Crowclown
He was a crowclown. Small dark eyes glittered like a bird’s deep in the hollows of his face. Six more and he would have looked like a spider. Big black circles surrounded his eyes. The end of his nose was a ravaged black that looked like frostbitten flesh. The black around his mouth was perfectly edged but still looked like a stain. It wasn’t makeup. It looked tattooed. It looked dyed. A mirrored clown make-up rorshach birthmark on his face. He had little triangles above and below his eyes.
Black matted hair sloped down around his ears like Victorian royalty. His ruffled collars looked ludicrous above his black and white thick-striped oversized long-sleeved shirt. He was wearing starched black overalls that were dirty from the climb from his grave. His oversized shoes sparkled with an obsidian finish. Sharp fingernails of polished jet poked out from the fingertips of his ragged black gloves.
He was a circus raven. He was a zombie mime. He was a shaman from the crow tribe of juggling Iriquois. He was a spirit of revenge. He was a Hell-oquin.
Back from the deadpan.
He perched up in the ceiling ropes and surveyed the floor of the big top’s center ring. The monochrome pattern of his clothes kept him hidden in the play of light amongst the rope’s shadows like a tiger’s stripes in tall grass. If one did see him, one could be forgiven for thinking that it looked he was at the center of a web.
Every circus has one. They are unsettling but necessary.
They infest the rooftops of clowntown like pigeons.
tags
Black matted hair sloped down around his ears like Victorian royalty. His ruffled collars looked ludicrous above his black and white thick-striped oversized long-sleeved shirt. He was wearing starched black overalls that were dirty from the climb from his grave. His oversized shoes sparkled with an obsidian finish. Sharp fingernails of polished jet poked out from the fingertips of his ragged black gloves.
He was a circus raven. He was a zombie mime. He was a shaman from the crow tribe of juggling Iriquois. He was a spirit of revenge. He was a Hell-oquin.
Back from the deadpan.
He perched up in the ceiling ropes and surveyed the floor of the big top’s center ring. The monochrome pattern of his clothes kept him hidden in the play of light amongst the rope’s shadows like a tiger’s stripes in tall grass. If one did see him, one could be forgiven for thinking that it looked he was at the center of a web.
Every circus has one. They are unsettling but necessary.
They infest the rooftops of clowntown like pigeons.
tags