Roy William Scranton
A story starts with a sad child. A story starts in front. Flat in contrast, numbers well within range, okay, right, go. Here come the clowns.
The clown breathes heavy, wet air into a red balloon, a pink balloon, a green or purple balloon, the fleshy stretch tightens expanding with each huff and hew, he ties them off squealing. The child watching with whom our story started still watches, no less sad but at least distracted now. He’s seen this kinda crap before, but he still doesn’t know how he gets them long like that then twists them, squeak, squeak into giraffes. Hey, look at that.