder, and I found myself holding my breath, staring at the motionless lump of your brightly colored shirt pressed against the dark earth. No one spoke; we just waited to see if the battered jester would offer us one last trick to make us feel alive. You eventually stirred, one hand clutching your ribs as you slowly pushed your knees into the mud, leaving a dark, damp stain where your cheek had rested.
A Quiet Drive Down a Two-Lane Road
I keep thinking about the drive back to the motel, the passenger window rolled down just enough to let the cold night air numb the swelling on the side of your face. You didn't reach to turn on the heater, letting the rhythmic thud of the tires against the cracked asphalt fill the heavy space between us. You just stared blankly at the passing headlights, tracing the frayed edge of your torn sleeve with your thumb over and over again. The flickering neon sign of an all-night diner reflected briefly in your eyes before fading back into the dark, and neither of us mentioned the dark spots slowly drying into the fabric of the car seat.
The Tattered Map Left in the Glovebox
Ryan Beatty
"Bruises Off The Peach"
A tender meditation on the patience required to peel back the pain and find the sweetness that remains beneath the battered skin.
Courtney Marie Andrews
"Burlap String"
The lingering scent of the past, held together by a fragile thread, much like the quiet strength it takes to mend a broken spirit after the fall.
Andy Shauf
"The Magician"
An ode to the illusions we perform for others, and the heavy silence that fills the room when the trick ends and the mask finally slips.
Laura Marling
"Night After Night"
The raw, acoustic echo of the long drive home, where the darkness outside is the only thing quiet enough to hold the weight of your secrets.
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