Armand Diab
Barlow Crassmont has lived in the USA, Eastern Europe, Middle East and China. When not teaching or writing, he dabbles in juggling, solving the Rubik’s Cube, and learning other languages. He has been published by British Science Fiction Association, Mobius Blvd, and in the 41st anthology of Writers of the Future.​​
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REGIMEN REVENUE​
I always detested aberrations in all their forms, until I became one.
The meetings I had to endure only confirmed those fears. The Chair who ran them smiled, but with a shitload of phony in his expression. You know, squinting eyes, too many flashed teeth, a forced grin, followed by three mechanical nods. But especially today.
His cheap aftershave hangs in the musty air as I pour myself a coffee. Not warm at all. No sugar, either. And the donuts are stale. What else is new.
Seven of us sit in a circle, like recovering knights of the hooch table. Our tent is large, spacious, but muggy. Little fresh air gets in the transparent enclosure. Numerous spectators wander outside. They stop and gaze at us, ignoring the skillful juggler behind them. Their eyes are bulgy, their mouths agape, and the only thing grander is their curiosity. I divert my attention, and turn back to the meeting.
The blonde newcomer is anxious and fidgety. Unsure of why she’s even here. She stands up, shivering, stuttering her words, and introduces herself. The rest of us respond in unison, like a mindless cult: Hi, Jennifer!
Often I wonder why I even bother, for my progress is non-existent. I’m just delaying the inevitable until I succumb back to the demon. But at least the stories I hear are fun. One can never underestimate the power of a suppressed chuckle.
Our Chair opens the flap door, letting in a much needed breeze. It brings the aroma of funnel cakes and cotton candy from outside, enticing our growling stomachs. The tune of the carousel makes its way to our ears, and for a brief moment, we all feel like children spinning endlessly on the fiberglass animals. More people crowd the outside of our
canvas. They stare, giggle, and snicker. Their fingers track each of us as they did to freaks of yore. Deformities are so yester-year, our Chair says. We are the new sideshow. And with ticket admissions, we can invest in new treatments.
A chubby boy presses his nose against the clear coating of the canopy, making faces and grimacing to the rest of us. I stick my tongue out back at him, much to the dismay of our Chair.
Another member rises. On and on he goes about what he regrets, what he fears and what he hopes to accomplish. I tune him out while craving a cold one. I should be so lucky.
Yet the same can not be said of my fellow members. They are on the road to recovery - or so they claim. Just like the man running the meeting, they spew phony sentiment with each and every syllable. But I see right through them.
Like a discerning observer at an anomaly exhibition - only from within.