Clowns usually start falling into town ten days before the rut. Local authorities keep count of them, and at the appropriate number fence off Patriot Park, start herding them in. There is no exact day the rut starts—whether the time is driven by hormones or proximity en masse, no one knows. Vendors surrounding the park sell mostly to the curious, not participants. When the tribe of The Big Red Shoes arrives, we know it is about to begin. We get our tickets. Of the last rut’s infant clowns? Such is not our concern. We look to the show only.
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Ken Poyner
Ken Poyner’s four collections of brief fictions, four collections of speculative poetry, and one mixed media collection, can be found at most online booksellers. He spent 33 years in information systems management, is married to a world record holding female power lifter, and has a family of several cats and betta fish. Individual works have appeared in “Café Irreal”, “Analog”, “Danse Macabre”, “The Cincinnati Review”, and several hundred other places.