The Circus Came, and I was a Clown

A Micro Fiction by Stephanie Percival

Image from Adobe Stock

Mum is unsettled by the equipment arriving, so I tell her the circus is coming. She loved the circus, took me there each year it came to town. Even when I was old enough to have outgrown it, we always went.

Mum’s soothed by my invention as a hospital bed, a hoist and other metal objects glint in her once comfy living room. I make her comfortable.    

“Best seat in the house,” I say, plumping up pillows.

“He’s the ringmaster,” Mum says after the doctor leaves us, his shiny black boots clipping down the hall. He’d waved the stethoscope and we’d listened, the only sound Mother’s rattling breaths as we waited for his announcement. He delivered a showman’s speech, that echoed boom boom boom from the corners of the room. Mysterious words which rolled from his tongue in one long bafflement: arrythmiaischamicinfarctionitishypoglycaemicneuropleuralitis…

Although weak, Mum jokes with the carers, “You’re like jugglers. Tossing and catching sheets and pillowcases. And the slip sheet manoeuvre to turn me, is quite something.”

“I’m impressed with the magician,” I say, after the nurse visits. “The sleight of hand amazing; checking your vitals, getting you to eat something.”

Mum chuckles, phlegm catching in her throat. 

I let the dogs in. “Here’s my favourite act,” Mum says. Goldie and Beau, tails wagging, sniff and lick her dangling hand. Then whine in unison at her prone body; they’re used to walks with her. I roll a ball along the floor, Goldie lumbers to fetch it.

“I’d clap if I could,” pants Mum. 

“Enough excitement for one day.”  

“You have to give a performance too,” she whispers as I kiss her goodnight. 

“Maybe a recorder recital, like I did as a kid.” I grin, remembering my awful attempts at musicality.

Mum’s already asleep.

In the morning, bluetits and robins, tumble around the bird feeder outside the window. “Look Mum,” I say. “An acrobatic display.”

But she doesn’t open her eyes.

Now, the big top has gone. Everything packed away.

I sit in the empty space, a remnant of antiseptic lingering. When I get up to go, I trip over my own feet. The hall mirror reflects my face as I pass. Mascara smudged into stars round my eyes, nose red, mouth turned down.

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Author: Stephanie’s writing journey began, when she was shortlisted for the BBC End of story competition in 2004. Stephanie enjoys writing in different styles and genres. She’s been short, long-listed and won several writing competitions and recently published a collection, called ‘How to Catch and Keep a Kiss.’