Circus Freak: Escape From Reality Series, #8

By Erin Lee

Step into the madness…

My name is Samantha. In theory, or Hebrew or even Aramaic it means “God heard” or “Listener.” Epic, really, considering I’ve never believed in God and that I’d rather poke my ear drums out with dull spoons than listen to the daily yammering around this place. I’ve never been a listener. Truth is, I take after my mother, who’d also rather be on stage. I guess that comes natural when you grow up as a side show act in a freaky-assed carnival. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

People call me Cat, and, yes, with a C, not a K. Cat as in feline. Of course, I set myself up for that with 29 cat tattoos and the three Sphynx princesses who live with me in my trailer – the same rusted thing I travel in as we move from town to town with the carnival no one can seem to get enough of. Their names are Prune, Pixie and Penelope because I have a thing for P’s. Truthfully, they get me through long and smelly days of people gawking at 3-feet-six-inch tall freaky me. Secretly, I like it that people stare at them too. It takes the attention off my vertical challenges and secret-keeping black eyes.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy being the center of attention from time to time. I mean, I do. I just don’t like it for the wrong reasons – like my missing hand from the idiot who thought she was cute on the Ferris wheel when I was two. I sort of have a lot to hide. We’d best start with the things I can tell you about – the same things you probably paid to see. I have two belly-button piercings – one on the top and one on the bottom. Sometimes, I run string through the hoops and tie them together when I’m bored. The feline princesses like to bat at them and I enjoy the pain of it.

I travel around Madame Scarlet’s carnival on a mini-bike. Apparently, it’s quite a sight to see. If anyone bothered to ask me about dreams of mine, I’d say I’d wish to grow tall to buy a Harley and get the hell out of here. But that isn’t going to happen and I’m a realist. Still, I like being able to ride the bike around. It saves me from being tripped over or stepped on by giant cotton-candy grubbing monsters who refuse to look down because God-forbid there’s a freak circus in town. Either way? I can promise you one thing: Everything is about to change. I refuse to spend even one more day as an ordinary circus freak…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crazy Ink
• Release date: Dec 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386700098

Erin Lee

Erin Lee lives in Queensland, Australia and has been working with children for over 25 years. She has worked in both long day care and primary school settings and has a passion for inclusive education and helping all children find joy in learning. Erin has three children of her own and says they have helped contribute ideas and themes towards her quirky writing style. Her experience working in the classroom has motivated her to write books that bring joy to little readers, but also resource educators to help teach fundamental skills to children, such as being safe, respectful learners.

Book preview

Dedications

For Samantha, who came up with the original idea.

Also for Joe, who is entirely innocent.

And for Shelby, who was most excited to see the circus hit the stage. Your support of my work is just wow.

CIRCUS FREAK

Chapter One

My name is Samantha. In theory, or Hebrew or even Aramaic it means God heard or Listener. Epic, really, considering I’ve never believed in God and that I’d rather poke my ear drums out with dull spoons than listen to the daily yammering around this place. I’ve never been a listener. Truth is, I take after my mother, may she rest in peace, who’d also rather be on stage. I guess that comes naturally when you grow up as a sideshow act in a freaky-assed carnival. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

People call me Cat, and, yes, with a C, not a K. Cat as in feline. Of course, I set myself up for that with 29 cat tattoos and the three Sphynx princesses who live with me in my trailer—the same rusted thing I travel in as we move from town to town with the carnival no one can seem to get enough of. Their names are Prune, Pixie, and Penelope because I have a thing for P’s. Truthfully, they get me through long and smelly days of people gawking at 3-feet-six-inch tall freaky me. Secretly, I like it that people stare at them too. It takes the attention off my vertical challenge and secret-keeping black eyes.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy being the center of attention from time to time. I mean, I do. I just don’t like it for the wrong reasons—like my missing hand from the idiot who thought she was cute on the Ferris wheel when I was two. I sort of have a lot to hide. We’d best start with the things I can tell you about—the same things you probably paid to see. I have two belly-button piercings—one on the top and one on the bottom. Sometimes, I run string through the hoops and tie them together when I’m bored. The feline princesses like to bat at them and I enjoy the pain of it.

I travel around Madame Scarlet’s Carnival on a mini-bike. Apparently, it’s quite a sight to see. If anyone bothered to ask me about dreams of mine, I’d say I’d wish to grow tall enough to buy a Harley and get the hell out of here. But that isn’t going to happen, and I’m a realist. Still, I like being able to ride the bike around. It saves me from being tripped over or stepped on by giant cotton-candy grubbing monsters, who refuse to look down because God-forbid there’s a freak circus in town.

I’m really not that freaky at all. I feel like I’m like everyone else. My favorite snacks are Cheetos, Skittles, and vanilla cake. I’ve never really been into chocolate though, and people seem to think that’s strange. When I do get a sweet tooth, I only go for the darkest chocolate sold at the chocolate-covered cherry booth.

In my free time, when I’m not twirling around on a stage with a sign that says World’s Smallest One-Handed Baton-Twirling Woman, I like to read. I know, sounds boring right? It’s not. I love to learn and am obsessed with horror novels. They help me escape and believe there are far worse fates than the one I’ve been dealt being the ex-fling of the jewelry-making Wiccan, Rusty, whom I refuse to talk about.

What else can I tell you about myself (besides my cat fetish) that I don’t have to hide? I could start with my friends. Martha, known better as the bearded lady, is probably the best one I have aside from the princesses. When the freak-chasers have left, we like to sit outside my trailer and look up at the sky. She’s probably the only one who knows how much I hate it here. I wouldn’t want to hurt my parents, who still believe the circus gave us interesting lives.

Bearded Martha’s not the only one I talk to. There’s sex addict Joe who always manages to park his trailer next to mine and insists I call him Daddy just to get a rise out of the old lady down the way who can’t keep up with new wave jive. No thanks. Go away. He never really leaves. I feel bad for Moe—his conjoined twin who can’t escape him either and mostly just nods his head because he’s learned better than to argue with his more dominant brother. Joe has a thing for deep-throating swords, but somehow, I also think a crush on me in spite of the dirty looks he shoots me when I laugh at jokes he couldn’t possibly understand. That’s all right buddy, deep throat a weapon again. I’m not here for your midget porn fantasies, sicko. When this happens, I look right past him and say hello to Moe—who always smiles back and never annoys me. Moe and I are a lot closer than we’d ever let anyone believe.

And then there’s Leslie. She is not a friend of mine. All I’m going to say about her is that she’s probably the number one reason I want out of here. I’ve only warned her a thousand times not to go near the elephants, but every time she comes back teary-eyed and holding out one limb or another asking me to patch her up. That part, I don’t mind. But it’s when she blames the animals for her injuries that makes me see stars. Leslie is someone I have tried to stay away from but just can’t. It’s impossible, no matter how many times I complain about her reaching down and patting the top of my head. I’m not a dog! You see, Madame Scarlet has assigned us to the same slots for ticket sales. Because of this, it’s never-ending with Leslie, the contortionist’s, constant drama. Up next will be her going in that fun house alone at night. I’ve only warned her 3,000 times. But you watch. Some people just don’t learn. Some people listen even less than I do.

CIRCUS FREAK

Chapter Two

Whatcha up to? If it wasn’t for Moe, I wouldn’t even look up. Instead, I look over Joe’s shoulder and smile at his poor tag-along brother. He smiles back, a scarlet red rushing to his cheeks. I’ve always wondered why the blush never runs into Joe’s cheeks too. But then again, Joe’s the only one swallowing swords so maybe it’s just the way their conjoined bodies are set up. I can’t say I’m envious of them. The idea of another head with her own freewill and thoughts attached to my own neck is just too much. I guess, maybe if I was a conjoined twin, at least I’d have a better shot at two hands. Who knows? It doesn’t matter. You deal with what you’ve got.

Well?

Nothing much. Just chilling out. There’s no use ignoring him. If I don’t get rid of him fast, he’ll come right up on my retractable porch and start his yammering.

But I’m busy.

Doing what?

Thinking.

About what?

You—leaving.

Come on, Cat. Why do you have to be that way? You’re making Moe sad. Isn’t she, Moe?

I hate when he does that shit. He knows it makes his brother uncomfortable. Neither of us answer. It’s an unspoken dance we do—me, the midget, and him, the head without the nerve to fight narcissistic Joe.

Fine. But ten minutes. Really, Joe. I have stuff to do.

Like what? Pet your cats?

"Well, if you must know, I was planning on doing some reading. I do that, you know. You should try it."

I push hair that’s fallen in my eyes out of the way with the stump that hangs off my right arm. I’ve learned to use it quite effectively. It’s not like I really remember things being any different. In a way, I’m thankful for my disability because it’s what got my mother teaching me to twirl the baton. If I didn’t have that skill, God knows what might have become of me. I mean, I could have sold tickets with Leslie, but I’d have probably killed her. The time we do spend together is more than enough.

Ha, ha, very funny. I do read, you know. Just last week I read the entire Consumer Reports looking for a new sports car.

I roll my eyes. "And what do you plan to do with that? Hook it to your trailer? You don’t