Cast down, the full white face of a clown dies alone in the big tent, surrounded by elephants. He’s protected by a mourning shroud of trunks swung low, at half mast, a ceremony for the fellow they knew as Chuckles.
He lay in the sawdust, a fallen hero of the failing circus. A mysterious whim of death unburdened itself upon him.
The sadness is coursing in a wild frenzy around the ring. A gleaming white face is slowly fading into black. The soul of the artist rises fluidly, a tumble, a calculated fall, a snap to attention pop a flower from its lapel. Nobly it drifts up past the trapeze, he always wanted to fly with ease as they did. The company troop cheers a roaring “hoorah!,” and sends the pure spirit of the man formerly known as Charles “Chuckles” Morton, off smiling to opening night at the grand unknown show.