The clown-faced girl
by
Eric Richer
I know their routine.
I find them at the drugstore.
I spot her in the queue. Sitting on the floor. Playing with her baby doll.
My clown-faced girl.
Her mother talks with a neighbor. Then she asks our daughter to come but Maeve doesn’t hear, still in her world.
Words are useless in these cases. A pat on the shoulder would do the job, but my ex never understood. So she leaves her there and a guy steps over Maeve. He tells her that the baby will suffer if she keeps slamming its head like that, but Maeve replies that its skull is plastic and burps in his face.
Attagirl.
The man turns away and I crouch down towards my daughter.
Remember me?
Nope.
Nevermind. Did you use markers for your makeup?
Yeah. To look like my dad. He was a rodeo clown. He made the bulls laugh so they’d be nice,but one day he ran into a mean one and he died.
Oh. Okay. Can I give you a hug?
Yeah.
Thanks, Miss… It might be nothing to you, but it keeps me alive, I said before disappearing into the crowd, her colored nose engraved on my retina.
Eric Richer was born in France in 1971. He grew up with 7 dogs, read a lot, studied cinema, worked in movie theaters as a projectionist and went to Japan. There he made a documentary (Kamo River), came back, returned in the darkness of the projection booths and started writing. His first two novels, La Rouille (The Rust, 2018) and Tiger (2021) were published by L’Ogre Editions. He is currently working hard on the next ones.
You never forget your first
by
Tammy Blakley
I was six the first time I went to the circus. The whole first grade class loaded up on a school bus and drove out to the arena. Most of the kids jabbered on about the elephants and tigers and the man on the flying trapeze, but I wanted to see the clowns.
Even then, everyone called me freak.
When I was thirteen, I mowed lawns all summer and saved up money to buy my own clown costume. That’s when I started going out at night and peeking in windows. It started out innocent enough. Watching Janey Patterson brushing her hair, Melanie Judson taking off her bra.
After a while, watching wasn’t enough. I wanted more. By the time I was eighteen, I’d killed the first one. Suzanne Matthews. She laughed at me when I knocked on her door. She wasn’t laughing when I wrapped the scarf around her pretty little neck.
Even thought there were so many more, you never forget your first.
All I can say is I’m sorry for the pain I caused. I thought it would ease mine, but it didn’t. Warden, those are my last words.
Award winning author* Tammy Blakley lives in the Pacific Northwest. She completed her first manuscript with no formal training and a total lack of adult supervision. . She has previously published stories in Punk Noir Magazine, Urban Pigs Magazine, Pistol Jim Press and Stone’s Throw. Find her on Twitter @tammy_blakley and Bluesky @tammywritesbooks.bsky.social
* She won Most Improved Bowler on her office bowling team and in 6th grade she won the 4-H Biscuit Baking Competition and a 5 pound bag of flour. She still has the bowling patch but unfortunately the flour was lost in the Great Weevil Invasion of ‘74.