A/N: This was written for a writing speed contest. Respond in fifteen minutes to a given prompt, which I did. I actually like the overall result, although the ending could be better. =P Any suggestions?
Clown at a Funeral
He was at a funeral. Why was he at a funeral? Why was he at probably the most depressing event a human could imagine for others to go to? For one thing, he was a clown. Even though he wanted to be serious, it just wasn't bred in him to be gloomy and glum. He was the kind of person who always liked to make other people laugh, but at a funeral, that would be taboo. Funerals were supposed to be places to mourn for the beloved deceased, and the clown wondered why he had even been invited. It had never been his way to weep or cry or drown himself in tears, but here he was, at a funeral, where that was to be expected.
So what was he going to do now? If he started laughing in the middle of the service, people would think him insensitive, and he was anything but insensitive.
Well, not cold or mean either.
Or any of those other negative terms.
He was a clown.
Simple as that.
Meaning.. he was always happy. Cheerful. Pleasant. Gleeful, maybe to an extreme extent.
He was not at all the kind of clown that liked to scare little kids at night or any of that other good stuff.
He knew clowns like that, and he disliked them, feeling they were disrespecting the trade. If they were frightening, they were not doing their job right. If they were doing it on purpose, they were definitely not suited to be a clown.
An FBI agent or an interrogator would be a better job for them in his opinion, but then again, what did a clown's opinion really matter? All he was really supposed to do was make people laugh and forget about their worries. To express what he really thought would destroy the air he was supposed to give off, and being someone who adhered to the rules of the trade, the clown was unable to do such a thing willing.
Without realizing it however... that was a different story.
The clown tapped his finger against his chin and looked around at the black-swathed crowd. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. Was dressed in black, but that was the general rule of funerals. That was what he didn't get. Why did this country mourn for the dead? Where he was from, they celebrated the death of a loved one because they knew he was moving on to a better place. They appreciated the fact that the person had lived a long, happy life, even if it hadn't exactly been perfect. Who wanted a perfect world after all?
No one he knew.
Then again.. how many people did he really know?
Being a clown, he didn't get to get personal very often. That was one of the un-perks of his trade. He was forever a performer, even when he wasn't working. People who saw him walking on the street everyday would always ask him if he were a clown, even if he didn't have any make-up on. Just something about the air around him constantly made people laugh.
Was it the way he walked? The way he talked? The way he dressed?
What did it matter?
Didn't he have the right to dress, talk, or walk the way he wanted to?
Did he criticize other people?
Oh, all the time, but it was always in a satire way. He was always poking fun at them. The people who talked to him however were always serious, and they were always trying to change him.
He was a clown! What else did they expect?
He changed often enough on the job. Make-up, clothing, mood, personality, anything a person could name he could do.
Just what were the people at this funeral thinking now? He wasn't dressed up as a clown, but he knew they knew he was a clown. Did they think he was laughing his head off at death? That he didn't care at all about the poor widow and her children? That he was here merely so others would not think him respectful? That he was rude because he was wearing dark blue instead of black? That he thought the person deserved to die?
The clown sighed and bowed his head. All those questions he had just raised up, weren't they all defense mechanisms in their own way?
To think brightly of the world was a lot better than mourning it. The thing he most wanted to do was start dancing on the coffin of the deceased, but to these people, it would be sacrilegious and he would be kicked out, and that was something he definitely couldn't have happen.
He needed to be here. He wanted to be here, depressing place though it was and completely not the kind of place he was supposed to go to. The only thing he wanted to change was the mood of the place. He knew the person wouldn't want people to weep over his death. It just wasn't his way. His way was laughter, just like the clown's.
Then again, only clowns could understand each other.
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