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Abstract

"cb58">Sitting at his station, the clown slowly removes his greasepaint and his nose. His dirty red clown nose. His lovely red clown nose. His trademark. His nose and his clown horn.He can’t perform without them.It wouldn’t be the same.He could make balloon animals – funny-looking dachshunds and giraffes.It wouldn’t be the same without his red clown nose.He’d be another second-rate street performer begging for money.He sits and looks at his clown face, tired and sad without the greasepaint. Without the nose. Another sad middle-aged man. Broken and alone. No friends, except other clowns. And they are just a miserable as he is.He entertains us. But who will entertain him?<a href="https://readmedium.com/190ce06e05cd?source=post_page-----fdd570f1a76e--------------------------------">Paul Mansfield</a> is a writer, a photographer, a guitar player, a philosopher — some he does well, some not so well, but he still tries them all.You can follow him on Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/pmansfield/">@pmansfield</a></p

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Microfiction

The Burden of the Clown

Tears of despair to make the world a happier place

But Doctor, I Am Pagliacci.

Watchmen, Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons And John Higgins

The clown. The simple clown. Here to make us laugh. Greasepaint and pratfalls. Balloons and hijinks.

Here to let us forget our troubles, as he and his big shoes trip over other clowns or step on rakes, banging hard into their forehead.

Piling in and out of tiny cars, far too small to hold one person, let alone the whole clown troupe, especially when they fill the trunk.

Tumbles and jokes. Clown horns honking. Button flowers spraying water. Balloon animals for the kids. The clown is here to make us feel better and remind us of our humanity, our inner child.

Sitting at his station, the clown slowly removes his greasepaint and his nose. His dirty red clown nose. His lovely red clown nose. His trademark. His nose and his clown horn.

He can’t perform without them.

It wouldn’t be the same.

He could make balloon animals – funny-looking dachshunds and giraffes.

It wouldn’t be the same without his red clown nose.

He’d be another second-rate street performer begging for money.

He sits and looks at his clown face, tired and sad without the greasepaint. Without the nose. Another sad middle-aged man. Broken and alone. No friends, except other clowns. And they are just a miserable as he is.

He entertains us. But who will entertain him?

Paul Mansfield is a writer, a photographer, a guitar player, a philosopher — some he does well, some not so well, but he still tries them all.

You can follow him on Twitter @pmansfield

If you liked this story, you might also like this one:

The Clown

What’s not to love?

medium.com

Write for The Lark

Submission guidelines for a short story and poetry publication

medium.com