Laugh Your Head Off Again and Again

by Various

  I dragged it outside in the dark of night and hid it in the shed behind the plastic tubs of camping gear and old tiles and tins of paint. Mum asked where the painting had gone, but I never, ever owned up to my crime. I thought that was the end of him, until tonight.

  Someone yells, ‘Boooo!’ Someone else says, ‘Come on, kid. Hurry up!’

  When I still refuse to move, Sasha’s dad jumps out of his seat, picks me up and puts me over his shoulder.

  ‘No!’ I struggle and pound my fists against his back to let me down, but he’s too strong. He carries me into the ring. He dumps me on the ground next to Giggles, who takes me by the arm. Sasha’s dad strides back to his seat to wild applause.

  Giggles pulls something out of his pocket and holds it up to the crowd. He does not speak, just points and fake-smiles. It is a clown suit. From his other pocket he produces a bright orange wig. He turns to me with those bloodshot eyes of doom, oil paint dripping down his face. Spider webs and dead grass are tangled in the wig that pokes out from the edge of his fedora. He smells like our shed— lawnmower fuel and rat droppings. I want to run but he digs his long fingernails into the soft flesh of my upper arm. I look out at the crowd.

  ‘Put it on!’ they scream.

  I look at Sasha. She’s smiling at me with a face full of expectation. So I pull the stupid clown suit on. It is white with rainbow spots and a pink-and-orange ruff around the neck. Giggles pulls the wig down hard on my head, then plants a kids’ fire helmet on top. He slathers my face in white make-up using a paintbrush big enough to paint a house. He snaps a red nose on me and scrawls lipstick across my lips. The crowd loves every minute. He’s a funny guy, Giggles.

  He shoves me backwards into the small fire truck that he arrived in. My feet are hanging over the front because it’s so small. There is a little steering wheel perched between my legs. Giggles holds up a large, silver, glittery box and pulls up an aerial. He flicks a switch and the fire truck takes off. Soon, the crowd is a blur. I am speeding around the ring with a demented clown at the controls. I am embarrassed and petrified, and hundreds of people are watching me. They start up a clap in time with the crazy circus music.

  Giggles’ sickly, black tongue squirms at the corner of his mouth as he stands in the centre of the ring, steering the truck with the remote. His eyes are narrow and he gleams with sweat. He throws an arm in the air and a thick wall of flame leaps from the floor right next to him.

  Giggles turns the fire truck hard and it skids to a stop. I try to pull myself out of the truck, but it takes off again before I have a chance. I am heading directly towards the wall of fire. Surely this lunatic isn’t going to drive a child through fire? There’s no way I’ll get through it without being toasted like a marshmallow.

  The crowd seems to realise what is happening. They stop clapping as I speed towards the blaze.

  My throat closes up. I’m only 20 metres from being burnt alive and I’m gaining speed. I can’t jump out now—I’m going too fast. I grab the wheel and rip it to the right. The truck moves right but Giggles, with the remote control, steers me back towards the fire. I rip it to the left and Giggles steers me back again.

  I can see the crowd behind him. They look worried, which worries me even more. People call out ‘STOP!’, but Giggles is hell-bent on killing me, I know it.

  Tom Weekly does not go down without a fight. I decide to drive the truck right at him. I will face my fear and take him down. I’ve had enough. It’s Tom Weekly vs Giggles the Clown, and the Gigmeister is going down.

  He stands just to the left of the wall of fire. As I twist the wheel, charging towards him, I see a flicker of fear in his red-rimmed eyes. The speeding fire truck is ten metres from both the flames and the world’s most dastardly clown. He steers me towards the fire, and I steer back. He steers me towards the fire again, and I steer back. I’m five metres away and I can feel the terrible inferno. Giggles is hunched over the remote control and is not about to give in. Good, because neither am I. I am two metres from the fire and there is a very real chance that I am about to be barbecued. Crowd members run into the ring towards us. Sasha’s dad is one of them.

  Now! I tear the wheel to the left and clamp it there with my hands and knees. I put every last shred of muscle and energy that I have into this.

  The fire engine skids and feels like it’s about to roll when the shiny silver bumper bar hits Giggles right in the shins. He screams, falls backwards, and his oversized clown shoes flip the truck up in an explosion of ladders and jingling bells. I am thrown out of the truck towards the devastating wall of fire. I hit the ground hard and flames lick my clown suit, setting my wig alight. My head is on fire, and I roll over and over to kill the flames. Someone from the crowd helps.

  As soon as the flames are out, I look back. The truck has stopped dead, right on top of Giggles. His arms and legs are pinned beneath the vehicle. The remote control, aerial snapped, lies on the sawdust next to him.

  Two clown paramedics run across the ring with a stretcher. Sasha and her dad reach me. I sit up. Sasha gives me a huge hug. In that moment, feeling the warmth and kindness of her, and the relief of knowing that I am alive, my coulrophobia seems to slip away.

  I am no longer afraid of clowns.

  Sasha holds my hand all the way home in the car.

  ‘Goodnight, Tom,’ she says when we pull up outside my house. She looks at me in a way she’s never looked at me before. I gaze back.

  ‘Alrighty then,’ says her dad, switching on the car’s interior light.

  ‘Okay, g’night,’ I say, climbing out of the car.

  Sasha wipes the steam from the back window and watches me as they drive off. I float up my front path on an air-biscuit of Sasha-love. I knock on the front door. Footsteps. The door opens. Mum screams when she sees me dressed as a lightly toasted clown.

  ‘What are you wearing that for?’

  ‘Long story,’ I say, pushing past her.

  ‘How did you go with the clowns?’

  ‘Good. I mean not good. I’ll tell you in the morning,’ I say, heading down the hall.

  I shut the bathroom door and rest my back against it. I sniff the hand that Sasha was holding. I can smell her popcorny goodness. I decide to never wash that hand again. I figure I’ll put it in a plastic bag when I shower.

  I look at myself in the mirror. I have saved my life, overcome my fear of clowns and won the girl of my dreams—all in one night. I straighten my burnt, orange wig and adjust my nose. I look kind of cool. Sasha loves clowns. Maybe that’s why she looked at me that way?

  I smile at the mirror, then I bare my teeth like I’m about to eat a small child. Then I smile sweetly again. It’s fun to be a clown. I squeeze the spurty flower stuck to my clown suit and water drips down the mirror, blurring my reflection.

  I think back to Giggles being arrested and taken away in cuffs after receiving medical attention from the clown doctor. I guess Dingaling Brothers will probably be looking for someone to replace him. And for the first time in my life, I think I know what I want to be when I grow up.

  A PERFECTLY

  NORMAL

  THURSDAY

  by

  Deborah

  Abela

  It was a perfectly normal Thursday when there was a knock at the door of the Sneddley cottage.

  ‘Are you expecting anyone?’ Mrs Sneddley asked.

  ‘Not that I am aware of,’ Mr Sneddley answered.

  Mr and Mrs Sneddley weren’t the type of people who expected knocks on the door, mostly because they didn’t have any friends. They once did, but that was a long time ago and the few relatives they had lived in a country far away where wild creatures with long tails hopped down the streets and may have gobbled them up.

  Visitors were something that simply didn’t happen.

  Even strangers stayed away from their house, which sat crooked and grey beneath peeling paint. The plants were dead, there were prickles in the grass and the welcome mat had long since been taken to t
he tip.

  There was another knock.

  ‘There it is again,’ Mr Sneddley said, not knowing what else to say.

  There was a rather long pause before Mrs Sneddley said, ‘I guess we better answer it.’

  Mrs Sneddley turned the key and opened the door by the smallest of smidgeons.

  And there she saw a parcel.

  For many people, receiving a parcel would not cause the slightest fuss, because this is the kind of thing that happens with people and the places they live. There are knocks on doors followed by parcels arriving. The parcels are then opened to either surprise and delight or sometimes disappointment if they discover Grandma has sent underwear and socks for Christmas. Or maybe slices of ham if Grandma was a bit old and rickety.

  It’s all very normal.

  Except if you’re the Sneddleys.

  They were never remembered by anyone who may send gifts. Or slices of ham.

  But there was something else about this parcel that made it even more unusual.

  It was attached to a young girl. Well, not attached, exactly, but held for dear life in her shivering hands. ‘Can I help you?’ Mrs Sneddley poked her nose through the opening.

  The girl stood on their doorstep as if this was all perfectly normal. She wiped the melted snowflakes from her cheeks. ‘Why, yes.’ She was all smiles. ‘I have a gift for you.’

  This did nothing to clear things up for Mr Sneddley, who was standing behind his wife, leaning in as far as he could so he could hear every word.

  ‘A gift for who?’ Mrs Sneddley asked.

  ‘If it’s no bother, could I come inside? It’s cold out here.’ The girl was a bit soggy and the falling snow was making it worse.

  Mrs Sneddley wasn’t sure. She wasn’t in the habit of letting strangers into her home and even though this one was small and harmless-looking, it was still something that she and Mr Sneddley just didn’t do.

  But the girl’s cheeks were bright red, she wore no hat and there was a hole in the toe of her left boot.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Mrs Sneddley lifted the chain from its hook and opened the door wider.

  The Sneddleys stepped back, partly from fear, but mostly from what could only be called ‘a right stink’.

  Mrs Sneddley held her nose and pointed at the little girl’s boots, which seemed to be coated in manure. ‘Better leave those outside.’

  As she directed the girl to the fireplace, Mrs Sneddley’s head swished wildly with thoughts of what she’d done.

  Maybe the girl was a thief who’d come to steal their worldly possessions. Or she was a decoy for bigger thieves who were waiting in the bushes until the girl tricked her way inside with her cute ways and innocent eyes that fluttered with long curled lashes.

  Maybe letting this girl inside would be the end of them.

  The fire roared and crackled and the heat soaked right into the girl’s bones, warming her fingers and especially those toes. She placed the parcel on the floor and rubbed her hands before the flames.

  ‘That’s very nice. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Mr Sneddley answered, still not sure why this perfectly normal Thursday had become so strange.

  Even though the house looked quite run-down from the outside, inside was different. There were cabinets full of fine crockery that looked fit for a queen.

  Mr Sneddley watched as the girl looked at their cabinets and thought perhaps that was why she was here. She was going to rob them so they had nothing left to call their own! His heart quickened. Oh why had they let her in?

  Maybe he could shuffle her out the door before it was too late. He winced at the thought. He’d never rough-handled anyone, especially a child, but he was consoled by the idea that the snow would make a soft landing when he booted her out.

  The girl sniffed. ‘What’s that smell?’

  Mr Sneddley’s thoughts of child-shuffling were interrupted.

  ‘That’s Mrs Sneddley’s cake. We were about to have afternoon tea when we heard knocking.’

  That was when she saw it. A small table set for two, and in the centre was a marvellous cake. It was covered in chocolate icing that dripped down the sides and was sprinkled with crescents of candied orange and curls of white chocolate.

  The girl’s stomach rumbled. It had been a long time since she’d eaten and the cake made her tremble so much that she worried she might collapse. ‘It looks very delicious.’

  ‘It is,’ Mr Sneddley agreed. ‘Mrs Sneddley makes the finest cakes in the whole of Muddly Shire. She’s won the Muddly Shire Cake Competition five times in a row. She’s unbeatable.’

  ‘Oh stop now,’ Mrs Sneddley blushed.

  ‘I won’t,’ Mr Sneddley said. ‘Not when it’s the truth.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re the best cake-maker in the world?’

  Mr Sneddley stood taller. ‘I reckon she’d have to be.’

  ‘Now stop, both of you,’ Mrs Sneddley said.

  ‘People would come from miles around to our cake shop in town until . . . ’ Mr Sneddley stopped, as if the words had been plucked from his mouth.

  There was a small pause where no one knew what to say. Then Mrs Sneddley asked, ‘Would you like some?’

  The girl’s stomach rumbled even more at the thought of eating. Using her best manners and her most polite voice she answered, ‘Yes, please.’

  After Mrs Sneddley sent her to the bathroom with a jumper, thick woollen tights and an extra large bar of soap, they sat down to tea. Mr Sneddley cut the cake, scooping up chocolatey slices and laying them carefully on each plate as if they were delicate pieces of art.

  The girl tried to steady her hand as she lifted the fork. It took all her strength not to grab the cake and gobble it in one gulp. Instead, she slid the fork into the cake and placed a dainty sized portion in her mouth.

  She closed her eyes. The cake made her feel light and dizzy. Her fingers and toes tingled. She worried that when she opened her eyes, she might actually be flying.

  ‘It’s truly the most delicious thing I have ever eaten.’

  Mrs Sneddley smiled. ‘It did turn out rather well.’

  After another piece, the girl fell asleep in her chair. Just like that.

  ‘What should we do?’ Mrs Sneddley whispered.

  All thoughts of shuffling the girl into the snow were gone from Mr Sneddley’s mind. ‘We’ll put her to bed and in the morning she can be on her way.’

  ‘The spare bed?’ There was an inkling of fear in Mrs Sneddley’s voice.

  ‘It’s time we put it to good use.’ Mr Sneddley lifted the girl but as he did, she curled her arms around him and nuzzled into his neck. He wondered if this was a bad idea. If perhaps something had begun that was too late to stop.

  Mrs Sneddley was thinking the same thoughts.

  But what could they do?

  Mr Sneddley carried the girl upstairs to a room filled with books and wooden toys and painted with bright sunflowers. He gently laid her down and Mrs Sneddley drew the covers to her chin. The girl snuffled a sleepy breath.

  The Sneddleys stood above her. They felt light and dizzy. It had been a long time since they’d allowed visitors into their home and they hoped it was okay to break the rule this one time.

  They tiptoed downstairs and it was only then they remembered the parcel. Mr Sneddley carefully opened it. Inside was a letter. It was crumpled and the words were faded and hard to read. It said:

  For you to keep

  It certainly was the most unusual Thursday they’d ever had.

  The girl slept for two days and when she woke she was famished. Over a breakfast of porridge and honey and hot buttery raisin toast, Mr Sneddley asked. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Skylar.’

  ‘Where do you belong, Skylar?’

  She shrugged. ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Everyone belongs somewhere,’ Mrs Sneddley said.

  ‘Not me. When I was a baby, I was dumped on the doorstep of two people who smelled like cabbage and, when I was o
lder, made me clean the house and scrape cow manure off their boots. We lived on a dairy farm. There was a lot of cow manure.’

  ‘They’ll be missing you,’ Mrs Sneddley said.

  ‘They’ll be missing their clean boots, that’s all.’

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘They said I had a dangerous imagination and the only thing for it was to send me to bed without supper. Which happened a lot.’

  ‘Maybe they meant well,’ Mrs Sneddley said, even though it was hard to imagine how they could.

  ‘You’ll miss school,’ Mr Sneddley said.

  ‘I’ve never been.’

  An unexpected anger rose in Mr Sneddley’s chest.

  Mrs Sneddley asked, ‘So how did you write the letter?’

  ‘I didn’t. It was in the box with me when I was found on the doorstep. I was given a home the first time, so I thought it might work again.’

  ‘Still,’ Mrs Sneddley decided. ‘We should take you back.’

  But they didn’t.

  One day became another, and Skylar stayed. Mrs Sneddley showed her how to find the plumpest berries in the forest and Mr Sneddley taught her to read and write. ‘Not reading is like not eating,’ he said. ‘A child needs both or they simply waste away.’

  Every night, he read to her in bed. ‘We’ll start with Charlotte’s Web, one of our favourites.’

  Skylar loved the story of the little girl called Fern and how she saved the runt pig called Wilbur. Mr Sneddley put on a different voice for every character, so it felt as if they were real.

  One night, after Mr Sneddley finished another chapter, Skylar asked, ‘Why do you have a children’s bedroom?’

  Mr Sneddley took a long time to answer. ‘We once had a little boy, but his lungs were weak and he didn’t last.’