Ren
This is a story I have thought about writing for years, born from a teenage obsession. I don't know if it's going to go anywhere. I'm hoping it will, but am not sure if it has legs yet.
The circus is back.
It’s been the talk of the town all week. As trucks arrived, food stalls were set up and fabulous strangers began to visit our streets, the excitement built to a deafening crescendo. The joys of small town living.
We never go, of course. It’s a massive taboo. But, every time that red and white point is hauled high into our sky, I wonder.
“Ren?” The voice breaks through my distracted thoughts. “Will you come with us tonight?” I pull my eyes away from the fluttering flag in the distance.
“I have to work,” I shrug and start towards home.
“See,” I hear Annabelle hiss as they walk away. I sigh. It’s not the first time I’ve caught the whispers about my family. Our disinterest does not go unnoticed. Another joy of small town living.
“Bye Ren!” Jack calls back to me, I raise my hand in acknowledgment without turning around.
The house is unnaturally quiet when I arrive, less like the absence of noise and more like the air is too full of something else to hold anything other than expectant silence.
I catch the screen door before it bangs and close it gently. My mum is at the kitchen bench, peeling potatoes, her brown fringe falling into her eyes as she works.
As I place my bag on the dining table she looks up and smiles. “Hi, love, how was your day?” Her voice is gentle, but I note the tense pull of skin on her forehead.
Grabbing the reddest looking apple from the bowl in the centre of the table, I rub it on the leg of my pants, “Okay.” I shrug, taking a bite.
I look into the lounge room, my dad sits in his usual chair with a beer balancing on the arm rest. The television silently flicks in front of him, but he’s not paying any attention.
Things are always off when the circus rolls in, I think to myself, licking the juice from my lip and eyeing my dad. He grunts, moving for the first time since I walked in and looks at me.
“There’s been a sighting.” He says before turning back to the telly. Mum pushes some papers toward me with her pinky, continuing her rhythmic potato skin removal as if it’s some sort of ritual.
Sticking the apple in my mouth, I wipe my hands down my pants and move to pick up the pile. I’m close enough now to see it’s photos and a news article printed off the web. These pictures aren’t the same as the normal blurry, distant shots people put up saying they’ve seen something.
Oh, no. This time, there’s clearly a black cat, sleek and way too large to be a domestic cat, long tail winding over it’s back like a question mark. My breath hitches as I lift the top sheet and find myself staring directly into my brother’s emerald green eyes.