This is just the first in my ongoing collection of short stories with a more dismal mood. They have no overall plot, and the narrator is always present, but not omniscient. This is my first story post on this site, so please tell me if I messed something up.
The feeble March sun struggled through the gray haze that engulfed the shore at Hallows Wharf. Even the bright reds and yellows of the monstrous tents seemed dull and lifeless as we made our way to the carnival.
“Come on, now! We’ll miss everything if you don’t hurry up!” called Harry, who had been my dearest friend for as long as I could remember. I hurried after him as he scampered away toward the center tent. We paid our admission and stepped inside. Working our way up a winding path of staircases, we found our seats just before the show started. There were acrobats walking across hi- wires, a seal that bounced a ball with his nose, and a group of ponies, all decked out with ribbons, trotting around. I cheered as the seal dribbled the ball and gasped when the acrobats went flying through the air, fifty feet above the ground. Harry and I exchanged excited remarks of “Did you see that!?” “Oh, that was amazing!” and such.
In fact, I was having a wonderful time. Until, that was, the clown came out. He wore shoes that were ridiculously large, and his nose was a red blob. He went around the other carnies and tripped over his feet while the all crowd laughed uproariously. Except for me. I pitied him, that poor soul. He, who went from place to place, living only as a fool, whose only purpose was to give people a laugh by making a… well, clown of himself! What a lonely life it must have been; for who could ever love a clown?
When the final curtain was drawn, and only he was left on the stage, an expectant crowd waited for his “grand finale”. But he just stood there, with his head down and his shoulders dropped. Then, he looked up, and smiled a sad, lonely smile. “Do you think I am funny?” he asked. His voice was soft, but it rang clear in the tent. The crowd cheered excitedly. The clown smiled that same smile again. “Because,” he began “I really don’t think I’m funny. Really, I’m quite wretched. To be a puppet of society, to live for the purpose of being a symbol, a symbol of a fool- you don’t know my pain!” he cried. His voice rang with a sad passion as he spoke of his hurt, as he told of the folly of being Fate’s marionette.
But then, as his speech reached its climax, as he stepped forward to emphasize his words, he tripped on his shoe and fell, face down, into the dirt. The crowd laughed. They cackled and hooted; “ha-ha” they chorused. They sniggered until they were doubled over, gasping for breath. The clown, lifting himself up from the dirt, looked up at the crowd that surrounded him on all sides, laughing at him, at his clumsiness, his foolishness. I too, looked over the crowd in horror, taken aback by their callous and cold-hearted laughter. I looked to Harry, for surely he too would not laugh at the miserable man, but there he sat, snickering at the clown with the rest of them.
And so, as all the world laughed around us, the clown and I sat there and cried.
It's so sad. Like Gyr said, you're a very sophisticated writer, and I enjoyed this piece a lot.
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