The tires on the tiny car screeched in complaint as we whipped around another corner.

“Hold on, we’re almost there,” Lenny pleaded. His big, hairy knuckles tightened on the steering wheel as he pushed the gas pedal to the floor. If I hadn’t been in so much pain, the whole situation might have been funny. Maybe.

Lenny and I had waited years for this day. We were finally going to welcome a new freak to the family. Now, before you get upset at my political incorrectness, let me explain. You see, Lenny and I are both freaks. Professional freaks, to be exact. Thanks to the generosity of Mother Nature, we are endowed with certain characteristics that most people are lacking. On performance nights, we are Leo the Lion Boy and Lola, the World’s Strongest Woman. But right now we are Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Kolinski, desperately trying to get to the hospital before Little Kolinski joins the world.

Today’s show had started normally. Crowds had flocked to the circus to see Leo fiercely strutting around in his blue Speedo, flexing his muscles and showing off his hairy body. Due to my impending motherhood, my act had been scaled back. Instead of bench pressing three members of the audience, I contented myself by merely bending a few pieces of steel rebar. I was in the middle of tying one into a bow when it started.

Lenny and I had both gone through the childbirth preparation classes. They were all lies. I am firmly convinced that no amount of breathing, in any pattern or rhythm, can offset the pain of childbirth. When that first contraction hit, I broke the bar in half. Then I broke it in half again. And again. By the time it passed, the steel was scattered around me like peanut shells around an elephant.

As the audience gave me a standing ovation, Lenny hurried me off the stage. We barely made it off before the next contraction had me in its clutches. I could see the panic rising in Lenny’s amber eyes.

He rushed out of the tent to flag down a vehicle. The little orange car only had two seats and was covered with plastic yellow daisies, but the clowns were more than happy to lend it to us. Another contraction struck as the twelve of them started to get out. With six clowns left, we couldn’t wait any longer. Lenny, I and the rest of the clowns took off for the hospital.

As we pulled onto the busy highway, Lenny tried to clear the traffic by vigorously honking the horn. Unfortunately, the rousing rendition of “March of the Clowns” had little affect on the traffic. Next he tried flashing the headlights – but all that did was to send plumes of water spraying out of the plastic daisies. Six clowns then started to give advice in five different languages as we drove down the road looking like a bright orange musical water fountain on wheels.

The daisies were almost out of water by the time the officer pulled us over.

As the drenched policeman apprehensively approached the car, another one of those cursed contractions made an appearance. I did what any sane woman would do – I screamed.

The officer took one look at the screaming pregnant woman and ignored the car, the clowns and the hairy man in the Speedo. Running back to his car, he escorted us to the hospital with lights and sirens.

“We’re here, honey,”

Doctors and nurses materialized and helped me into the hospital. Before the clowns were out of the car, Lisa Cara Kolinski was welcomed into the world.

As I held our perfect baby, I felt a strange sense of disappointment. We had been hoping that our child would be blessed with some type of enhancement, something that would continue our family business. But she looked so – average. Normal hair, normal grip, ten fingers and ten toes. We had an average child.

Then she yawned.

She opened her little mouth wide and uncurled her tongue. It stretched out of her mouth like pink taffy, not stopping until it nearly reached her toes.

Lisa the Lizard Tongue had joined the Kolinski family.

I sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, waiting for Marge to emerge semi-clothed.
I was more terrified than I’d ever been in my life.

What people don’t realize about freaks is that all they want is someone to accept them – unconditionally. Yeah, I know. The prevarication is already on your lips, but liberals are the worse example of The Look, as I call it. The moment they see your deformity, they freeze rigid. Then they jerk their eyes away and act as if you were perfectly normal.
But it’s already too late. The Look told me all; disgust, revulsion, even horror.
If just one person didn’t react with The Look, it could turn a freak’s life around, but, unfortunately, it never happens.

So, there I was, sitting on the nuptual bed, racked with anguish. Previously I’d pushed all thoughts of my secret away, lost in the headiness of romance. Tonight Marge would see me for what I really was. To make matters worse, I loved her dearly.

Smiling shyly, Marge made her entrance clad in a flimsy negligee. The smile froze. “Darling, what’s the matter? First night nerves?”
“Ooooooh.”
I sighed so deeply and wearily she was at my side in an instant. “Hey Sweetheart, let’s just get into bed and forget all about sex. We’ve got all our lives ahead of us and-”
“It’s not that, Marge,” I cut in. “I’ve been living under false pretenses.”
There was so much agony in my voice, she stopped, concerned. “Mark, I know you. You are the kindest man I’ve ever met, and I love you.”
I grunted. “I should have told you. I’m...not normal.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, perplexed.
“I’m really...deformed.”
She shrugged. “Mark, it doesn’t really matter what shape or size it is―” She stopped when my face dropped even more. “You mean, you haven’t got one?”
“No. No, the problem is here.” I tapped my chest.
“But you’ve got a really manly chest,”
“It’s not a...chest, it’s... Oh, I can’t bear this!”
“Darling, no matter what, I love you!” she cried. “I don’t care if you have three nipples or a baby gorilla growing out of your armpit!”
I gave a distressed wail again.

“O.K., Mark that's enough!” She began to peel off my clothes. When she got to the bandages binding down my deformity, I closed my eyes. I could not bear to see The Look on her face.
I heard a gasp, then silence.

I opened one eye to see her staring at the wriggling mound of tentacles on my chest.
“Wow,” she said, “That is something. But haven’t you thought of, you know-?”
“Yeah,” I said, “Plastic surgery. The nerves go deep into my heart...I’d die."

She peered more closely at the writhing tentacles,then reached out and touched one. Reflexively, I wrapped it around her finger.
“Oh, it’s so soft!” she cried Then a sort of devilish look came into her eyes. “Mark, do you have absolute control over these things?”
“Yes, all eight.”
In an absolute fanfare of thighs, legs and breasts, she wriggled out of her negligee. I stared, bedazzled by her nakeness.
Then, with a mischievous grin that I’ll remember the rest of my life, she said archly: “O.K., Big Boy, go to town!”
I let out a resounding cry and I, er, went to town.

We didn’t sleep for nearly forty-eight hours.
When Marge finally succumbed to fatigue, she mumbled wearily (cosily wrapped in eight tentacles and one pair of arms): “Mm, that was incredible. I love you, Octoboy.”

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The restaurant was Marge’s idea. We called it 'Made From Scratch'. Marge is the 'Maitre De'; I’m the chef. I cook everything from scratch – in minutes. That’s the big attraction. We charge the earth, and folks line up outside the door, amazed that I do all the cooking myself.

“Our order so soon!" said the customer who’d asked to see the chef. “Seven different dishes? Wow, it’s like you’ve got two extra pairs of hands!”
Marge grinned. “Hey, if he did, I’d make sure he kept them to himself until we were alone together.”
I blushed, she winked.
I tell you, it only takes one person.

May 18, 1996

Dear Diary,

     Today is my 18th birthday. I am free at last! No longer will I have to face crowds of jeering, taunting children. Never again will the curtain open and the hot spotlights glare down on me. Never again will the ruckus turn to silence as every eye falls on me. Over and over I have heard that silence broken by some faceless voice muttering out loud: “My God, is it real?” Well no more. Today I will dress in my sun suit, open the door and walk out into… It occurs to me that I don’t even know what town the circus is in. Oh well, I will dress in my sun suit, open the door and walk out into the world, free at last.

Muscles

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June 1, 1997

Dear Diary,

     My parents have been found. I have a name! I have been called “muscles” for as long as I can remember, but now I have a real name. Today I go to meet them. I have learned that they sold me to the circus to pay off the medical bills they got when I was born. I forgave them long ago, and now I just want to see them. I want to know what I should look like. I need to ask them “why?” Over and over have I heard: “only a mother could love that.” And today I meet my mother. I hope she loves me.

Anne Marie Yates

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June 2, 1997

Dear Diary,

     My parents asked me to leave and never come back. I have a younger brother, and two younger sisters. They have never been told about me, and dad said they never would be. Strangely, it doesn’t matter. I should be crushed. I should be broken. But, somehow I am not. There is a clinic here in Seattle; I think I will check it out.

Anne Marie

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December 23, 1999

Dear Diary,

     Christmas is in two days, but today I got the greatest gift of all, a chance to be normal. The surgery won’t actually happen for another two weeks, but its close enough to call it a Christmas present. It took the doctors at the clinic nearly two years to diagnose me, and another six months to come up with a solution. It turns out that I have a rare birth disorder called endomycrosis. It was hard to diagnose because as far as anyone can tell, no one has ever survived being born with it, let alone lived to adulthood. It means that I was born this way; no hair, no skin, no nerves. Every muscle fiber in my body was exposed to the elements. I think that if I hear the word “miracle” one more time, I will scream. My childhood was no miracle: it was a nightmare. I still can hear the crying babies, the screaming women, and worst of all, the retching, as inevitably, someone in the crowd couldn’t handle the sight of me. Two weeks and it will all be over.

Anne

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January 8, 2000

Dear Diary,

     What a wonderful millennium this is going to be. Yesterday the doctors grafted skin over a small patch of my back. If it works, then I will soon have a whole body’s worth of skin. I wonder how many other people on this planet think a small three-inch square of skin is the greatest thing on earth?

Annie

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January 23, 2000

Dear Diary,

     It failed. Dr. Albright said there were other options, but his eyes said he was lying. I wish I had never been born.

Anne Marie

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November 24, 2005

Dear Diary,

     Today is Thanksgiving: three shows today instead of two. It should be a good day. There will be lots of kids in the audience full of turkey and stuffing. If I flex enough, I’ll bet I can make half of them throw it all back up. I might even get some of the adults. Funny thing happened last night while I was drinking with the troop. The tattooed lady said that in order to be a success as a circus freak a person has to be thick-skinned. Shows what she knows.

Muscles

The technician flips a switch and the crowd happily follows the command of the neon screen that just lit up.

Applause.

Here at the circus people will applaud at just about anything. It's the easiest job in entertainment. The crowd has no standards for freaks and fire-eaters, they have expectations on how "freaky" the "attractions" have to be. They simply come to have a good time and they love every minute of it.

The stage is set now and the lights dimming, preparing for a spotlight on yours truly.

"Introducing….a main attraction….an incredible display of amazement…."

I have time to take another look at my soon to be surroundings before the announcer finishes his array of cliché cliff-hangers. The house is almost full, a few upper decks empty. In preparation I move my arms and crack my knuckles. All twenty.

I have a pretty solid act tonight…

"…a mind-blowing magnificence…"

…my standard juggling act. For those of us with four arms, juggling is pretty much the consensus. I'm doing torches tonight. That's about as dangerous as I get. I was never much of a chainsaw person.

The spotlight catches me off guard and I do my traditional four-armed cartwheel onto stage.

Applause.

Today, I try to add something extra. I try to do better than my norm and give my best performance yet. This will be my last performance. Go out with a bang.

Six months ago I found a clinic willing to give me the procedure I've been searching for my whole life. Circus life doesn't exactly come with the best benefits, so I've been scraping up cash and odd jobs and extra hours. And now, I already had my appointment. Tonight, right after the performance.

I wake up in a daze, but instantly recognize the infamous hospital smell. I reach to rub my eyes, but can't. I'm trying, but nothings happening. Maybe I'm sedated. Then I realize what it is. I look down at myself and for the first time in my life I don't see the four-armed freak, instead I see Robert Johnson. A person and not an exhibit. A human and not a mutant. I reach to rub my eyes again, this time using the muscles for my remaining arms. Perfect.

Applause.

After years of being an abnormality, after years of fear, fear to walk the streets, fear to go out to eat, fear to be seen; after all these years, I am normal. Never has a word sounded so sweet. I have become what everyone on Earth takes for granted. I have become what no one cares about. I have become the basic form of human being. So simple. So unappreciated. I have yearned to be unappreciated, dreamt of being the average, cried because I was so special. Now I am the commonplace, run-of-the-mill, generic nobody. And I love it.

It takes a day to sink in. The initial feeling that all my dreams are fulfilled sinks. I realize what I've done. The constant reaching for doorknobs only to run into the door. Until now, I've dismissed them. I'll get used to it, just adjust, just adapt. Just these little things that don't matter at all. I have become less efficient, I have become the opposite of the circus freak I used to be. I am crippled.

They say that if someone cuts off your pinky toe, you have to learn to walk all over again. Just your pinky toe. They're probably right.

I have become the unidentifiable handicapped. I don't walk slow, I don't have a wheelchair. Ironic, how primitive everyone else seems when you've experienced otherwise. Maybe the X-Men were right, Homo Superior, I believe they called it.

Instead of embracing myself, I wanted more. I didn't have the virtue of individualism. I gave away the only thing that made me what I am. I gave away my identity. I might as well give the rest away too.

I don't want to learn to live this way, learn to live like a freak. I was never much of a chainsaw person.

My last performance, go out with a bang.

Ladies and gentlemen, the amazing dead man.

My curtain call.

I was by the SanFran waterfront, praying for a wind. My snowshoes left a trail that made me feel very exposed. I glanced warily at the decaying buildings and I cut out on to the ice, where even a slight wind would erase my shoe-prints. The wind came; and I sighed with relief. Now I could shake off anyone following me.

The humans hated me. They would have killed me when I was a kid, except they were terrified of Henderson. Nothing scares a person more than craziness, and Henderson was crazy. He was also huge, with an appendage growing out of his back that could near decapitate a man.
I turned back towards the shoreline again, feeling sad. I missed Henderson. Sure, he was crazy, but he’d been like a father to me and the only one who didn’t look at me with disgust when he saw my deformities.

Freak, they called me. I hated them as much as they hated me. Always, their disgust would turn to anger and then violence.
But Henderson had taught me to look after myself. He used to repeat daily, “By any means, with any weapon.”
I learned fast, and the path of my rejection was littered with corpses. It was them or me.
But then Henderson had just upped and died. The feeling of desperate loneliness returned, and here I was taking chances again. I gave a sigh. Henderson taught me everything I knew. He was good man, and at the end he tasted good too.

“Hey look! The Freak!”
The cry snapped me back to reality. I cursed. Five Snowboys were racing towards me, just a quarter mile away.
I didn’t run. I knew I had no chance. Snowboys have three webbed back feet. They can outrun anything on the snow.
Henderson’s survival mantras whispered into my ear: Think. Your weapon. Think. Don’t panic. Their weakness: your strength. What? Think.

Then I spotted the shipwreck barely showing above the ice. Its mooring chains were huge and still intact. My heart pounded. Snow boys ran good, but couldn’t climb. I kicked off my snowshoes and stumbled clumsily towards the chain.
The first Snowboy curved around to cut me off, yelling: “The Freak’s getting away.”

I reached the chain and leapt. My muscles were hard and strong, Henderson had made sure of that too. The Snowboy reached the chain and, rising on his three hind legs, he jumped. The distance was impossible but he soared up level, whipped a knife out of his shoulder scabbard, and cried: “Die, you friggin’ ugly freak!”

I slewed around and the knife missed. He fell back, to land sprawling onto his companions. They howled and screamed threats at me but I was away, up and over the dockside. Within seconds I was running through the covered dock sidings – towards home.

Home was a sewer that Henderson had cleaned out, carefully concealing its entrance. Safe at last, I collapsed onto the dogskin bed, exhausted by the pursuit. I looked around; Henderson’s things were still there, crude maps of food places, weapons, and his treasured drawings.

Henderson.
I didn’t realize how much I owed him and his long talks. My life, I guess.
I stood up and wearily dropped my weapons on the bed; sword, knife, bow, club. His words echoed unbidden in my head: 'The Burning, the Last War, that’s when it all changed, and people changed too. Those who had some advantage, like the Snowboys or the Bridgeboys who could see in the dark, survived. Others just died. Brains, that’s your weapon, use it; you’re smarter than all of them.'
It wasn’t enough.
I approached the mirror. He used to make me look in it every day. Trembling, I pulled the cover back.
There I was, repulsive, each side balanced by the other: one head, one nose, two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs. I even had five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot. Friggin’ freak.

The loneliness welled up in me again. No one can ever understand a freak because there is no one to understand, that’s what being a freak means.
I fell onto the bed and I cried myself to sleep even though I felt pathetic for doing so. After all, I wasn’t a kid anymore. Jeez, I was nigh on ten years old.

The state of Ohio began issuing certificates for deaths on December 20, 1908. The Ohio Historical Society holds death certificates for the entire state of Ohio from December 20, 1908 through December 31, 1953. Death certificates from 1954 to the present are held by the Ohio Department of Health. However, sometimes these records can be, well... we’ll say, not totally accurate.

This holds true in the case of a man named Edward P. Louis. He was pronounced legally dead in the year of 1910. His body’s final resting spot; or so they thought, was a small patch of dirt in a town they now call Brookfield, Ohio. His death certificate had stated that he had suffered a heart attack. They listed his death as natural causes. His story goes a little something like this:

The year was 1910 and the circus had just packed up and was heading out of town. They had worked all night and it was barely sunlight when they started their journey. They were working their way down a small dirt road which bordered the local cemetery when they heard the bell.

Back then, medicine wasn’t what it is today. Believe it or not, a lot of people were buried alive. This was actually first discovered by grave robbers. After removing lids from certain coffins, they would on occasion find deep claw marks on the undersides of those lids. Some of these would even have broken off finger nails embedded deeply into the wood. These were made by the unfortunate person who awoke to find themselves buried alive.

As they say: Necessity is the mother of invention. A man soon patented a coffin design which had a rope leading from inside the coffin up to the surface of the ground. The rope ran inside a small tube as not to let it be obscured by the earth. On the surface, the rope was attached to a suspended bell. Should a person be buried alive, they would merely have to pull the rope, thus sounding the bell requesting rescue. Edward’s coffin bell was the bell the circus heard ringing that morning.

After the circus had exhumed Edward’s body, the doctor who traveled with the circus gave him a full exam. The exam, in fact proved Edward to be legally dead. He had no vital signs of any kind. With no man willing to put Edward back into the ground while he was still speaking, Edward was let be.

Feeling a large sense of gratitude, Edward signed on with the circus for mere room and board, earning his keep working in their freak show. It didn’t take Edward long to realize that he had no physical feeling left in his body. This odd quark actually became his act. Not only did they bill him as “The Walking Corpse”, they were able to prove it to all that watched.

Edward would allow people in the audience to drive large spike nails into his hands. He would allow them to run razor blades down his back. But the main attraction was when he would pull out the drill. He would let one person per show run the drill into his body anywhere they chose, including his head.

There was only one draw back to Edward’s condition. Every day his body decayed a little more than the previous day. Smaller body parts such as the nose and ears quickly rotted off. They all knew that the rest of his body would eventually suffer the same fate. But Edward and his part of the show sold tickets by the fist full. Because of this, everyone who worked in the circus learned to tolerate Edward’s condition, including his horrible smell.

In the end, he was just parts and pieces. However, people still paid to see him long after he had fallen apart. You see, the pieces never stopped moving. Edward’s parts would be passed amongst the crowd for their examination. Once satisfied, they would be returned and the show would be over.

Eventually, even the parts rotted away leaving only useless bones. However, Edward was never forgotten by any who had seen him on the midway as “The Walking Corpse”.

I don’t know what caused it, so don’t bother asking. Mum said that God made me this way for a reason and I shouldn’t question Him. Pop always told people I was accidentally run through a printing press when I was a baby. Whatever the reason, I am how I am. And how I am is flat. If you look at me head on, you might not even notice, except I’m a bit wider across than most. But when you see me from the side, you find I’m only one inch thick.

I’ve always been a giving sort. My earliest memories are helping Mum in the kitchen, fetching things that had slid under the stove or the icebox. In my later years, I helped Pop out in his line of work, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

As I grew older, I began to notice I was different, but Mum kept reminding me that God doesn’t make mistakes. Sometimes, the other kids would poke fun at me, but once they got to know me, they were generally quite nice. I was a lock at hide-and-go-seek; I could hide in places nobody had ever thought to look. And when I turned sideways, I almost became invisible, which was a major advantage on the football field. When we played Tom Sawyer on the creek, I was always the raft.

I was about twelve when Pop started taking notice of me. He had barely acknowledged my existence before then; I guess he was a bit embarrassed. One Sunday when we got home from church, we found ourselves locked out of the house. My folks set in to arguing about who was supposed to have the keys. While they fought, I slid under the door and, from the inside, unlocked and opened it. Mum thanked me for being so clever, but Pop just looked from me to the door and back, his mouth hanging open and a stunned look on his face.

The next night, he came into my room after midnight and woke me. He told me he had a customer who needed my help. Happy to be of assistance, I jumped out of bed and was ready to go in seconds. When we got to the house, though, there were no people around and no lights on. Pop told me to slide in and unlock their door as I had done at home on Sunday. Once the door was open, he sent me back home to bed.

This went on several nights a week for several months before it dawned on me what he was doing. I was shocked and horrified when I realized I had been helping him steal. I vowed right then to renounce my life of crime and follow the straight and narrow. I was sure God had better things in mind for me. So, the next time Pop woke me up in the middle of the night, I was ready. As we walked through the dark streets, I slid into a crevice between buildings. Once Pop was out of sight, I went the other direction and never looked back. My only regret is that I never told Mum goodbye.

At that time, circuses and sideshows were everywhere. A guy like me could name his price and start work the next day. I’ve been working the shows and menageries ever since.

It’s been a pretty good life. Free room and board, plenty of spending money, and only two hours of work a day. Granted, it’s boring, doing the same things day after day, but the people who join the shows are some of the most interesting people you could ever meet. Some of my closest friends are freaks like me, and quite of few of my girlfriends have been too. The stories I could tell you about the bearded lady and the dog-girl would curl your eyebrows.

Sadly, it seems the freak shows aren’t as popular as they once were. People just aren’t comfortable gawking at nature’s oddities anymore. Pretty soon, I may have to get a real job. Don’t worry though; I already have a few leads. And if all else fails, I can always find work as a locksmith.

They told my mother I was supposed to die. It would have been easier for her if I had given up the ghost right away, but I wanted to stick around. Some say we are 99% spirit and only 1% flesh..if so, I am living proof of that. I only weigh 21 pounds, and I am 50 years old. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. I am not complaining, not anymore. I've been called everything from leprechaun to aborted feotus. I care not a whit anymore, you have to become thick-skinned in my business. People pay good money to gawk, so I figger they pay good money to comment, too.
Got a light? ..thanks...
Listen, I don't think of myself as a freak. I guess I know who I am, and not too many people can say that. You want to know why people come to stare at me? Because I remind them of who they aren't. I'm no different than the panhandler in a wheelchair at a bus stop..they stare but they won't look you in the eyes. I scare them, but I make them happy. Joe Shmoe doesn't want to be me, and he knows it. He walks out of this tent with a smile on his face. He may be in hock up to his eyeballs, his car is being reposessed, his wife is screwing his business partner...but he is happy when he leaves here..because he knows he is not me. He figgers that being me is just about the worst thing he could be.
Funny thing is, he's dead wrong. I don't tell him that.
See, I was born into my job. It's like God just tapped me on the head and said "Your job is to be a sideshow event in a large circus and that's it". No resume' needed. No lines at the unemployment office. No handwringing .
Makes me laugh. Joe Schmoe isn't so lucky now, is he. Busting his behind making minimum wage at a nothing job.
Yeah, when they come in to stare, it works the other way.
I look at them and think, I'm sure glad I'm not any of them.

When I was little, I didn’t understand why people stared at me all the time. After all, I didn’t feel any different from all the other kids. I guess it was because of my looks, but I have never understood why looks are so important to people. My family lives, and works, in a circus, and we’ve always looked different from the rest of the people. The other workers at the circus didn’t seem to mind. After all, they were all different too. That’s why they live in the circus.

But I don’t understand, what have my arms to do with anything? They’re pretty useful for me, especially when I get into fights with some of the other kids. After all, none of their arms can bite like mine. What makes me different from all of them is that instead of hands, I’ve got two serpent heads at the end of each of my scaly arms. I’ve always felt special because of my arms.

These thoughts always crossed my head before it was time for me to go out into the ring and show off my amazing arms. They even moved like snakes, which allowed me to do all sorts of complicated moves that ‘normal people’ could not do because of their boring arms.

I knew my act to perfection. I would go out into the ring, wearing a tight green suit with scales, and dance. The music was really exotic, and while I danced I could see the awed expressions in the public’s faces. They just loved me. People would come all over the world to watch me dance and make shapes with my hands. I have always been so proud of them.

Yet some people can’t understand the beauty of them. They laugh, tease and even throw things at me because I don’t look like them. Once, one of them threw a knife at me. It didn’t hit any vital organ, but I had to spend a week in hospital. Oh, how I cried. I cried and cried, because people just don’t seem to have respect for those who are different. My life has always been hard because of those persons, and sometimes it has been really hard for me to go on.

But when I step into the ring, and the mystical green light shines on me, and me only, everything suddenly makes sense. The soothing, mystical rhythm of the music invigorates my body, and my sensual moves give me all the security I need. When the audience claps at me, all the pain becomes worth it. I am suddenly a star, and people all love me. They don’t care that I am different. All they can see is my dance, and my talent. When the clapping washes over my body, caressing my ears, my life suddenly makes sense to me, and I am able to hold my head high, and smile at them. I am a star.

My Summer Vacation
Billy Jenkins
Fourth Grade

A week after school let out last year, my mother was baking a cake, but she didn’t have any eggs. She sent me over to Mrs. Johnson’s house to get some more eggs, and while I was there, Mrs. Johnson told me a secret. Sometimes Mrs. Johnson isn’t all that nice, like the day before when my bike fell over on her flowers, but this time she was much nicer than normal. She told me that I had the soul of a baboon! She said that when I was little, I was sick, and they had to replace some of my insides with baboon parts. I don’t know what a spleen is, but she said that I had a baboon spleen. She had a funny smile, but she gave me the eggs.
The next week, Jimmy and I went to the circus, and they had a tent with strange people in it. We talked to a boy with hair all over his body because he looked lonely, and when I told him about my baboon spleen, he got all excited. He told his boss about my baboon spleen, and that I had the soul of a baboon, just like Mrs. Johnson said. They asked me if I wanted to go with them, but my Mom said “NO!”.
I didn’t listen, and ran off that night with my new friend, Alfie. They called him “Wolf Boy” at the circus, but he was just hairy. He didn’t have claws or teeth, or anything. I think he might have some baboon parts too. His boss was normal, but there was a woman with a beard and a man with funny two-fingered hands.
I was in the circus for three days, everybody loved to hear about my baboon spleen, and Alfie taught me to make baboon noises. He said that it added to the F-ect, but I just liked to talk to people. One man spit at me, but most people were nice. They thought I was funny, and laughed alot. They gave me a tent with a rope swing, which was the coolest part. It was just like the rope swing at my Uncle’s farm, but without the pond.
Anyway, the Policemen came, and took me back home, and I think they took Alfie and his boss home too. They didn’t want to go either, but the Policemen eventually got them to get in their car. When we got home, my Mom was crying a lot, but she hugged me. I didn’t want to make her more sad, so I didn’t tell her about my baboon spleen. Mrs. Johnson looked pretty sad too, but I don’t know why. She won’t even talk to me anymore.
The rest of my summer was pretty boring. We didn’t go to Disneyworld, even though Mom and Dad said we would, but that’s ok. They said we might go next year. I want to see Space Mountain. Jimmy got to ride it (his parents took him) and he said he threw up at the end.

The End.