The Clown
Now Playing: Fiction
Topic: Early Stuff - Pre-College
Standing silently in the Dark corner, he began watching the carnival crowd.
The loud and raucous noise assaulted the ears from every angle, the noise of joy and laughter becoming thick. Heavy in the cool night air. If one stopped to listen, the sheer volume would weigh clumsily on the shoulders. But it was not an unwanted, nor unpleasant weight for most; no, the weight of robust pleasure and delight usually is not.
His face was painted as one who brings smiles along with feelings of delight to the children of all ages – he was a clown. Face whiter than even the whitest snow; large blood-red lips painted on in an expression of joy. His eyes – midnight blue diamonds from which a solitary coal black teardrop trickled, forming a stark contrast upon the bright white face.
His clothes were those of the jester, the colors loud, at war with one another, taking on lives of their own beneath any type of lighting.
This supposed master of mirth stood in the shadows, where little light reached that colorful costume He only watched the carnival, not participating or contributing, for it held no happiness for him. His was not a mission of life warming laughter – his was a mission of death.
The Reaper, the Death bringer. Hr has many guises and forms, though none so contradictory as this. If a person were to look into his true face, past the make-up and through the disguise, the observer would see a faint glimmer of emotion – and find it out of place. The normally hollow eyes, the usual cold mouth, the overall skeletal form of the face betrayed a feint emotion of recognition, of remembrance. An elusive memory teased the back of Death’s mind, one which refused to be totally acknowledged or retrieved.
The time had come for him to step out of the shadows and perform his never-ending task, one which he had been performing for… an eternity, perhaps?
Weaving his way through deftly the crowd, unnoticed by the masses, he could sense his mark near. Yet he hesitated, as always when in this guise, for that memory flickered before him just out of his grasp.
A moment later, , he strode purposefully on his way, shaking of the personal specter.
And a moment after that, he found his target.
Standing before him was another clown, one which bore no resemblance to himself, for this was a clown of humor, a clown of joy. Yet he acknowledged Death’s presence with a nod of his head. The clown knew that his end was near.
As the Grim Clown reached for the one condemned, he faltered as his target spoke, requesting one final performance.
Reluctant, unsure, Death consented with a nod. It was not quite time yet.
The clown began what would be his final act. Juggling and laughing, tumbling and joking, he performed as only a master of his craft could. It was a show none could ever hope to match.
The sole observer watched intently, the memory closer than ever before. The comic fool’s performance was dredging up that which was long forgotten, bringing it to within arm’s reach. Death was startled at this, striving to remember, hoping for the memory to resurface.
And suddenly, it was over. The clown bowed and spoke a final word of thanks. He laid himself on the ground, and passed away with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction and contentment. Peering into the clown’s face, Death saw this feeling, and pondered. Once again, he saw the performance, though through the filter of memory.
As he retrieved the performance in his mind, he also found the elusive, slippery older memory, the one that had evaded his grasp for the last time.
Death smiled, silently thanking the old clown. He thought about the master’s act once again.
And he laughed.
The loud and raucous noise assaulted the ears from every angle, the noise of joy and laughter becoming thick. Heavy in the cool night air. If one stopped to listen, the sheer volume would weigh clumsily on the shoulders. But it was not an unwanted, nor unpleasant weight for most; no, the weight of robust pleasure and delight usually is not.
His face was painted as one who brings smiles along with feelings of delight to the children of all ages – he was a clown. Face whiter than even the whitest snow; large blood-red lips painted on in an expression of joy. His eyes – midnight blue diamonds from which a solitary coal black teardrop trickled, forming a stark contrast upon the bright white face.
His clothes were those of the jester, the colors loud, at war with one another, taking on lives of their own beneath any type of lighting.
This supposed master of mirth stood in the shadows, where little light reached that colorful costume He only watched the carnival, not participating or contributing, for it held no happiness for him. His was not a mission of life warming laughter – his was a mission of death.
The Reaper, the Death bringer. Hr has many guises and forms, though none so contradictory as this. If a person were to look into his true face, past the make-up and through the disguise, the observer would see a faint glimmer of emotion – and find it out of place. The normally hollow eyes, the usual cold mouth, the overall skeletal form of the face betrayed a feint emotion of recognition, of remembrance. An elusive memory teased the back of Death’s mind, one which refused to be totally acknowledged or retrieved.
The time had come for him to step out of the shadows and perform his never-ending task, one which he had been performing for… an eternity, perhaps?
Weaving his way through deftly the crowd, unnoticed by the masses, he could sense his mark near. Yet he hesitated, as always when in this guise, for that memory flickered before him just out of his grasp.
A moment later, , he strode purposefully on his way, shaking of the personal specter.
And a moment after that, he found his target.
Standing before him was another clown, one which bore no resemblance to himself, for this was a clown of humor, a clown of joy. Yet he acknowledged Death’s presence with a nod of his head. The clown knew that his end was near.
As the Grim Clown reached for the one condemned, he faltered as his target spoke, requesting one final performance.
Reluctant, unsure, Death consented with a nod. It was not quite time yet.
The clown began what would be his final act. Juggling and laughing, tumbling and joking, he performed as only a master of his craft could. It was a show none could ever hope to match.
The sole observer watched intently, the memory closer than ever before. The comic fool’s performance was dredging up that which was long forgotten, bringing it to within arm’s reach. Death was startled at this, striving to remember, hoping for the memory to resurface.
And suddenly, it was over. The clown bowed and spoke a final word of thanks. He laid himself on the ground, and passed away with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction and contentment. Peering into the clown’s face, Death saw this feeling, and pondered. Once again, he saw the performance, though through the filter of memory.
As he retrieved the performance in his mind, he also found the elusive, slippery older memory, the one that had evaded his grasp for the last time.
Death smiled, silently thanking the old clown. He thought about the master’s act once again.
And he laughed.
Another one from Tunisia in 1988 or '89. This was an interesting piece, I wish I remembered what was going through my mind at the time, or at least remembered what I'd wanted Death to be remembering. Kinda ironic. earthwulf
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