Cirque Du Silly

One summer, I went to Circus Camp. As an acrobat, I was overcome by terror, lost my grip on the trapeze, and plunged into the net before my partner could grab my ankles. Animals hated me. The dancing horse tried to bite me, and the performing poodles peed on my shoes. I looked hilarious in clown makeup, but my timing was terrible, and I was trampled while exiting the tiny car. I tried juggling and hit myself in the face with the balls. Fortunately, the camp staff were brilliant photographers; the shots they posted on Instagram made my family proud.

From Guest Contributor R.K. West

August Drops

It's not fall yet. It's still light ‘til eight and the kids want to stay out past that on the trampoline that squeaks now with every bounce, its round net keeping out the cucumber-loving mosquitoes, the raspberry-loving bees, the cool night-loving spiders. The sky goes sherbet and then gray and raindrops fall but stop just before you get them to come in and then the sky is bright on one side, and the baby is jumping and pointing: light! (spin) dark! (spin) light! (spin) pink! And it's time to do pajamas and kitchen and bills but you don't.

You jump.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook is the author of Only Flying, a Pushcart-nominated collection of surreal poetry and flash fiction on paradox, rebellion, transformation, and enlightenment from Unsolicited Press. Her work has won contests at Loud Coffee Press and A Story in 100 Words, and it has appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Soundings East, The Alien Buddha Goes Pop, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal and a professor of creative writing. Read her work and learn more about Only Flying at https://brook-bhagat.com/.

In Which I Confront Name Regret

The sun was just a faint red ember in an ashen sky when I stepped onto the swaying boat. “A poet,” as Paul Celan observed before his second suicide attempt, “is a pirate.” I felt a kind of guilty freedom to be maneuvering the boat above the rush-hour streets. If only I had had a Jolly Roger! Behind the boat, I pulled a net that was soon full of strange new words for things. My pursuers cursed and cried and complained bitterly of fatigue and stress and vast distances. “Oh yeah?” I said. “Try going through life as a Howard.”From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

The Greatest Show

We climbed down from our platforms and out of the ring, inhaling deeply of sawdust and popcorn, sweat and dung. We turned out the lights and broke down the tents, ropes biting into our palms. We watered the elephants and fed the lions; we waved at stragglers and kissed our new lovers goodbye. One last campfire, one last harmonica bray, one last cloud of dust kicked up by our dancing feet. One last paycheck pressed into our hands. No train tomorrow. No makeup, no spangled costumes. We’ll tip our heads back, way back, and spread our arms for the net.

From Guest Contributor Tara Campbell

Tara is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Previous publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and Strange Horizons. She's the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and three collections: Circe's Bicycle, Midnight at the Organporium, and Political AF: A Rage Collection.

The Origin Of Myth

As far back as anyone can remember, Lulumak stole. When he was young, the elders told Lulumak’s parents that this was a sign of intelligence but once he matured into warriorhood, the elders warned Lulumak that he would be punished if he stole again. A day after Lulumak was warned, Chinoon caught him stealing fish from Yellow Hair’s net. The next day a few elders told Lulumak they discovered a rich fishing area and invited him to fish with them. When the elders returned without Lulumak, they told the tribe that Nanal, the monster, had eaten Lulumak for his sin.

From Guest Contributor Dave Harper

Dave, a recovering software developer, now finds himself addicted to writing fiction.