C.L.O.W.N.S

Clever Little Oddities With Never-ending Smiles

Hello. I’m clown number 19. A little kid of about 12 years named Billie owns me. He owns me and 57 others. Some of us are clown dolls. Some of us are clown puppets. But we all share the same ambition. We all have the same intentions.

I’m his favorite. Or at least I used to be his favorite. All of us were, at some point. But we were replaced with newest doll in his collection every time. I disliked this. Actually, I hated it. But not as much as I hate his new puppy, Spotty.

When spotty came along with his moving limbs and his fur and his stupid playfulness, Billie forgot all about us dolls. He only plays with spotty now. Everyday, I wait for the closet door to open, and for him to gently take me down from my spot on the top shelf. Everyday, the dust piles up and the darkness gets a little thicker. My patience grows ever shorter. The hate heaps. The resent gathers.

So Billie wants to forget me? I’ll give him something he’ll never forget.

Ever.

But there’s a problem. I can’t move on my own. Damn my creators! Damn them to hell! How dare they fill me with such useless fluff!? Not only that, but they failed to give me fingers! YOU ALWAYS FORGET THE FINGERS!! Not to mention my head is abnormally big! Ah, well, the better for me to think with.

I once saw Billie’s fluff. It was very interesting. Very interesting indeed. Why is it that these weird human creature’s fluff is so bright red and flowing? It’s almost as red as the little tufts of yarn I have for hair. Almost as red as my thin stitched smile. It’s warm too. There is a spot of Billie’s fluff on my arm. But the most important thing about Billie’s fluff is that is seems to pain him when it comes out.

How….fascinating.

My large, black, button eyes desperately crave to see more of this fluff. Lots more. Pools of it, heck I want to bask in it!

But for now, I will have to wait in this closet until Billie decides to remember me. I, Clown number 19, will figure out how to move. And then I will wait. While the dust collects and the deep dark pulls me in more each day, the hate will grow. And I will be remembered. All 58 of us will.

Always.

Author note: Ah, please forgive the choppy-ish scentences. I was trying to post it the exact way the clown was thinking it. I'm practicing short stories! :)

So.

Yeah.

...I'm done.

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Okay, for real now.

Cerulean K. Harmony