The Stranger

The stranger walked along the cracked back street in the flickering and sickly post-dusk streetlamps, listening to the quiet sounds of conversation and saxophone music drifting from the dark little bars that huddled the less fortunate denizens of the city to their breast in these hours. A set of bongos accompanied a beat poet's staccato performance. The stranger's feet began to move with the beat, a little playful jig meant to move forward more than look graceful, but accomplishing both. The wind was cold but mild, and pleasant. It was then that he came upon an especially dark corner of that forgotten part of the city, a sole pool of light creating a makeshift stage on the sidewalk.

There was a muffled jingling sound and a happy clown fell into the light with more grace than his awkward frame would suggest possible. He had long, spindly legs and an eggish body, fat and round. He wore a small bowler on his bald, white head. He turned to the stranger, spun in place, and bowed. Then he did a slight pirorette and leapt out of the light toward the nearby cafe. The stranger just barely caught sight of a glint beneath the checkered coat as the clown vanished.

The explosion lifted him off his feet and sent him violently flying, though in retrospect he felt as if he were being lifted gently off the ground.

He sat up, his ears ringing. Part of a coffee cup landed nearby. In deference to the fact that there are rules to these kinds of things, so did a flaming bowler hat. He extracted a bent cigarette from his coat pocket, looking for his lighter. Not finding it, he regarded the now-aflame cafe. He sighed and tucked the cigarette back away.