Category Archives: Issue 13: Southern Fried Freak Show
Issue 13: Come One, Come All! To the Southern Fried Freak Show!
Image courtesy of © photocritical – Fotolia.com
We’ve all been to that one local fair or carnival. You know the one? The one where certain carnies, clowns, or ride-operators look at you that special way…like you would make a good target for the knife-throwing act…or they’d like to give you an extra special treat during the Tunnel of Terror ride? Or the special acts…like zombie performers or a funhouse you can only escape from by surviving the knife-weilding carny. And sometimes real life can be freak show, especially if you’re a weirdo married to a psycho.
I’m calling this style of story freakpunk, and I’m planning to do a general freakpunk issue in the future that doesn’t have to take place in carnival settings (imagine, a freak psycho with a funhouse in his basement) and can take place anywhere on Earth, not just in the South (and also designate other character-types besides clowns, not all carnies wear make-up and large red noses, after all). So, I’m working on a list of freakpunk elements for that future issue. Get your Muses ready for that. Meanwhile, this issue brings you face to face with the weirdness and horror of the Southern.
Is that blood on the cotton candy, ya’all?
Issue 13: Southern Fried Freak Show
Swishbone, by Stephen Kerr (micro-fic)
Clownish Delights, by Andrew Patch (flash)
Step Right Up, by Michael A. Kechula (short story)
Funhouse, by Kelly Haas Shackelford (flash fiction)
Meat for freaks, by Mathias Jansson (poem)
Protect Ya Neck, by Edward Taylor (short story)
Shy Heahrug, by Paulo Brito (drabble)
The Circus Tent, by Kerry E. B. Black (flash)
the doom master, by Christopher Woods (poem)
Swishbone, by Stephen Kerr
Image courtesy of © lighthouse – Fotolia.com
It has been well known for several years now that a man in a clown costume, flanked by two feral gibbering adolescents in dirty rags, with limbs twice the length they ought to be, held on chains held by the gloved hands of the clown, dances through a multitude of small towns in Georgia and Alabama, on their side streets and their playgrounds, their parking lots and their back yards.
In each of these towns, the vision decked in off white face paint, a dirty pink spherical nose, green flickering bloodshot eyes, blue and green and red flapping material, electric blue tufts of hair, enters with these two disfigured figures, lets them smell the warm Southern night air, then lets them off their leashes, wherein they scuttle off into the night – over fences, clinging to drain pipes as they scramble up walls, through open front doors.
At the end of each night, two adolescents with limbs twice the size they ought to be sheepishly crawl back like beaten dogs, and sit with their heads facing the dry grass as the clown places the collars back around their necks. He throws back his head and chuckles, then off he goes, before the dawn can touch him.
Each of these nights in which the clown comes to town, two young teenagers will vanish from their rooms, from their walks home, from their back yards, and each of these nights two stretched and inexplicable skeletons will be found in shallow graves in the Georgia or Alabama soil. They’re never identified.
~~~
BIO: Stephen Kerr is an early 20’s grave riser from Scotland with a passion for urban legend and the bizarre. Twitter: https://twitter.com/Phil_N_Stine.
Clownish Delights, by Andrew Patch
Image courtesy of © Katrina Brown – Fotolia.com
Jackson’s sledgehammer whirled, driving the stake deep into dry red dirt. Stepping back he was disappointed to find that the sign leaned slightly to the left. The normally ghoulish clown whose salacious wink promised ‘Clownish Delights’ looked queer to him, yet it’d have to do. Time was short judging by the sounds of the local folk congregating at the fence.
Behind him he could hear his brothers rushing to get the final bits of preparation for tonight’s BBQ complete. Inevitably Herc cried out, his clown make-up distorted, as he held aloft a hand crimson with blood, ‘Gawd sake Billy Bob that’s ma hand ye gone cut.’
‘Hush now boys, stop yer messin!’ Ma bustled into view, the white paint on her face juxtaposed against the charred black joint of meat on her shoulder. ‘Ye done with that sign J-boy?’ Jackson nodded, his hand waving apologetically as the sign shifted further left. ‘Well, ne’er mind that now son, take a plate to the new act, he’ll need some comfort I reckon. An’ I need more meat fer the BBQ.’ Jackson nodded as he sliced thick cuts from the joint, pink juices coating the plate. Hefting his sledgehammer onto his shoulder, Jackson ambled down towards Freak Avenue, glad to escape Herc’s wails. His yellow clown shoes raising clouds of dust as he walked.
It hadn’t taken the family long to get used to the death of the circus. When O’Keefe had announced that the big top had to go Jackson had thought Ma was going to hang him from the nearest tree, such was her rage over the copious moonshine she guzzled that night. The stars had shone down as Ma had lamented how they were true zanies, each born under canvas, blessed by God himself to be part of this chaotic wave that rolled endlessly between cities, towns and unheralded places in-between. Under that big tent Ma and the boys had been masters of their canvas universe, playing devilish tricks on wide-eyed spectators. Buckets of water transformed by painted messiahs into glitter, custard pies slammed into flesh with bone crunching ferocity. Yet times had changed, the world drowning in dust and sorrow. Now they were reduced to serving BBQ to voyeuristic idiots salivating over the freaks that had replaced the circus folk he had grown up with.
Jackson despised the new performers; they lacked no skill or talent just an abjectness that, unlike the paint he applied each morning, couldn’t be removed. Yet O’Keefe had been proven right, for though the usual carnie diversions, rides and stalls, still parted money from owner as easily as Moses did the sea. It was the freaks that drew these southern folk out from their homes, purses laden with shiny coins. For the first time in a long time they weren’t struggling to exist.
He found O’Keefe sat on the wooden steps of the Tattooed Man’s caravan. Judging by the trembling hands of the newest tattooed addition to the avenue the moonshine in the jar he clenched was yet to kick in. ‘Now looky Benjamin, here’s Jackson with what looks like a plate to get you rarin’ to go! How goes it J-Boy?’ Jackson shrugged, handing the plate over to the tattooed man who sniffed suspiciously before quickly devouring the greasy slabs of meat. As the man ate Jackson examined the intricate and colourful markings that covered every inch of his being. Though he would never tell him he reckoned this was Billy Bob’s best work yet.
O’Keefe gently removed the plate from tattooed hands, wiping a finger around the edge, before letting his lips smack at the BBQ sauce that clung to his skin. ‘Showtime brother, now up into the wagon and earn your place, else, well there’s always someone else wanting a job these days, understand?’ The tattooed man nodded, slipping into the caravan, becoming a shadow behind the frosted glass. Around them the rest of the attractions were taking up their positions, a constellation of monstrosity. Enticing silhouettes that for just a single dollar one could inspect at leisure. Only Billy Bob’s posters that hung beside each shadow hinted at the unimaginable horrors that lurked within. Oswald the Penguin Boy! Saladin the Human Snake! Yin & Yang The Double Headed Child! Agatha The Bearded Lady! The Painted Man!
The cries of the Hawker welcoming in the punters cut through the night. ‘Promising devilish delights and delightful devils is what we do,’ O’Keefe said to no one in particular as he languidly raised himself, ‘I’ll return the plate to Ma J-Boy, that taste got a hunger fired up somethin’ fierce in ma belly.’ Jackson nodded farewell, hustling to leave Freak Avenue before it filled with voyeurs. He slipped past the booths of rigged fortune, heading for the larder wagon that lay within the darkness of a copse of trees on the edge of the field.
The wooden frame creaked under his weight as Jackson mounted the steps. The oiled bolt sliding easily. Opening the door Jackson paused, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness within. There were still three left, enough for this and the next show in all likelihood.
As he stepped inside they began to writhe, the ropes that bound their limbs had rubbed their flesh raw. Jackson ignored the muffled pleas that filled the interior as he hauled the nearest one out of the door and into the long grass. In the dim light cast from the freak show he could just make out the inked tableaus that writhed and crawled as muscles strained against rope.
Another bout of muffled pleas barely discernible over the noise of the show. Jackson raised a finger to his lips, letting his wide mouth split into a malevolent grin. He stooped down retrieving his sledgehammer from the dirt.
The one thing about freaks Ma had quickly realised was that some were very easily replaced.
He licked his finger, testing the gentle breeze, enjoying the fear in his victim’s eyes.
Then his sledgehammer whirled.
~~~
BIO: Andrew’s flash fiction has featured in With Painted Words and Flash! Friday. Later this year his short story Thirst will feature in the anthology, Happily Never After from Fey Publishing. He would mention he’s working on a novel but prefers to keep that bit secret.
Step Right Up, by Michael A. Kechula
Image courtesy of © jorgophotography – Fotolia.com
This story has been published in two previous fiction magazines.
“Step right up ladies and gentlemen,” yelled the carnival barker, “and see Herbie, the friendliest zombie in the world. He sings, he dances, he tells jokes. See the greatest show on Earth for just a dollar. Step right up and see Herbie, the only zombie who ever performed for European Royalty. Show starts in five minutes. Hurry, hurry.”
The barker didn’t have to convince Wilma. She couldn’t wait to see the zombie after reading about him in the newspaper. The part that really caught her eye described Herbie as tall, dark, and exceptionally handsome.
Once inside the tent, she noticed one end of the stage was blocked from view by black curtains. She figured the handsome zombie was probably behind them preparing for his performance. The idea of being just feet away from a famous celebrity gave her butterflies.
At the other end of the stage, a man sat facing a machine loaded with dials, switches, and flickering lights. Wilma thought it looked like something from a mad scientist’s laboratory.
The barker appeared onstage and said, “What you’re about to see will amaze you. But before we begin, I have a few announcements. First, that bouncy accordion music you heard when you came into the tent is from Herbie’s latest CD album, Herbie Plays Polka Greats. It’ll be on sale after the show, along with Herbie T-shirts, and photos. Herbie will sign every photo you buy. Finally, if you look toward the back of the tent, you’ll see bright yellow exit signs.”
“Is that where we’re supposta run in case the zombie goes nuts and attacks us?” yelled a drunk.
The audience giggled nervously, as two carnival bruisers dragged the drunk toward an exit.
The barker blew a whistle to draw attention back to the stage. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, Doctor Zangara’s Amazing Traveling Shows is proud to present Herbie, the friendliest zombie in the world!”
Everyone applauded, as a spotlight illuminated the curtains. The barker opened them to reveal a zombie in a yellow jump suit sitting in a steel chair. Steel cuffs bound his wrists and ankles to the chair. Wide chains pressed against his chest. His bald head was bowed, as if he were in utter despair.
“Why’s he tied up like that?” somebody asked.
“There’s nothing to worry about. He’s very comfortable,” the barker replied.
“Aren’t those chains hurting him?” asked Wilma.
“No. Zombies don’t feel pain. Nobody feels pain when they’re dead. And Herbie’s dead as a doornail. That’s why we tie him down—so his lifeless body won’t fall outta the chair.”
“How did Herbie get to be a zombie?” asked a little girl.
“He useta live in Haiti. One day He got sick and died. After they buried him, a witch doctor dug him up and made him a zombie. Somehow, Herbie wandered into the jungle and got lost. Dr. Dumont of the Haitian Zombie Institute found him. Dumont invented a machine that could bring Herbie back to life, but for only six hours a day. The doctor taught Herbie how to sing, dance, tell jokes, do magic tricks, and play ten musical instruments. Herbie was so happy to be alive for six hours every day, he became very friendly. Dumont was trying to find a way to bring Herbie back to life forever, but he died before he could make that happen. I’ll take one more question, and then we’ll get on with the show.”
“I don’t get it,” somebody said. “Did Dr. Dumont bring Herbie back to life in a way that you and I have life? Or does he have a different kinda life?”
“I don’t know. What does it matter, if he’s friendly and can put on a terrific show? Okay, now we’ll bring Herbie back to life for six hours like Dr. Dumont did by using a Renticular Renificator. It’s a special machine Dumont invented to animate zombies. So let’s get started. First, I’ll put this headset on Herbie. Then I’ll ask James, who’s sitting in front of the machine, to send an electrical signal through the headset.”
When the barker put the headset on the zombie’s bowed head, he said, “James, set renticular renification to zero point three, and press start.”
James twisted some dials and pressed a button. Suddenly, the zombie’s head jerked upward, his eyes popped open, and his face broke out into a brilliant smile. “Hi everybody,” he said in a rich, bubbly voice. “I’m Herbie, the friendliest zombie in the world. Welcome to my show.”
The cheers and applause were deafening.
“I can do lots of things,” Herbie said. “I can play the Beer Barrel Polka on my accordion. I can dance, or sing Jingle Bells and a hundred other songs. I can ride a motorcycle while standing on my head. And lots of other things. What should I do first?”
The crowd shouted a hundred different requests.
“Let’s make it Herbie’s choice” the barker said. “Well, Herbie, what do you feel like doing?”
“I’m in the mood for ballet. James, would you please play that CD I love so much—the one with the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies?”
“Sure thing,” James said, inserting a CD and pressing a green button on the Renticular Renificator to release the zombie’s restraints.
Herbie sprang from the chair and donned a pair of hot-pink ballet slippers. “How do you like my slippers, boys and girls?” he asked, standing on his toes and twirling.
The kids screamed with delight.
The zombie ran behind the black curtains, removed his jump suit, and slid into a hot-pink leotard.
While Herbie twirled and danced on his toes, Wilma felt a flutter unlike anything she’d ever experienced. As he pranced across the stage, she noticed his pouty, fleshy lips, his muscular arms and thighs, his tight glutes. She found herself staring at the bulge below his stomach and how it strained against his tights. Fanaticizing about holding him close, she could almost feel the bulge pressing against her. In all her forty years, Wilma had never felt so wicked.
“That’s very nice, Herbie,” said the barker. “How about showing us how Elvis Presley used to move his pelvis.”
James played raunchy music, and pressed more buttons on the renificator. Herbie went into a frenzy of gyrations that brought squeals from his female admirers. Mesmerized by his frantic pelvic thrusts, Wilma found herself lightheaded and gasping for breath. When sweat broke out on her forehead, she realized Herbie was the man for her.
After the spectacular show, Wilma raced to the back of the tent so she could buy a souvenir photo. Dozens of women had the same idea.
Giggles and flushed faces greeted Herbie when he arrived at the table. Wilma thought he looked like a dashing, fairytale prince.
“Ten dollars, please,” Herbie said with a charming Caribbean accent, when Wilma selected a photo.
“Would you autograph it?” she asked.
“That’ll be five dollars extra,” he said, flashing a gorgeous smile that turned her insides to mush.
As she paid Herbie, his fingertips brushed her hand. Though they were ice cold, Wilma was too overwhelmed to notice.
“What would you like me to write on the picture?” Herbie asked.
“Whatever you wish. But please sign it, With Love, Herbie.”
“What’s your first name, Dear?”
“Wilma.”
The zombie scribbled across the top, “To Wilma. You’re a sweet, Southern gal. With Love, Herbie.”
She thought she’d faint when he squeezed her hand and said, “Thanks for coming to the show, Sweetie.”
She wanted to tell him how handsome he was, but he’d already turned his attention to the next woman. When he made flirtatious comments to the woman, Wilma felt a jealous flash. She reminded herself that he was just conducting business. All handsome celebrities flirted with fans. It was part of the fame game. It meant nothing. How could it, after the way he squeezed her hand and called her Sweetie with such intensity?
Wilma attended the rest of Herbie’s shows that night. Sitting up front, she waved every time he turned her way.
Herbie did something different in every show, which increased Wilma’s fascination. But she was alarmed during the last show when he sang, I Gotta Be Me. His voice was weakening. Her wrist watch showed five hours and fifty minutes had passed. It was almost time for Herbie to die again.
Right before Herbie’s time ran out, he sat in his steel chair and waved goodbye to the audience. When his head dropped abruptly to his chest, the barker closed the curtains, James threw a switch to activate the chair’s restraints, then turned off the renificator.
Wilma ran from the tent weeping.
On the way to her car, an inner voice reminded her that Herbie wasn’t gone forever. They’d revive him again tomorrow, and she’d see him again.
She decided to attend every show while the carnival was in town. She’d buy mementos after every show. That’d give her three opportunities every night to shake his muscular hand, look into his passionate eyes, hear his glorious voice. Soon, he’d remember her, perhaps even look forward to seeing her. And maybe he’d even want her.
Soon the carnival would move on to other Southern towns. Wilma, an affluent spinster, decided to follow no matter where it went. Realizing nothing could stop her from seeing Herbie three times nightly gave her a deep sense of peace. She fell asleep thinking how he’d succumb to her charms when he recognized her inner beauty and unlimited ability to love.
Next day, she went to the carnival early, hoping to find the barker. She found him at a hot dog stand. She sat at a table facing the barker. “I wanted to tell you how impressive your zombie show is.”
“Glad you like it. I noticed you were at all the shows last night. Are you from the Herbie Fan Club?”
“No. I love the show. Herbie really is the friendliest zombie in the world. He’s also the most handsome and entertaining performer I’ve ever seen. Have you ever thought of having him try out for a Broadway musical?”
“I don’t think that’d work.”
“I can’t imagine why. He does everything remarkably well. He’s extremely talented, and he’s the most dynamic performer I’ve ever seen.”
“Yes, he does come across that way. But there’s lotsa complicated stuff involved to make that happen. More than you’d ever imagine.”
“How complicated can it be?” she asked. “ James throws a switch on that machine of yours, and off he goes. Look, I’d like to make you a proposition. As a patron of the arts, and considering how talented your zombie is, I think he needs someone who has the means to sponsor him and lead him to higher things. Plays. Musicals. A concert at Carnegie Hall. Perhaps he can even play his violin with the New York Philharmonic. Or sing with the Metropolitan Opera. Frankly, I can offer Herbie a better life than a traveling carnival. I want to buy Herbie. How much do you want for him?”
“He ain’t for sale.”
“Not even for a million dollars?”
“You wanna pay a million dollars for a dead zombie?”
“For goodness sakes! You make it sound like he’s lower than a maggot. I’ll pay you a million for Herbie and that ugly machine that James operates. Of course I’ll need an operator’s manual, the restraining chair, and whatever else is necessary to make everything work smoothly.”
“Like I said, Herbie ain’t for sale.”
“How about renting him?”
“I never heard of renting out a zombie. Come to think of it, we shut down the show from Thanksgiving until mid-January. Money gets pretty tight. If I agreed, you’d hafta set up a place for his special equipment, and get a backup generator in case of power failures. You’d also hafta sign papers promising that you wouldn’t use him in any public performances. Let me think about it. How can I reach you?”
“I’ll be at every show from now on.”
That night after the last show, the barker approached Wilma. “Herbie ain’t for sale or rent. I like things the way they are. Besides, if we lose control of him, there might be trouble.”
Wilma cried all night.
The next day, the carnival departed Charleston for Atlanta. Wilma checked into Atlanta’s best hotel. For the next week, she waved to Herbie from the front row and bought his autographed photos.
By the time the carnival reached Birmingham, Herbie was used to seeing Wilma at every show. He acknowledged her presence by asking her to stand and wave to the audience.
When the carnival played Chattanooga, Herbie called Wilma to the stage, put his arm around her, and introduced her to the applauding audience. When he told them she hadn’t missed a single show for two months, they clapped louder.
Herbie autographed the photos she bought after every show with a different caption every time. The messages had grown warmer. One evening, he wrote, “Wish we could meet and talk.”
Wilma wept with joy.
The next day, she spotted the barker sitting alone at the carnival’s pizza stand. “How’s it going, Tom?”
“I’m fine. I gotta say, you sure are one helluva gutsy woman. I never figured you’d go to such lengths to be around Herbie. Why are you doing this?”
“I’m in love with Herbie.”
“Geez, Wilma. Are you gonna spend your life pursuing a zombie? He’s dead. He was buried over fifty years ago. Dr. Dumont’s journal says Herbie doesn’t even have a heart. All his internal organs are gone. He’s filled with embalming fluid to keep his body from collapsing. When he waves his arms, and you’re standing close enough, you can hear fluid sloshing inside.”
“But he has charm, and spirit, and gusto and—”
“That was all programmed into the electronic gadgets Dumont put into his skull after all Herbie’s brains were sucked out. Do you know that the top of Herbie’s head has hinges? James has to open his skull once a week to blow compressed air through all the electrical equipment in there? If James didn’t do that, we’d never be able to rouse Herbie from his death trance. Think about what it is you love. Herbie’s a dead man who was turned into a zombie by a witch doctor. He’s a cadaver that doesn’t rot, because of high-tech embalming fluid. He’s got no heart. No lungs. His head is full of electronics. A head that has hinges. A head that needs to be cleaned every week with compressed air. How can you sit there and tell me you love such a thing?”
“You don’t know what love is, Tom!”
“Not the kind you’re talking about. What if I told you I was in love with a vampire? One that sucked blood from little kids. What would you say?”
“I’d say that vampires need love too. Just like zombies. And werewolves. And ghouls.”
Figuring Wilma for a harmless loon, the barker never mentioned her actions again.
Wilma followed them to New Orleans. Then Miami. That’s where she discovered Herbie had a dark side.
During the final show on closing night, Herbie was doing a handstand on a bicycle’s handlebars. A teen threw an egg that smashed against Herbie’s head, throwing him off balance. He fell off the bike and hit the ground hard.
Wilma screamed. The barker tried to help Herbie to his feet, but the zombie roughly shoved him aside. The barker yelled to James, “Reduce renticular renification to seven point nine.”
James turned switches and pressed buttons like a madman. Herbie’s growls were so unnerving the audience rushed to the exits screaming.
Wilma ran to the stage and threw her arms around Herbie. His behavior changed instantly. He smiled and called to the audience, “Hey, y’all. C’mon back. It’s all part of the act. Don’t be alarmed. Everything’s cool.” He kissed Wilma’s cheek. Eyes twinkling, he said, “Thanks, Wilma. You’re a sweetie. We oughta hug more often.”
The barker couldn’t thank Wilma enough for what she’d done, though he wasn’t sure which had calmed Herbie: Wilma’s embrace, or renificator signals. Even James was uncertain if he’d completed the calming sequence before Wilma hugged the zombie.
As a reward for preventing a potential disaster, the barker included Wilma in Herbie’s act. At first, she did little things: passed him juggling balls, setup tables for his magic acts, rolled out the bicycle on which he performed acrobatics.
Wilma was never happier.
But after a year, Wilma felt that something was still missing in her relationship with Herbie—something she couldn’t articulate. On one hand she wanted to find ways to get closer. On the other, she wasn’t sure how to bridge the chasm that separated them. When the answer came to her in a dream, she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it sooner. After careful consideration, she explained her plans to the barker.
“Are you sure, Wilma?” he asked.
“Positive. I can’t think of anything I want more.”
“Wilma, you’re one helluva a gutsy woman. In fact, you have more guts than any ten men I know.”
“It’s not guts, Tom. It’s love.”
Wilma disappeared the next day.
Months passed. Few people remembered Wilma had ever existed. But Herbie didn’t forget. Her name was the last word he uttered every night, before he dropped his head and died.
* * *
On a beautiful Spring evening in Biloxi, Mississippi the barker stood outside the zombie show tent. In his proudest voice, he called out, “Step right up ladies and gentlemen. Step right up and see Herbie…and Wilma…the friendliest zombies in the world.”
~~~
BIO: Michael A. Kechula’s flash and micro-fiction tales have been published by 150 magazines and 50 anthologies in 8 countries. He’s won 1st prize in 12 writing contests and 2nd prize in 8 others. He’s authored 5 books of flash and micro-fiction tales, including a book that teaches how to write flash fiction. See his publisher’s site at: http://www.booksforabuck.com/ to read a free story or chapter in all of his books.
Funhouse, by Kelly Haas Shackelford
Image courtesy of Tshirt Factory @ Fotolia..com
The entrance door slammed, echoing down the long hall of mirrors in Death’s Funhouse. Running away from the packed crowd, fear gripped me. Strobe lights flashed psychedelic colors. Wildly, they splashed across the backdrop of the distorted reflections of the troupe of clowns slashing my friends’ throats.
Looking around the funhouse at the other college-aged girls, frozen in place and screaming, I vowed not be that girl. Hearing more shouts behind me, I shoved myself through the horde of onlookers that had turned to watch the macabre scene play out around us in twisted images.
The sweet scent of cotton candy filled the funhouse. I shuddered, wondering if it was a ruse to form a false sense of security. Glancing to my left, I watched two clowns take out the head cheerleader at our college. My stomach churned as a spurt of red splattered across the mirror. Its liquid streaked down in jagged lines.
Sticky beads of sweat oozed down my back. Its sickening feel, drove me harder to escape. Frantically, I searched for the exit. No reprieve was to be found. Heaving, I forced myself forward.
In the screams bouncing around the tight corridors, I heard my best friend. Turning, a loud groan escaped me. A tall clown, with a blinking red nose, held a knife to her throat. I wanted to run back, but I knew death had tagged her. She had lost.
Ten feet away from me, an exit sign blazed victory, but six clowns stood ready. I stopped. My heart raced, pounding in fear. Sensing safety in numbers, I waited for others to join me. The clowns stared back.
“Little girl, come here, little girl,” the largest clown teased, his deep smoker’s voice rasped. He threw his head back in laughter. Then his cold eyes danced, locking onto mine. Opening his arms wide, he dared me to try and escape.
A group of ten frat boys darted past me. I squatted, duck walking. Hidden below the dancing strobe lights, I held my breath for fear of being detected. Beneath the cover of darkness, I pushed forward as player after player were eliminated.
Inches away from the door, I felt my hair yanked. My head stretched back, exposing the tender crook of my neck. The large, glaring clown had captured me. His breath stank of garlic as he whispered in my ear. “No one escapes, Death’s Funhouse.”
In horror, I watched his hand rise above my throat.
Instantly, I dropped flat to the floor, breaking free. I rolled the last few feet, ignoring the grit and grime, digging into me. Jumping up, I slammed against the steel door as its hinges moaned, releasing me to emerge victorious into the daylight.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like we have a winner.” The old carnival barker hollered, looking me up and down, searching in vain for fake blood.
I collapsed, gasping. My stomach knotted, threatening to heave up my funnel cake. Yet, I grinned. In five seasons of operation, I was the small town’s first winner.
The barker sulked over and hurled a $100 bill at me. I stared at my sweet reward for making it through Death’s Funhouse without getting my throat slashed by a fake blood squirting knife.
Whooping in triumph, all my friends gathered around me. “Come on, Bloody Mary’s on me,” I shouted. A fitting end to celebrate a bloody profitable night.
~~
BIO: I have been published in various venues such as Free Flash Fiction, The Old Red Kimono, Danse Macabre, Infernal Ink, and Black Petals. Also, for two years, I was editor of The Old Red Kimono, an award-winning literary magazine. For the last six years, I have run a Romance Enhancement Party Business…aka..toy parties sorta like Tupperware, but with batteries.
Meat for freaks, by Mathias Jansson
It’s a carnival of steam
joy and screams
when the circus shows
its new exciting
knife throwing machine
downtown New Orleans
Come closer, come closer!
come and see, tonight all is free!
come and visit our bizarre circus team!
The crowd sits tightly packed
when the machine
with chrome and pipes and steam
starts with a roaring scream
Thousands of knives per second
a lightning of steel in the dark
a sound of chopping thunder
when the visitors falls
as sliced cucumber to the ground
Crazy clowns and fat ballerinas
filling their buckets
with bloody meat and guts
in the spotlight of the circus ring
the manager smiling satisfied
when starved people, animal and beasts
once again can feast on meat
~~~
BIO: Mathias Jansson is a Swedish art critic and horror poet. He has been published in magazines as The Horror Zine Magazine, Dark Eclipse, Schlock, The Sirens Call, Apehlion and Trembles Horror Magazine. He has also contributed to several anthologies from Horrified Press, James Ward Kirk Fiction, Source Point Press and other publisher. Homepage: http://mathiasjansson72.blogspot.se/ Amazon author page: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mathias-Jansson/e/B00BTDBYBQ/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_4?qid=1366806658&sr=8-4
Shy Heahrug, by Paulo Brito
Image courtesy of © jorgophotography – Fotolia.com
Shy Heahrug, the tallest clown midget on Earth, usually wanders around the Bridge City circus with a hand stuck in his pocket to cuddle his precious red camera, and dangling from the right ear he has a rose, from which he surgically removed petals with a gluttonous eating satisfaction. Thus, Shy Heshrug could, at first glance, be labeled as a weirdo; at a second look, we must conclude that he could have suffered from a head blow; to the third blink, nothing can be noticed – he will take a picture and the curious will be blinded by the camera flash.
~~~
BIO: Paulo Brito, he lives in Barcelos, Portugal. He writes since the age of 15 poetry and short stories as a matter of mental hygiene. Loves reading Rhys Hughes and David Soares. His influences are immense, because he was has always been a drinker of books.
BIO: Paulo Brito, vive em Barcelos, Portugal. Ele escreve desde os 15 anos poesia e histórias curtas por uma questão de higiene mental.
The Circus Tent, by Kerry E. B. Black
Brad and Lynn set up the miniature circus tent in the center of the living room. A blue flag topped the red and yellow striped canvas cylinder. Scallops and dags dripped in cheer, adding to the festive feel.
Adam clapped his chubby hands as he jumped and laughed. “I wuv it, Momma! Fank you, Daddy!”
Proud parents grabbed hands in a silent congratulations. The gift pleased their three-year-old son. Adam climbed through the door, blue to distinguish it from the rest of the tent, and vanished from site.
The interior was large enough for Adam to stand. If he reached up, he could not touch the spire. The light filtered through the material cast zebra stripes of gold and gray. His parents knelt at the entrance, enjoying Adam’s delight. He took his peanut butter and marshmallow whip sandwich inside, chatting to imagined companions.
“I swear, I smell roasted peanuts,” Brad said.
His wife pointed out the sandwich, raising her eyebrows at him. As she walked to the kitchen to tidy up the lunch dishes, he patted her rump. She giggled. However, he distinctly caught a whiff of fresh-spun cotton candy.
“Yippee!” Adam’s voice accompanied a thudding sound from inside. “I wuv horsies!”
Dad turned on the local afternoon news on the television, ignoring his son’s boisterous exclamations. An herbal scent, almost like alfalfa hay, drifted through. His wife must have lit a candle.
A phrase uttered by his son registered on his distracted parental consciousness. “Uh oh, she is naked.”
His boy was backing out of the tent, eyes covered with sticky hands, his tongue sticking out in a “yuck.”
“Son, what are you doing?”
“I don’t want to see the naked lady, dad. I am going to go to the baff room.”
The boy rushed down the hall to relieve himself. Under his arm was tucked a small clown stuffed doll that Brad didn’t remember.
Naked lady? His son possessed an active imagination, certainly. Still, Brad bent and pushed aside the blue door to looked inside of the tent.
On the canvas floor rested the plastic super hero plate, mostly-eaten sandwich and corn chip crumbs atop. He collected the lunch left overs and straightened, feeling the gentle caress of the canvas against his cheek as he stood. A whiff of jasmine and sandlewood made him think of belly dancers. He closed his eyes, picturing a bonfire around which swayed tanned hips barely clothed in silks and tinkling bells.
“Daddy, you are in my way!” He snapped out of his reverie, stepping aside to allow his son access to the tent’s interior.
“Did you light a fire, darling?” His wife inquired, taking the plate and kissing his flushed cheek.
“No, I thought you did.” She looked over her shoulder, head cocked to one side, but said nothing.
“I want an elephant ride!” His son voiced with enthusiasm from within his new play area.
Dad shook his head and reclaimed the comfortable position in his brown leather recliner, taking in the news. It was not long, though, before he dozed and dreamed of feather and sequence-clad beauties whipping lions until they obeyed each command. He woke aroused, hearing his wife and son playing a game. He looked at the tent and saw his wife’s pale legs sticking out of the entrance.
With a mischievous smile, Brad stepped over and ran his foot up the fleshy curves to the base of her pink shorts.
“Ahem, I will be right back, Adam.”
Her face appeared between the tent flaps. “May I help you?”
Smile crooked across his face, he leered, wagging his finger to entice her to follow.
She sighed, disappeared once more to kiss her son loudly (“ah, mom!”), then emerged to grab her husband’s hand. He guided her to their bedroom, then lavished kisses on her eager mouth and delicate neck. She gasped and responded, met kiss with passion, until they collapsed, spent and tangled in sheets no longer neatly upon their queen-sized bed.
She deposited little kisses like pops on her husband’s cheeks and forehead while he admired the pert bosom jiggling beneath her white cotton t-shirt.
“Lynn, we haven’t taken Adam to a circus. How do you suppose he knows so much about them?”
She stopped to consider. “I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“Well, he was talking about tigers and trained puppies and tightrope walkers. How does he even know the word trapeze?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Adam is such a clever child!” However, her brow knitted.
A voice interrupted the short silence that followed. “Momma, Daddy? Watch what I can do!”
Dad wondered how long Adam stood in the bedroom doorway, but more startling were the three kitchen knives in his hands.
“I can juggle. The cwown told me I can.”
Mom reacted first, her voice quaking with concern. “Honey, you know that you are not allowed to touch knives.”
“I know, but watch. I am a circus p-former!”
The child threw the utensils into the air. Garnet splattered the white sheets and tan carpet as he attempted to catch the blades. Mom sat up and screamed. Dad lay frozen, propped on his elbows.
~~~
BIO: Kerry E.B. Black enjoys spinning story webs like a spider, waiting for prey. Other published works can be found in “Shades of Fear” and “Postcard Poems and Prose.” Follow at twitter BlackKerryBlick and http://kerrylizblack.wordpress.com/
the doom master, by Christopher Woods
holds the throttle
like a sword, smiling.
most teeth missing,
oh, and maybe a missing link,
he wants to execute someone,
has for weeks.
the dark carnival goes
town to rural Southern town,
with Midway in tow.
he is “The Tilt-O-Whirl” master,
making people cry out
in fear, sometimes in joy,
sometimes simply to vomit.
for so long it was enough,
till Gloria, “The Snake Girl,”
broke up with him.
he can’t kill her,
much as he wants to.
too many know about them.
so in every podunk hollow
he smiles his blank grin
and tries to decide which
young, happy couple in love
should be sacrificed.
his fingers are twitching.
he is aroused now.
each car is filled with young love.
he can taste the sex.
he lets loose the throttle
full speed, watches the cars
one by one
fly through the sky,
every thud a blessing.
~~~
BIO: Christopher Woods is a writer, teacher and photographer who lives in Texas. He has published a novel, THE DREAM PATCH, a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a book of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK. His photographs can be seen in his gallery – http://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/
The Were-Traveler 