Clown Show

Every night around 11pm, the television stations ran an entertainment program for adults, featuring all of the funniest clowns in the circus. They danced around and bashed each other on their heads and wore garish make up, all for our amusement. The show was so popular it got replayed on the cable stations all morning and afternoon. Many times they performed with trained chimps in human clothes that we found cute and funny, because they acted just like real people.

Then, one day, every adult in the country decided to stop watching. We finally realized that clowns are for kids.

The Three Of Clubs

One night our guy grabs the deck of us and off we go to school. “Pick a card,” he says, walking around the classroom. Yes, we’re old, with some bent corners and a few stains, our winning days behind us. But to be held up and fanned out? Like we were some old chorus line, called up for one last show. I go right after my buddy, the Four of Clubs, to someone who sticks me in a book called Misery. And how! I was never one for the solitary life. All I wanted to do was play my part.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories have appeared in Misfit Magazine, Star 82 Review, Bombfire Lit, and others.

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.

Waitress And The Ventriloquist

She had sun-streaked hair. I told her we could have a quickie after the show but she just looked blankly at Murphy, the doll. That night I jerked off with Murphy and cussed him for missing my chance with her. He looked on with the wooden smile, his wooden fingers clenched tight by his side. Murphy said cute things that day. People laughed at the stale jokes about slavery. I saw her reach out for the tip. And then she walked past me, with sad the ruffle of notes in her bodice. A little girl came up and hugged Murphy.From Guest Contributor Sreemanti Sengupta

Sreemanti writes fiction and poetry (Losing Friends - Alien Buddha Press 2.0) while occasionally dabbling in collage art. Some of her haikus have been translated to French and a poem read out at City Lights Bookstore, NY. She runs The Odd Magazine and Odd Books.

Love Be The Devil, But It Won’t Get Me

We were watching the show from a splintered, weathered picnic table in front of the big stage at The Shack when she told me she was leaving me. It was midnight, but it was still a hundred degrees out and sweat rolled down my face and into my eyes as she walked away. The Burnside boys were singing their brand of gritty, corn liquor soaked blues. My heart thudded in my chest like it was threatening to make an appearance but the toes of my boots kept tapping the dirt and eventually I threw my head back and sang along.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Reddick

Sarah Reddick is a writer who is currently in the MFA program at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, Missouri. Her work has appeared in Cattywampus Magazine, Salt Zine, The Local Voice, and the Mid Rivers Review.

What Patti Smith Gets Up To

"I saw Patti Smith in concert once. It was quite recently actually. I like to think that after the show she went to a late night beat poet meet where they gave beautiful spoken word renditions through the fug of cigarette smoke whilst drinking sour wine. Or she went to keep candlelight midnight vigil over an altar of Allen Ginsburg, a vigil unbroken by his devotees since his death in the 90’s. More realistically I think Ms. Smith went back to her hotel with her band and caught an early night, she was getting on a bit at the time."

From Guest Contributor George Aitch