Ceramic DM- The Renewal ( Final judgement posted)

Taladas vs. MarauderX

Jasper

* * * * *
Marca had been fortunate enough to have kept her glasses on when she drove out to the project site on Tuesday. As an interior architect, she was headed there to inspect what the contractor had built. Usually David, the contractor, got everything right, but for whatever reason the client wasn’t happy and Marca was going to see why. Having seen her fair share of projects in Singapore, Marca had dealt with all types of picky clients.

The sun was dazzling as her car pulled around the bend then screeched to a halt. A lock of hair fell over Marca’s eye as she gripped the wheel and watched the street in front of her begin to drop. The radius of the dropping circle increased at an alarming pace, and without looking behind her she slammed the gearshift into reverse and the car lurched backward to keep pace with the disappearing road.

As soon as it had begun, the road had stopped sinking. Marca looked around, expecting someone else to see what had just happened. She crept towards the edge and peered across the hundred-yard depression in the earth. In the middle of the pit sat a young woman, a few years younger than Marca, and her head pitched backward. Their eyes met and it was clear to Marca that she was ill, her face drained of color. Racing back to her car, Marca called the police and explained what had happened and to send help.

Right after David called. “What happened to you? I thought you were going to meet us here.”
“I was,” Marca said as she monitored the woman in the pit, “but a sink hole nearly ended my day entirely.”
“Wow, glad you’re alright. Well, ah, let’s meet in an hour?” David said.
“Well, if you can wait I’ll be over there to wrap things up. I just want to wait until the police gets here to make sure this woman is okay.” Marca said.
“A woman? Is she in the sinkhole?” David asked.
“Yeah.” Marca replied.
“And she’s sick? How can you tell?” David said.
“Well, her face is pretty pale, like nearly blue.” Marca replied.
“Blue? How blue?” David asked.
“Like, I don’t know, like the blue of the tiles in the bathroom.” Marca answered, her brow furrowed.
“Um, yeah, we still have to talk about that. But Marca, you need to leave before things get messed up. You should head here, now, and I can tell you a bit more.” David said.
“Like how in the world a sinkhole just happens in Singapore? That would be good to know.” Marca said.
“Sure, I can tell you all about it, just come over as soon as the police arrive. And don’t go near that hole!” David said.
Marca sighed, “Of course not, and I’ll see you soon.”

Marca arrived at The Esplanade, a group of theaters on the bay, where she finally parked near the construction trailer. David was at her car in a moment, opening her door.

Marca greeted his kind action with a smirk. “I thought you’d be hiding on the job site somewhere trying to avoid me like usual.”
“Well, not this time. We gotta talk, but not about the project right now.” David said, a hint of worry adding to the heaviness of his words.
Marca’s eyes searched his. “Sure. What’s wrong? Is it that bad?”
“It’s about that woman you saw,” David said as they began walking.
“Her? Why?” Marca said.
“I don’t want this to sound as weird as it’s going to, but right now I need you to know something,” David said, “I believe there are monsters in this world, born from those among us to human parents. Some are born with no arms or legs, or blind or deaf, but that doesn’t matter really. And just as there are physical abnormalities, there can be mental ones too, right? Y’know, like a child can be born without hearing, and another can be born without a conscious or a soul. They’re accidents, and no one’s fault, but some become accidents on purpose, if that makes any sense. They defile themselves to become a monster. A man that lost his hearing has trouble adjusting, but one born deaf suffers from only those that find him disabled.” David said.
They had ascended to the studio on the 4th level and Marca peered at the work she had done for the building’s opening in 2002. They moved to the stairs to continue up to the 6th level.
“Ahh, I think you were starting to lose me with the monster thing.” Marca said.
“Okay, um… a monkey has a tail that can grip things just like a hand, and we can imagine how it might be to have a tail like that, to be able to do the same. But not to a monster. To someone like that the norm might seem ridiculous, since everyone is normal to himself. For the monster without a soul, those with a soul must seem to be ridiculous. Like for a pathological liar, honesty must seem foolish. Also to a monster the normal is their monster.” David said.
She didn’t understand what he was getting at, and his talking seemed to be getting off-course. She liked the man as he was honest and they both loved to trade jibes to keep work more fun than serious.
He said, “I was saying be careful. That woman, in the pit, she probably wasn’t…”
“Wasn’t? Wasn’t what?” Marca asked.
“Normal. Our standard of normal anyway.” he said.
“I don’t know what to say, besides that I think we need to talk about these finishes,”
David seemed put out. He had tried, but knew that she didn’t understand and his face went red. He pursed his lips and ran his hand through his hair several times before letting the subject drift back to work.

* * * * *

The next weeks passed, and Marca had forgotten the woman in the sinkhole to a degree. She hadn’t seen David since the The Esplanade and pushed the thought of his strange talk back into the recesses of her mind.

Marca guided her car onto Orchard Road and looked for parking. Finding a space, she hurried into the office of the Building and Construction Authority, where she hoped her visit would be short. Marca walked by the front desk toward the permit office when she saw David coming the other way.

“Hello stranger,” she said.
“Hello to you too,” he replied as they both slowed to talk.
“Which permit are you going after?” she asked.
“Actually I just came from a seminar on green building and such. We want to do our work better for the city.” he said.
Marca smiled, “Are you sure it’s not just so you can stay competitive? Or is this how you flirt with architects?”
David smiled back, “Yeah, it helps with that too. Look, I have to get going or I’ll get a parking ticket for sure. Catch ya later.”
“I’ll see you.” she said as she waved goodbye.

Marca took the elevator up several floors, walked down the bright corridor and turned the corner toward the permit office. She slammed hard into someone and jumped backward, startled.
“I’m so sorry…” she started, and then she reflexively inhaled, shocked once again by who she saw. It was the woman from the pit, whose eyes were desperate and pained. But now those eyes were languid. Marca looked into those eyes hoping for a hint of recognition, but the woman only gazed at her. Marca beckoned the woman to the end of the deserted corridor and she followed. At least she understood that much, and that’s a start, Marca thought.

Marca gripped her hands and asked the woman her name, where she lived, and why she was here. The girl just stared blankly. Like a lightning bolt, the idea that she was deaf struck Marca. No wonder she hadn’t answered her questions and didn’t speak, she couldn’t! Annoyed with her own foolishness, Marca thought of how to communicate with her.

Marca prattled on as the memory of that day popped into her head. “No wonder, I’m such a dunce sometimes. Well, perhaps you can’t hear me, but you can see me. I know, I bet you can read, yes? Just give me a moment to find a pen, and then you can write your name.”

Movement caught Marca’s eye. Something on the girl’s face was moving, her jaw dropping and something swirled out, and Marca thought at first it was her tongue. Pen in hand she looked up from her purse to see the woman, her mouth open, still staring at her. But there was no tongue. Instead there was a mass of carroty-orange sliding discs, and they slipped back and forth as they swelled in her mouth. She vomitted them at Marca, and they spilled down her chest and to the bottle-green tile floor. The discs slipped over her clothes and somehow slid upward to her mouth, and she refused to scream to let them in. Her legs propelled her down the corridor to the elevator as she swatted several of the discs from her neck and clothing, and she could feel those that had fallen on her feet work their way up her calf underneath her pants. The elevator opened and Marca watched the girl vomit again, sending a second stream of discs cascading onto the floor.

Marca fought the strange things the entire way to the ground floor. She emerged squirming from the elevator to dance across the building lobby as everyone looked on. Outside she threw her blazer to the sidewalk and ran to her car, still feeling several of them crawl upward beneath her blouse. Outside her car she found each of the remaining half-dozen discs and threw them to the ground. Still shivering, she patted herself down to ensure that none remained as onlookers stopped to gauge whether she needed help. With a quick huff Marca was in her car and speeding off.

She replayed what had happened in her mind and thought to call David. He did say some unusual things before, and maybe he knows what it might mean. The third time she called him he picked up.
“Hey, is this you Marca?” he said.
“Yes, yes, remember that girl that was in the sinkhole that you warned me about, it was her, that girl in the hole, she was there, and she was sick… do you know who I’m talking about?” She knew her voice was shaky and that she was rambling, but she couldn’t help it. She was afraid, and David heard her voice rise as she talked.
“Yes, I remember, and you saw her at the permit office just now? What happened?” he said.
“She, she was around the corner and I ran right into her. I tried to talk to her, I thought she was deaf, David! Then she threw up all over me, with these orange things, like poker chips, but they moved and were warm, and they crawled all over me!” said Marca.
“Are you ok?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think so, but-“
“Did you eat any of them? Or swallow them?” he said, and now his voice was rising, and Marca began crying with fear.
“No! No, I didn’t! David, I didn’t! What are they? What is it, like a disease?” she said.
“I’ve seen her before, and it was something like that. We should meet. I’ll tell you what I know. Where are you now?” he said.
“I’m… turning onto Victoria, headed east - what do you know, David?” she said as she sobbed.
“I don’t know for sure, let’s just meet at the airport and we can talk there. Take the parkway, and I’ll see you soon. Remember the executive suite project that we did there? Meet me there.”
“Okay, David you will be there, right? Because you’ve got to tell me what’s going on,” she said.
He replied, “Yes, of course I’ll be there.”

David was outside the suite and pulled her to one side as she approached. The force had surprised her and her eyes instantly were moist once again. Then David nodded his head towards the suite to indicate someone.
“The woman with the fur hat.” he whispered.
Marca put on her glasses and instantly she saw who he was talking about. When she came into focus her back was to them. Her fur hat hid her head and the tail of it flowed down her back as David pointed distressingly. Marca looked back to David, anticipating that he would at least have an idea of what to do. By the look on his face it was clear he didn’t.

In a moment of clarity Marca slipped around a structural column and David followed.
She asked him in a whisper, “Are you sure that’s her? She was just down on Orchard Road, and was sick all over, how could she get here?”
“It’s her, I saw her walk right by me. I know it’s her, alright!” David said.
“Are we talking about the same woman?” Marca asked.
“Yes, I know it was her that was at the sinkhole. I know it because… I dreamt it for a week, and know exactly what you saw, how you stood near the edge of the hole and peered in, how your eyes caught hers, I know how it happened because I saw it too! In my dream! That’s where I see things, in my dreams, and now you’re gonna think I’m as crazy as she is!” David said.
“No, David, no, I believe you, I do! I understand what you were saying before, and that’s why I called you first. I want to know what’s going on and, and…stop being scared, so let’s find an answer, ok?” Marca said.
David spoke in controlled, hushed tones again. “Right, but the next dream, it was so horrific, I think you end up being overwhelmed by the things as she climbed on top and forced your mouth open, I saw it through your eyes in my dream, I saw your reflection in the window glass, again as if I was you!”
“Well, I’ll stay far away from her then. Can you confront her?” Marca asked.
David poked his head around the column to see her taking a seat facing toward the bay windows and the airplanes beyond. “Okay, I’ll go sit next to her and try to see if it’s like you said, and try to see if she’ll talk. But if something goes wrong, you have to promise me to go somewhere. Just in case we get separated I want you to go here.”
Marca looked deep into his eyes and nodded as she took the plans from him. “David, don’t get too close, just try to see if she’s alive, like if she has a pulse or not. Just…”

She stopped and grabbed his jacket. She didn’t want him to go now, she wanted him to stay there and make her feel secure again. Sensing her fear, David pulled her close and they hugged each other tightly, the smell of his musky jacket blending with her sweet lilac perfume.

David let go and said, “Just stay here, I only saw you in the dream, so no matter what happens don’t come to help, because I didn’t see me in the dream. And my dreams have always been right. You’ll stay here, okay?”
She nodded and again tears began flowing down her cheeks.

David walked up slowly, quietly moving between the aisles of chairs. He was certain the woman hadn’t heard him with the din of noise in the airport. He sat next to her and perched himself forward so he could easily leap away.
“Nice weather we’re having, wouldn’t you say?” he asked. No response from the woman, her hat and coat hiding her face. Strange, he thought, no one wears that much clothing in Singapore.
“Where are you headed to today? Is your flight going to be long?” Again no response and David leaned forward to see that her eyes were indeed open and that she was staring out the window.
“Where are you from? I’d say Europe, you don’t have enough of a tan to be from here.” David was closer, trying to discern whether her chest was rising to take in breaths. It was then that David saw Marca’s reflection in the window, saw that she was safely thirty meters behind them, and knew that in his dream he wasn’t looking through her eyes, but his own.

The woman caught David off guard as his mind raced to the conclusion of his dream, and she was on him, spewing orange discs into his disbelieving face. He felt them swarm over him, filling his mouth and forcing their way down his gullet. Marca watched David gag reflexively several times and she screamed out, taking a step in his direction. His eyes rolled back in his head and he quivered until prone as several others nearby gasped and retreated away from him.

David rose, his movements rigid and jerky. Marca took a step backward. The woman’s body was slumped in the seat, and the vacant look had turned to one of death, her pupils dull and her muscles relaxed. David, the ghastly David, ambled toward her, slapping his shoes awkwardly on the tile. Marca didn’t want to know if he could talk to her, she didn’t want to even try. She gripped the plans in her arms and heard them crumple as she jogged away, tears streaming once again.

* * * * *

Marca looked at where the plans would lead her. The zoo. It had to be a joke, she thought at first, but she had to follow it since it was the last thing David had given her. She kept having to pull the glasses off to see the map of the zoo then put them back on as she drove to it. Living in Singapore for seven years, Marca had considered the Singaporean Zoo as a great family place but had never been there.

Marca parked her car and glanced over the plans that indicated which part of the zoo David had highlighted. It was after sunset when she arrived, but Marca was able to get in during the Night Safari hours. She made her way through the zoo and heard a howler monkey shouting somewhere close by. By David’s notes in the plans, she needed to head to the open exhibit and look for something like a magical lemur.

Marca moved around the walkways looking for what she thought would be a magical lemur when she heard a voice behind her.
“And you are looking…for…me?” the voice said.
Marca turned her head then her body followed to face it. On the tree was a monkey of some type, with huge eyes, but it wore a top hat, cane and had wads of American dollars stuffed into a pouch along its side. This had to be what David was talking about.
“Yes, I think so.” she said.
“I should think so too. You are much like he said, skeptical and sincere at the same time.” it said.
Marca held up the plans. “I was directed here to see you, by a man named David, do you happen to know him?”
“I know those plans, I did everything but write them for him. Listen, dear woman, you must take me to him.” it said.
“But, how do I get you out of here? Aren’t you trapped here? No, what I mean is, this is your home, and wouldn’t someone notice if you were missing?” she asked.
“No, no not really, I can’t think of anyone that would. My name is Jasper, and you must take me to David immediately. He finally figured out his dreams for himself, and it’s finally caught up to him. Come, fit me beneath your shirt.” it said.

* * * * *

In the parking lot Jasper asked what had happened to David, and soon they were on their way to the airport to see if he was still there. Arriving at the same point near the executive suite, Marca’s mind raced with how to smuggle a talking lemur into the airport. She decided to use her large presentation case, a flat, wide leather case that would work, but the lemur would definitely make the sides bulge.

Inside the airport Marca saw David from a distance. “Now what?” she asked.
Jasper rustled in the flat bag to get a look. “You have to make the orange discs appear once again, and then I can deal with them. You need to bait them into emerging. Can you do that?”
Marca’s knees went weak for a moment. The thought of risk had never occurred to her and she thought about dropping Jasper and running away. But she would have to do it. “Yes, I will, should you come with me?” she asked.
“Take me with you, but let me free when you get to him. Don’t let him see me!” Jasper said.

They crossed the lobby to David as he sat in an uncomfortable position facing the bay window, the unmoving corpse of the unknown woman to his right. Marca had given herself a pep talk before walking straight to him. He saw her coming and struggled to stand by the time she got there. They looked at each other, Marca’s puffy eyes meeting David’s blank gaze. She grabbed David by the shoulder as his mouth began to peek open, revealing the sliding orange discs in his mouth. Marca dropped the case to the floor and closed her eyes, waiting until the discs began washing over her, tugging at her mouth. She waited and waited as she felt them swirling over her, bearing her down to the floor with their collective weight.

Marca risked opening her eyes and brushing some away to see where Jasper had gone or what he was doing. When she did she saw the blurry form of the lemur on the seat next to the woman, she could tell that he was watching, as if waiting. Jasper saw her eyes on him for a moment and couldn’t resist talking to her.

“Are you wondering why I’m just sitting here, hmm?” Jasper began. “You see I found these pets in the zoo, where they inhabited a rhinoceros.”
Marca struggled to hold her mouth shut against the discs and tried to clasp her hands over her mouth. When she did she felt a snap, like static electricity, hit her hands and arms.
Jasper continued, “They are an amazing parasite, don’t you think? Now that you’ve helped me thwart David’s clairvoyance I can try to escape this damned city-nation for holding me captive for so long.”
Marca could no longer resist. She felt the first disc enter her mouth as she struggled on the floor, electrical pulses causing her body to spasm. She bit into the thing, hard, hoping to feel the hard carapace give between her teeth, but it only held her jaw open wide enough for the next one to slide into her mouth.
“Sinkhole by sinkhole I would have made this place the next Atlantis…but now that I’m free we’ll see if anyone can stop us.”
Marca felt them slide down her throat one by one, electrical zaps coursing through her body, and she felt herself giving in.
“Come, let’s find ourselves a nice flight out of this place.” Jasper said as he climbed onto Marca’s shoulder, tipping his hat at the few onlookers who had witnessed what had happened but questioned themselves if they had really seen what had occurred.
Marca was in a dream now, a terrible one, where she saw herself ambling down the wide corridor and could do nothing.

* * * * *

Cool! I'll work on my judgment tonight.

A brief word from your beloved judges: please put hard line breaks between paragraphs. Jasper has it in some sections but not in others, and it makes it much more difficult to read. Microsoft Word doesn't do it automatically; what looks good in word may be the result of formatting that doesn't carry over here.

Not to worry, formatting doesn't make an overt difference in the judging (so it won't be counted for or against anyone), but it's best to make stories as easy to read as possible.

Thanks!

Piratecat said:

Eeralai, I normally don't want to speak for Alsih2o, but I'd say that'd be just fine.

Click to expand...

Not speaking for AlSiH2O!!

First time you two did meet you were finishing each other sentences, it was uncanny .

Piratecat said:

Cool! I'll work on my judgment tonight.

A brief word from your beloved judges: please put hard line breaks between paragraphs. Jasper has it in some sections but not in others, and it makes it much more difficult to read. Microsoft Word doesn't do it automatically; what looks good in word may be the result of formatting that doesn't carry over here.

Not to worry, formatting doesn't make an overt difference in the judging (so it won't be counted for or against anyone), but it's best to make stories as easy to read as possible.

Thanks!

Click to expand...

Thanks for the tip, it looks as though I got a forshadowing of judgement already, so I'll try to remember for the next competition.

MarauderX - How so? I haven't seen anything indicating that you will or will not move on to the next round. I haven't had a chance to read your story, so I don't have an opinion either way. Even if I did, it wouldn't mean much, I'm not a judge. Formatting just makes it easier to read. But the judges, in my experience, don't judge based on formatting. Heck, if they did, I would have been doomed several times over.

So I would say don't sweat it and just keep it in mind for your next story posting. Whether that is next round, or in a future competion.

MarauderX said:

Thanks for the tip, it looks as though I got a forshadowing of judgement already, so I'll try to remember for the next competition.

Click to expand...

I specifically said that it won't make a difference so that you WOULDN'T have that reaction, you big goober.

I meant what I said: it doesn't have an impact on the quality of the writing, so it doesn't have an impact on the judging. It just makes our job easier.

Round 1 Hellefire Vs. Orchid Blossom

4 pictures, 5000 word limit, 72 hours limit, Full of Fiber!

very surreal pictures this time around.

Got 'em. This should be interesting.

I guess I'll have to wait for my rematch with Berandor till next time.

Good luck Hellefire.

The Clown of God
as retold by Sage LaTorra

Rodion lived in the streets, dressed in rags, and begged for his daily bread. From the timid Russian summers to the frigid Moscow winters, he lived on only the kindness of others, without a mother or father to provide for him.

Rodion didn't remember much of his father or his mother, which was for the best. He didn't remember the beatings, the fights, the vodka-drenched nights and vomit-mornings. He couldn't remember the way his mother would wash her pain medicine down with a cup full of cheap Southern Comfort, or how his father would bring another women home and make his mother sleep on the couch. He only remembered their love.

There were more boys on the streets of Moscow than the government would ever admit. Rodion was only one of many, and he couldn't even stand out among the other street urchins. He would run with a gang for a day, only to be left behind or betrayed the next morning. He was trodden on by the downtrodden, he was sold out for crusts of bread and spoiled milk. Other children might be strong enough or smart enough or brave enough to stand out, but Rodion didn't have any talents.

Then it all changed.

One night Rodion went to sleep beneath a rough blue blanket stolen from a street vendor, and awoke under a red blanket. Amazed at the change, Rodion jumped backwards, striking a trash can as he went.

The trash can turned green at his touch.

With hours and days Rodion controlled his talent. Just like the man in the stories told by the street preachers, Rodion could perform miracles. Just by thinking about a color, he could make anything nearby change to that color. With a little work he could even make things glow like a light bulb.

This made him popular.

Rodion was the king of graffiti, able to mark his gang's territory indelibly, without paint or brush. All the other children wanted him in their gang. He was seen as a symbol of status, something to be proud of in the humble life on the street.

And it was because of his talent that Rodion was caught. Late one night while drawing an simple design on the back of a theater, the emergency exit opened and exposed the theater manager, who had seen Rodion and his gang about their work.

“Get away from my wall, you filthy mongrels” the manager yelled as he sprinted into the alleyway to grab the boys.

“Run” screamed the leader of Rodion's gang.

Rodion tried to run, but he wasn't as fast as the other boys. The manager caught him by the collar.

“Now what do you think you're doing here?” The manager growled as he held Rodion off the ground with one hand.

“Please comrad, I'll make it go away, please don't hurt me!”

“Go away? That much paint will take a day's work and a gallon of paint to remove.”

“No, please, if I can make it go away here and now, will you let me go?”

“Ha!” chortled the manager, happy with the boy's stupidity. “Of course! If you can clean it all up before sun up, I will not only let you go, I will buy you breakfast.” he said with a knowing smile on his face. “But if you do not, you must work for me, without pay, for the rest of the week.”

“Yes, yes!” Rodion cried. And with a thought and a glance the wall changed back to it's red brick facade.

“Mother of God! Did you do that?” The manger said as he dropped Rodion to the ground in surprise.

“Yes I did. And now I believe you owe me breakfast.”

And so the manager took him to breakfast, and let him order whatever he wanted. But the manager, who introduced himself as Dmitry, was a sly man.

“I want to make you an offer, boy.” He said over breakfast.

“Will it involve more food?”

“It will involve all the food you can eat for the rest of your life.”

Rodion's eyes grew big at the thought of endless food, as Dmitry continued: “If you will perform at my theater, once at the matinée, once at the dinner showing, and once in the evening, every day, I will give you three meals every day.”

While Rodion wasn't smart, he wasn't stupid enough to take the first offer. “I want money too” he said through a mouth full of half chewed potatoes.

“Fine. I will give you one ruble out of every 10 that I make at the shows that you perform. I will tell you that you will make at least 150 rubles per show.”

For Rodion, even a 30 rubles seemed like a fortune. “Done.” Rodion said with a smile. “But what will I do? Just making things change color is hardly worth watching.”

“Then you will juggle.”

“But I don't know how.”

“You will learn. I will teach you the basics today, and tomorrow you will start.”

Rodion and Dmitry shook hands on the deal, and Rodion spent the rest of the day learning to juggle. Rodion had never been very good at anything, but he found that he was good at juggling, and the next day, at the matinée, he put on his show for the first time.

His show would go like this:

First he would juggle bowling pins.

Then he would take out hoops, and juggle them.

Then he would spin plates through the air, juggling them too.

And finally would come the balls.

He would start with the balls at his feet, all 7 of them. First he would take two balls, and as he juggled them, he would turn one ball red, and one ball orange.

Then he would pick up another ball, and it would turn yellow.

Then a ball would turn green.

Then another would turn blue.

And finally one would turn purple.

And Rodion would do this for while, with the 6 rainbow balls flying through the air, and then he would juggle them higher and higher, faster and faster, until it seemed like they would burst through the roof and fly into the sky.

And then, with all the balls flying together in a blur of color, he would pick up the last ball, and toss it high into the air, higher and faster then any of the other balls it would fly. And then he would proclaim “And now for the Sun in the Heavens!” and he would make the last ball turn a rich gold, and burst into a bright glow.

And the crowd would clap and cheer and throw money onto the stage. Then the audience would watch the show they had came to see, and then go home and tell their friends of the magnificent juggling boy they had seen at the theater.

Word traveled quickly. Soon people would come just to see Rodion juggle. And his act would always be the same. First the pins, then the hoops, then the plates, and finally the balls. First the red and orange, then the yellow, then the green, the blue, the purple. And finally, with a flair, he would proclaim “And now for the sun in the heavens!” and the ball would fly higher then all the others, and burst into a shimmering golden glow.

Soon Dmitry decided that the show needed more. He thought for a long time, searching for anybody who could be amazing enough to take the stage before Rodion. Then one dark winters day, almost a year after he had started letting Rodion perform, he saw a man sitting a park chair, reading a paper, while wearing no shoes. The man was otherwise reasonably (if simply) dressed, but his feet were completely uncovered.

Knowing that anyone who would brave a Moscow winter without shoes must be either insane or incredible (and that either way people would pay to see him), Dmitry approached the man.

Dmitry didn't know how to address a crazy man, so he said “Sir, you aren't wearing any shoes.”

“Don't need 'em.”

“Don't need them? How can that be? The snow is all over.”

“Look for yourself.”

And that's when Dmitry looked at the man's feet. The bottoms looked like rubber tires, thick and strong, with ridges to keep him from slipping.

Dmitry knew that this might draw crowds. “Sir, what else can you do with such marvelous feet?”

The man finally put down his newspaper. “Nothing too important. The government said it was as miraculous as the virgin birth, but that having feet that cling to walls isn't enough in and of itself to get hired as a spy or a solider.” Dmitry could see that the man was out of shape, and that he would never make a good spy or solider, but that did not mean he could not draw a crowd.

“So the government would not give you work? Then would you be willing to work for me?”

“Doing what? I've already told people that I will not fix their lights.”

“All you have to do is go on stage before a little boy who juggles every day. Three shows, and I will give you 1 ruble out of every 10 I make at each show.”

“But what would I do? I have no skills.”

“You can run and jump from the walls. It need not be anything amazing, I just need you to make sure the audience really wants to see the boy.”

The man considered this for a while. “Well, I have no better work to do. My name is Lukinanov, and I will be your opening act.”

And so Lukinanov put together a simple show, nothing so spectacular as Rodion's, but it kept the crowds coming, and many of people who had already seen Rodion would come back to see him again just to see Lukinanov's part of the show.

And another year passed, and Rodion and Lukinanov changed bits of their acts, but the core of Rodion's always remained the same: First the pins, hoops, and plates, then finally the balls. First the red and orange would fly through the air, followed by the yellow, then the green, the blue, the purple. And finally, in a voice like the voice of God, he would proclaim “And now for the Sun in the Heavens!” and the ball would fly higher then all the others, and burst into a shimmering golden glow.

Rodion started coloring his face before every show, making himself look like a simple clown, with one half of his face red and the other white. With each little change, the crowds would come again, to see what new the magnificent juggling boy could do.

But Rodion wanted more. He wanted more like himself and Lukinanov to joint he show. So he took a month without shows (the longest he had gone without performing since he had first juggled before Dmitry's matinée) to go search for more like himself.

And he found them. Most were simple people, and Rodion (who now had a significant amount of money in a little bank account) would pay them to learn to perform, and would split the money with them. Out of every 10 rubles made, Rodion (who was clearly the star) got 2, Dmitry got 2 (since it was his theater), Lukinanov got 1, and the rest was split equally among the other performers. During his trip Rodion gathered 10 more performers who could do miraculous things. One could hover off the ground, one could stretch his arms to awesome lengths, one could jump as high as the ceiling, and the others had similar tricks. None of them were special enough (or bright enough, or strong enough) to be anything more then entertainment, but they would at least make people smile.

It was on the way back that Rodion found his last companion. He had stopped in a small town, and while there the headmaster of the local school convinced him to perform for the students. Nobody knew Rodion's age, but he couldn't have been much older then the students he performed for, but he looked twice their age.

He did his show as always: pins, hoops, plates, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, then “The Sun in the Heavens!” It was after his show, as he walked to find a restroom, that he saw withing one of the computer rooms a boy that would change him.

Rodion saw the boy sitting in a chair far too small for him (for he was quite tall), with arcs of lightening crackling between his fingertips. The boy's face showed a glee that Rodion had never know except while he was on the stage.

“How do you do that?” Rodion asked as he stepped into the classroom.

“I don't know, I've just always been able to do it.”

“And you can do it whenever you want to?”

“Yes.”

“Could you do it on stage?”

“I guess...”

“Would you do it for money?”

“Of course!”

“Fine, then I want you to come with me. I want you to perform with me in Moscow, on the stage, for a portion of every ruble we earn.”

The boy didn't even take a minute to think. “Yes.”

“Then I'll need to know your name.”

“My name is Phillip, but everybody calls my Philka.”

And that was it. The show was complete. Rodion, Lukinanov and Philka, and the 10 others made the largest mark on the theater scene in Moscow ever. Rodion Lukinanov and Philka were always the finale. All three of them would be on stage together, then Lukinanov and Philka would leave and Rodion would do his act: pins, hoops, plates, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, “And Now for the Sun in the heavens!”

But Philka had bigger ideas. He pushed Rodion and Lukinanov to greater things. It started as a parade through a different neighborhood every Sunday. Just as people left mass they would see Philka, Rodion and Lukinanov leading their motley, mask-wearing troupe through the streets, doing tricks and stunts as they went. Everybody would do their little gimmick, and they would parade through a neighborhood all morning. The crowds would laugh and smile as the clowns lit up the morning. Eventually the parade would lead back to the theater, and there would be a great show, with every seat filled. This made them into a city wide phenomenon, with everybody making a pilgrimage to the theater to watch the show.

But Philka still wanted more. “We can do more then this” he would say.

“But why? We have hundreds of people smiling, laughing, and living because of us every day.” Rodion would reply.

“And we get plenty of money.” Lukinanov would add.

“Because we're meant for greater things, we can do so much more then just make people smile. We could make so much more money.” Philka would say. Somehow Philka would always win the debate, the they would go with his plan.

Before long Philka gave them a name: Rodion's Clowns.

Then Philka got them on TV, doing a show every Sunday in place of their parade.

Rodion didn't like the TV show. “But I want to be able to see the people I make smile.” he would tell Philka.

“Well isn't that selfish of you” would always be Philka's response. “This way you can make more people laugh and smile, isn't that more important then your needs?”

Rodion could never argue with that. Somehow Philka was always right.

So Rodion's Clowns were on TV. Then in the movies. Then everywhere.

Philka worked the Clowns into a role in every mass media outlet around the world. They were everywhere, on every magazine cover, their songs on the charts, their movies setting records. Everyone wanted them. They performed for Kings and Queens, Presidents and Prim Ministers, and every other dignitary around the world. Rodion and Philka grew into strapping young men on a diet of fame, and were then coddled into middle age with honor. Rodion would still put on his red and white colored face for every audience, great or small, from paupers to princes. He would do the same show: pin hoop plate red orange yellow green blue purple “And now for the Sun in the Heavens!”

But then one day, on a crowded street in Moscow, as Rodion all 12 (including Lukinanov and Philka) Clowns made their way to a talk show appearance, Rodion heard something he had never heard before. Usually as the Clowns were always the center of attention on any street, with people talking about them everywhere. But Rodion heard a man tell his wife “Oh, it just that Rodion and his clowns, with their tired old act. He was better as a boy.”

This was the first time Rodion had heard anybody who thought the Clowns were boring. Even those who didn't like them thought they were original. There was nobody else like them. Rodion decided that it was nothing, that one person's opinion doesn't matter.

But Rodion couldn't escape time. After 30 years of relentless fame, it was his time to go.

He fell quickly. Philka went on to manage a boy band, Lukinanov got a job as a spokesperson for the army, and the other Clowns went on to their own jobs. Every one of them continued to make quite a good but of money for any sane person, but Rodion could never get work again. Every time he went on stage he would be laughed at: “Look, it's the old clown with his boring act! Why don't you learn some new tricks! We've seen these before.”

Every night Rodion would go to sleep cursing Philka. He thought that if he had merely kept performing a little show in Dmitry's theater he could have had a new audience every night for the rest of his life. He could go to new theaters, every night he would make new people smile. But instead, people he had never seen had already grown tired of him, and he had nothing left to give.

Rodion went for years without a ruble of profit. He lived off his savings, eventually running out and falling from high society back to his old streets.

He never put on his red and white face. He never juggled.

He had nothing left to his name except his old juggling kit, and he traveled begging for handouts with his same tired old act. Pinshoopsplatesredorangeyellowgreenbluepurple“AndnowfortheSunintheHeavens!”

Nobody would even give him spare change for his act.

With nowhere left to go, Rodion left Moscow for the country. He wandered through the summer and fall, and found himself huddled in the ruins of a church on an evening exactly 50 years after he had first been caught behind Dmitry's theater.

Huddled down in what might have once been the catacombs of the old Cathedral, Rodion stared into the wreckage. This was finally it, he had no food, he had no money, he had only the one thing he couldn't sell: his juggling kit.

Rodion waited for death, and as he did he thought he saw a face in the ruined church, finally someone he could imagine would see him as just a person. Not Rodion, of Rodion's Clowns, but just a poor old man was what he imagined the stone face saw.

And with nothing left to do, he spoke to the face.

“Why?”

He paused for a raspy breath.

“Why can't I make them smile anymore? You know, that's all I wanted. That's all I really wanted. Philka can have his fame, Lukinanov his money. All I want is to make laughter. It's the only thing I really did right, and now I cant even do that.”

And Rodion coughed a dry cough.

“I'm over. I can't do anything. I've been whittled down to a nothing, and I can't even make people laugh. If only I had one last audience, oh how I'd make them laugh...”

And Rodion fell asleep.

And when he had been asleep for a while, the face he thought he saw might have said “Get up, your audience is waiting.” Maybe he just dreamed it, but it is quite possible it was really said.

Rodion awoke with a start. His catacomb shelter had become more light since he feel asleep. He remembered the voice from the face, but he wasn't sure if he had really heard it, or if it had just been a dream. Assuming it was day again, since it was light, Rodion stiffly climbed up out of the catacombs.

When he was out, he saw a large, white tent just outside his catacombs. The tent was lit from inside, and it was bright as day. The moon and stars were still out, and as near as Rodion could tell, it was just about midnight, but the light cast out by the tent made it like day.

With nothing better to do, Rodion snuck under the hem of the tent, and into the light within.

What was inside astounded him. The tent covered the part of the ruined church that must have been the chapel, and within the warmth and light of the tent it was like the church was still there. Fancy benches had been brought in, there was a gilded alter and hundreds of candles. Inside the tent was miraculously warm with the snow outside, and the floor had been cleared of snow. There was a service going on in the tent, a high mass that must have been for some special feast. All the people attending were dressed in their best clothes, and most of them appeared to be very rich. It was only when Rodion noticed the poinsettia that he realized this was the Christmas midnight mass.

And then his eyes fell upon the centerpiece of the tent. Behind the altar there was a statue, bigger then life, of a women and her child. The women was prettier then any women Rodion had ever seen (and he had seen quite a good many), and her son sat on her knee. Both of them had their hands out in a funny way (which Rodion presumed must have meant something, but it just looked strange to him), and golden rings adorned their heads. But it was the child's face that held Rodion's stare. This child, on the knee of the most beautiful women in the world, the most powerful woman, the complete woman, he was frowning.

Or perhaps he wasn't frowning so much as just being unhappy. Rodion could see no reason for a sculptor to make such a child so unhappy.

It took Rodion a minute to realize that this was the blessed Virgin and her child, since he had never attended a church, but when he realized who he was looking at, he was even more dumbfounded. Why should the son of man be so unhappy?

As the mass continued all of the rich people walked forward and left gifts at the foot of the statue. This seemed odd to Rodion, after all, why did the Virgin and her son need money or expensive perfume or flowers? But Rodion still wanted to be part of this group. All his life he had been outside of the churches, waiting for mass to let out for people to join his parades, but now he was inside, and he wanted to be part of this life before he died.

So when the mass finished, and everyone began to leave, Rodion waited until he was alone in the main part of the tent, and he went before the statue, and he set down the thin blanket he had been sleeping on. With a thought and a cough Rodion applied his talent to his wrinkled face, turning one side a crimson red and the other an immaculate white. He dumped out his juggling kit, arranged all of his props, and bowed low.

“My most blessed lady, My savior. This is my gift to you.”

And with that, Rodion began with the bowling pins, spinning them through the air.

Then he moved on to the hoops, juggling them with deft movements and practiced skill.

The plates took flight, jumping from hand to hand, spinning and flying with all of Rodion's skill.

While Rodion was juggling, one of the clergy who had been cleaning the outside of the tent walked back inside and saw Rodion juggling before the statue. Without a word, the clergyman ran back outside to find the bishop to deal with Rodion.

Finally, it was time for the balls.

Rodion began with two white balls in his hands, which quickly changed into a red ball and an orange ball. Higher and faster the balls soared, and Rodion added another white ball, which was quickly turned yellow.

Higher and faster, higher and faster the three balls flew, and another white on was added, only to turn green a second later.

Each ball arced higher then the last, becoming a blur of color in Rodion's hands but appearing frozen at the apex of their flight.

A white ball was added again, and it was soon blue. Higher and faster they went.

Yet another white ball was added, and in Rodion's grasp it became a purple ball.

They all blurred together, flying higher and rising faster then any rocket, with more grace then any angel dancing on a pin. Rodion moved his hands with an artful certainty that came from years of practice and a love of what he was doing.

And finally, with a raspy sigh and a deep breath, Rodion shed a tear down his crimson and white face, and, in a voice that could bring down walls or call the dead, Rodion proclaimed that it was time: “And now, for the Sun in the Heavens!”

The ball shot up out of Rodion's hands, and, at its apex, it burst into a brilliant golden glow brighter then the dreams of a thousand misers. It truly shined like the sun on a clear day.

In the light of the dazzling golden ball, Rodion smiled, let out a tear, and died.

The balls all fell down, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and finally, the sun in the heavens. The all clattered onto Rodion's tattered blanket, next to where Rodion had fallen.

The clergyman came back with the bishop, the find Rodion laying on his blanket.

Seeing Rodion's scruffy body, the clergyman rushed over and checked for Rodion's pulse. “He is dead, bishop.”

But the bishop was not listening. He was staring at the statue. The blessed child still sat upon Mary's knee, but he was smiling.

















Postscript:

The story you have just read is based on the folk tale known as "The Clown of God." While the basic plot is the same, I have remade it, and I feel it is now, in a way, my own.

The Clown of God is, at its heart, a Christmas story. For as long as I can remember there has been a copy of Tomie dePaola's excellent retelling in my parent's house. Every year, sometime around my birthday (3 weeks before Christmas), my mother will take all of our Christmas books out and put them somewhere clearly visible for reading by anybody and everybody. In recent years I've never really bothered with them for any other reason then to read them to my siblings. It was only this past year that I realized the only Christmas book I really still enjoy as more then a holiday work is dePaola's Clown of God. I think this story has a profound depth that makes it one of my favorites, and the only children's book that I read (to myself, and to my siblings) for any reason other then nostalgia.

Just as Mr. dePaola retold the Clown of God in his art, I wanted to tell it in my own style. I'm sincerly greatful that I got a chance to do that. This story wouldn't be the same without the pictures and the pictures wouldn't be the same without the story, and I wouldn't have it any other way.