By Chandler Klang Smith
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1 million in writing and publishing all through Canada. released with the beneficiant suggestions of the Ontario Arts Council. CONTENTS Cover Praise Title web page Copyright Part One: King of the Clowns 1962 Chapter One Chapter Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter Ten Chapter 11 Chapter Twelve Chapter 13 Part : Little Falls 1967 Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter 16 Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Acknowledgements About the writer More darkish Fiction from ChiZine guides For Eric Taxier, my first and top reader, regularly. “They’ll by no means locate me, at the back of this nostril. ” —Jimmy Stewart, the best exhibit in the world half ONE KING OF THE CLOWNS 1962 bankruptcy ONE The clown is placing on his face. gentle bulbs ring his dressing room reflect, and on his vainness a dozen modern photos exhibit him posed atop a saddled ostrich—he’s autographed approximately 1/2 them, thus far. looking at his mirrored image, he makes use of a fragile brush to color darkish diamonds round his eyes, then provides a dab of crimson to the top of his nostril. He attracts shocked commas for eyebrows. simply as he’s completing, a bejewelled acrobat seems to be at his door. She knocks shyly. “Mr. Bell,” she says, “they’re ready. ” Meanwhile, less than the large best, the gang rustles and fidgets in anticipation—until the ringmaster steps into the highlight. His black shadow spills out at the back of him. round his neck he wears a purple bow tie, which spins slowly, like a tiny propeller. “Ladies and gents, boys and girls,” he intones. “I provide the one—the only—king of the clowns! ” Deafening applause. males elevate their little kids onto their shoulders to work out. girls fan themselves excitedly. a few swoon. 3 burly males hold a life-sized portray of the clown in his harlequin go well with out into the hoop. the gang groans with sadness; they chuckle sheepishly at the back of the backs in their palms. yet although it is simply a portray, they suppose unusually interested in it. It’s an ideal likeness: the clown sits carelessly on a throne, surrounded by means of peacock feathers, bunches of grapes, and velvet curtains. He wears a tiny gold crown somewhat askew and holds a sceptre crowned with a jester’s head. His harlequin swimsuit, checkered black and white, swirls like a dream of chessboards. He appears content material, affable, with a guileless, nearly childlike grin. He has a hunchback, is a section at the small facet, real, yet those flaws simply upload to his quirky allure, like Charlie Chaplin’s moustache or dishevelled pants. In a few inexplicable method, he seems standard. observing out at the crowd with hooded eyes, the ringmaster declares that he'll now forged a spell, although he retired from magic—“that darkish art”—long in the past.