Burly's Vortex by Shelly Rae Rich |
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With just a prick of his whirligig, the clown controlled a balloon's destiny, could reduce it – from being a lioness proudly gazing over the tundra or prissy poodle strutting through the park – into a vacuous lump of plastic. Deflation too, was part of creation. The clown's name was Burly, both on stage and in life; he had no surname. His home was a boxcar left abandoned years ago in Puritan Woods by adult millionaire children who'd taken a passing interest in history, its cabinetry and flooring refinished in elegant cherry and mahogany, painted in rich green hues of emerald and forest. And gold. Burly thought it magical.
He took his entertainment and entertaining seriously: the joy of creation, for him, paramount. Twinkles and giggles, surprise and pleasure of his gifts yielded satisfaction for the most part. Yet sometimes when he relaxed, stretched out on the hammock between the oak arches in front of his home, lying coated in blankets of dew and floating through the mire of blackness, Burly sensed an implosion of his vortex.
Most people no longer understood a crazy laugh, a honking smile, a silly nilly walk. At times, he studied the men who wore faces with frowns and their ice-draped women who toted their babies; Burly observed how they were taught to emulate the staid adult world. And as they grew, children began attacking one another without knowing why, distancing, forgetting the magic.
When Burly's mind lingered too long on the daily doses of misdeeds he witnessed, the ovals of his happiness loosened, and the more his links struggled to be free, the more intense their grip – like Chinese handcuffs.
At Burly's final appearance, he assembled a trunk full of cheeky pink, ice blue and mustard yellow bubble animals, squeaky and fresh, unharmed. When he opened the lid to begin distribution of the goodies, Burly inhaled, and musky cedar stung his throat, airways and taste buds. Whirligigs buzzed in his ears, tickled his nose and pierced his skin. He knew with just a few twists, he could make things different. He'd rearrange the ovals, expand, become a new being.
Burly gasped and clutched at his chest as the children cheered thinking it part of his act, and he was elated with this audible and freely-given adoration. He stopped jerking and concentrated, furling into an incredible array of shapes as his body collapsed. The kids' cheers narrowed into whispers. They listened closely to low hisses while peering at Burly the clown in his cedar box, smiling and cushioned by the lining of colorful ears and tails and loping poly-bodies. Then, an invisible mist spun like a tornado, hugged them and was gone.
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Shelly Rae Rich lives in North Carolina where she teaches, writes short fiction, freelance copy, and works on her first novel. Some of her fiction is found or upcoming in print publications including Opium Magazine, Duck and Herring's Pocket Field Guide, and The Story Garden and online at Ghoti, Blue Print Review, Jjuked, Elimae and Eyeshot. She was a finalist in The Binnacle Ultra-Short Competition in 2004 and 2005. Additionally, she has read her own work in front of a live NYC audience and was an assistant editor for Opium.print #3. She loves pasta and it loves her.