I didn’t notice the clown standing on the corner right away because I was day dreaming as I was walking. The day was warm, as late spring days often are, and the sun was still high in the sky. I was looking at the ground, watching my steps. I was making sure that between each crack in the sidewalk I took exactly three steps, except on every fourth crack in the sidewalk in which I was allowed an extra step to catch up to ensure I didn’t step on the crack itself. This is a complicated maneuver, and there was no time left in this for looking around for clowns or other such creatures in the road ahead. Of course, had I seen the clown further back, I might’ve turned around and went another way home, the longer way in order to avoid the clown. If I turned around now, the clown would surely notice and it might think that I was turning around because of it, and that might hurt its feelings. As creepy as it was to see the clown standing on the suburban corner of Federal and Bruchez where there was nothing but houses on Bruchez and no sidewalks on the busy street of Federal, I still didn’t want to risk affronting the clown by turning down the street I’d came. Also, to be honest, I was feeling a little lazy. The walk home from Teri’s house was long enough without me having to turn around and go all the way back so I could sidestep the clown. I felt sure that the clown on the road ahead was harmless, and that I could get by him with no effort. Also, it was daylight, and nothing ever happens to anyone in broad daylight on the corner of a busy street.
So I plodded on, foot after foot, my sidewalk step counting game forgotten. I continued on, watching the clown ahead of me, alert to any questionable movements the clown may make. My mind was on alert, but I wasn’t scared. I was more a little freaked out by the fact that there was a clown. I think it was the randomness of it all that scared me a little bit. It was like the time I dropped acid on July 4th and was walking home down this very same road. I was walking for what seemed like an eternity, the world seemed infinite and entertaining, the colors and the shades of dark outside were brilliant. I was walking alone, which at the time, didn’t seem fair. My mother wouldn’t let me stay at Teri’s because it was a weekday. As I parted with Teri, saddened that she was getting to stay out later and I had to go home, she handed me a firework and said, “I hope it’s pretty.” Walking down Bruchez, headed east towards Federal, I pondered the darkness of the night and wondered why the acid made me feel invincible in the darkness at 12 am, when normally I would be afraid. Through the darkness and the warm air I walked, watching the street. Random things have always frightened me, as they did that night. Two men on motorcycles came roaring down the residential street, and right when they passed me they flipped a u-turn. My mind froze with fright as I was caught (as the old saying goes) like a deer in the bike’s headlights. I let out a high pitched scream after hearing the bike on the right rev its engine. The bikes became riderless to me and I was transported to a state of primitive terror. A state where I didn’t think before I screamed and ran, a state where my mind thought purely of survival and the need to get away, away from the lights and the noise. Get away from the hurt.
As I continued, the clown ahead became a little clearer. He was wearing a pair of blank pants, what seemed to be nice dress pants. A foot closer and I notice that his face was white with smeared makeup, his wig orange and matted. The wig was something you could buy for five bucks at a Halloween specialty shop, a novelty. It didn’t look like something a professional clown would wear. A foot closer and I noticed he was wearing what appeared to be a suit jacket, splashed with different colors of paint. The paint was all primary colors, and the jacket beneath was black, like the pants. A foot closer, and I was so close now, so close, and I could see that he had one of those big red fake Ronald McDonald smiles painted on which was sinister and hopeful at the same time. A foot closer, and I was two steps away from passing him. Should I nod? Should I smile? Should I say good afternoon? I looked down as I passed him, hoping to just walk on by without having to observe any social niceties that are usually necessitated by one’s desire to appear normal. I wasn’t so lucky. The clown grunted something at me before I could pass, his arm stretched toward me. That was when I noticed the balloon wafting from his hand, blowing gently in the breeze. The balloon was a delicate pastel pink and had “It’s a girl!” printed on it in white letters. “I’m sorry, um, I didn’t quite hear what you—“ I began to say. The clown interrupted me, grunting something again, something that seemed to be “ta’ da boon, I baw id for you.” He took a lurching step towards me, and I frozen in fright, stayed in the spot I was at. He came up close, so I could see how the white make-up had settled in the age lines in his face. I could see how the whites of his eyes were pure red, and the actual color a washed out blue. He grabbed a strand of my hair and rubbed it between his fingers, grunting something again. A strong blast of liquor emitted from his chapped painted lips. I recoiled from the smell and the touch of his fingers in my hair.
A vague memory tried to surface brought on by that smell, a face flashed in my mind and flashed out again like the flickering of the projector at a movie. The smell reminded me of something but the memory was so far away that I couldn’t figure it out. It was there, yet it wasn’t there. Or maybe I didn’t want to remember?
But this was no time to ponder memories, this was time to run. Run away from the creepy clown currently fingering my hair and emitting its powerful liquor laced breath into my face. This was a time to kick him in his junk, run so fast that he couldn’t catch up and call the police to report it when I get home, so that he doesn’t hurt anyone. Anymore. But I couldn’t run, I couldn’t propel my foot up from the ground to assault his junk. I couldn’t speak. My body was frozen, frozen by that memory I had almost remembered.
He let go of my hair, and I saw that it looked like his bloodshot eyes were watering. Was he going to cry? What the hell for? What is going on? He struggled to enunciate his words, “Tayg dis ba-oon, I bawd id for you.” He reached his arm out again, holding the balloon out to me. I looked into his eyes, the faded blue and the bloodshot.
The same memory struggled for hold, this time the face coming into focus a little more. The smell was still there, and someone with short brown hair, and he was talking, he was speaking to me. No, I don’t want to remember.
“I don’t want it! I don’t fucking want it!” The paralysis was broken and I pushed his arm aside and began to run. As I reached the corner, I looked back at the clown. He looked at me, sad, tears running down his cheeks. He let go of the balloon. The wind grabbed a hold of it, the letters on the balloon seemed to mock me until I could no longer read them. It’s a girl! I gazed at the balloon until it was gone from my sight, and then turned my gaze back to the clown.
And that memory came back, flooded this time, those faded blue eyes, the voice speaking to me, the smell of alcohol. I could see the face clearly now, the eyes were such a faded blue, a little bloodshot even, and I don’t understand what the mouth is saying. Nonsense words, perhaps? And now waving and mouthing “bye bye.”
The clown was still there, his head down, his arms limp at his sides. He looked up, lifted his arms out to me. His eyes were pleading. The tears were still running down his checks, his mouth was working convulsively, probably trying to hold in his sobs. “Please.” His voice shook. I shook my head. “I can’t daddy, I can’t, you’ve been gone too long.”
Hannah's stories
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Thanks for all the feedback everybody. 
Originally Posted by Hannah
I should note that the only reason the child's name in the story is Paris is because I was too lazy to think of something else. 
