Clown in a Cornfield

by Adam Cesare

Her tone was why people thought she was such a bitch. Her tone and that she kind of was. Whatever—it was fun to watch the sheep quiver.

In Kettle Springs she could keep her head down, avoid the drama.

No, not a clown, that clown. The town’s clown. The one who stared all night into her bedroom window, peering from the side of the burned-down Baypen factory. Pervo? Mervo? Frendo? Yes, Frendo. That was it.

Beautiful, but sad. And Quinn knew in her heart that if her mother were alive, she would warn her. Cole Hill was broken. He was trouble in every conceivable way a boy could be trouble. And Quinn already wanted to save him from himself.

You’re all so worried about what’s wrong with the kids, when you’re the ones selling us guns, telling us times were better when men were men, pretending that global warming is a hoax, and turning hate into a team sport. I mean, yeah, you have taken it all a step further, sure, but it’s not like anyone over the age of fifty has ever really given a shit about us. You guys may be homicidal lunatics, but, hey, at least you’re being honest about how you wish we were dead.”

Madness. Hate. Insecurity. Tradition. The American Dream.

“Sorry I made us move here”

Her hands would occasionally shake, and she kept lights on around the house all the time. Little things, but not insignificant. You didn’t get over killer clowns quickly.