The Clown
(1970)

Original Work by S. J. WEBB, 4A.

The Clown fixes on his red blob-shaped nose. His attire is now complete his ginger-brown hair is hidden under an ugly silver-grey wig. The same old skewbald, patched trousers hang limply from his waist. His pale face is concealed beneath a layer of grotesque make-up. His false grin droops. His shabby jacket sags over his rounded shoulders These inanimate items of costume have been his only true friends for many years. They are all that he possesses in the world: they are his personality, his identity.

He sits in front of the dressing room mirror staring at his own image. Something inside his head speaks with a gentle, seductive voice.

What are you? What are you doing in this place? You don't need THEM! Leave this place! Leave it! Leave it! Leave it!

"Yes, yes, I'm leaving" He half awakens from his hypnotic trance. "You're right, I don't need them".

"Five minutes, Jim".

The clown turns and stares blankly at his caller, whose head juts out from behind the door.

"Jim, are you feeling alright?"

"Yes. I've got a headache, that's all".

He tears free from his mesmeric state and re-enters reality. His headache is no illusion. He really feels it. He casts a pair of tired eyes over the tangle of make-up, clothes, magazines, newspapers and other rubbish. He extricates several articles, but cannot find his aspirins. He searches the drawers but finds nothing. There is not time to search among the conglomeration of objects on the bench. 'The show must go on.'

He walks out of the dressing room to the entrance of the circus ring. The tight-rope act is just finishing. He enters the ring.

Each person wears a grin of eager anticipation which centres upon him. He commences his act with the other clowns.

He trips and falls in his own custard pie. He raises himself to his feet. He sees the grin on each face has changed to a guffaw. He is trapped like a wild animal in a cage.

The time has come for him to climb the ladder to the tight-rope. His head is becoming increasingly fuzzy. He feels the crowd's eyes eyes upon him as he climbs; eyes of elated anticipation.

He reaches the platform, edges his toe on to the tight-rope and steps on to the wire and then back on to the platform. That is part of the act; to fake fear. But this is real. The crowd laughs louder than ever. His head grows muzzier, his whole skull vibrating rhythmically and painfully.

He walks out to the centre of the wire, loses his balance, but miraculously regains it. This too is in the act. But this time his recovery is not complete. His swimming brain is unequal to the task, and the gale of laughter that greets his plunge from the wire is his public's final ironic tribute

S. J. WEBB, 4A.