Micro fiction

Pierrot the Clown

1 minute read

In my dream, the theatre curtains open and the play begins. Pierrot the clown walks across the old stage and sits at a small dressing table with his back to the audience; they watch him quietly from the darkened gallery.

Looking at himself in the mirror, the clown begins to remove his makeup with a handkerchief. First the cheeks, then the forehead. The lips. He lets out an exaggerated giggle at the sight of his face and the crowd reacts with a chuckle. They love it as he slaps his hands on his knees and laughs at his reflection. The clown’s glee is contagious, all heart and eyes and soul.

But slowly, his energy fades. The audience carries on cackling as he goes quiet. With the tips of his fingers he traces the skin around his eyes, as if something isn’t quite right.

Suddenly his face begins to melt, exposing the bloody arteries underneath. He panics but is unable to move. The fat inside his cheeks drops to the floor as he shakes violently in front of the mirror. His skull screams in red pain while the hidden faces revel in hysterical laughter.

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