Glazed in Fire

It doesn't matter where you go. They say it's a small world, but surely no one intended it to be this small. On roofs, at the bus stop, at restaurants, the soup kitchen, the general stores, Paul Neuman knew it was a joke. It was a cruel fever dream, some sort of hallucination. Those clowns were after him. He knew he could not get away from them, and yet he was drawn to the light of the moon. He dare not go back to the complex to rest, his insides squirmed, holing himself up and curling up on his bed didn't solve anything. The faster he learned, the faster he could return home. It didn't matter that father cut him off for being so lazy, but he really needed this experience. Yet his curiosity betrayed him, the lightness out of his step, he could not dottle around the carnival lest he be lost in its zone null of time.

Truly there was no place to go that the clowns weren't. The joke had gone on long enough. When he finally decided to return to the carnival to improve his sanity, he had not gotten half way through the ticket before he saw audacious woman, a nun he could have recognized anywhere, with clinging to a clown. Paul Neuman couldn't comprehend it. Blocks away on his Jaguar, a tire popped audible for blocks around. Sick joke. A nun with clown. It almost made him grin, a punchline that escaped him, or rather he escaped it. As the fire blazed from the food stand he could barely pay it attention, his fever was hot enough to be in an oven already. The grease fire was reflecting off his eyes with a shimmer that the moonlight paled in comparison, yet his charisma only seemed to take alight, these were not the eyes of a madman, but a changing man.

Nuns were profane. Clowns are everywhere. Paul Neuman smiled, but he was not amused.