We raised our eyes to the ceiling in unison.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Storm?” my brother said.
Mom indicated the windows: dark but clear skies.
“The cat?” my sister said.
“Downstairs,” I said, my knees wobbly.
Mom drew her gun. Our family huddled together, shaking.
The clowns had escaped the attic.
Crimson Blackstone writes fantasy and horror, and is especially proud of her former students’ incurable addictions to books.
Sunday I spotted an elephant destroying my cabbage garden so I shot the monster dead. Moments later, six clowns in midget cars bumped onto my lawn. They were armed with rainbow parasols.
“I’ve had this dream,” my wife said.
I cocked my rifle. “How’s it end?”
“Not good,” she said.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble”. Visit BobThurber.net.
You were at the corner of Wisconsin and M, riding a unicycle in the December rain. I was stuffed in a Volkswagen with fifteen friends. I said you looked sad and you honked a bicycle horn in reply, then squirted me with a flower.
Your orange hair still haunts me.
Tom Howard lives in Arlington, Virginia, where he spends a lot of time roaming the hills with his wife beside a funny black dog.