Fears of a Clown: A Collection of Short, Short Stories

By John Bruno

In his first compilation of short stories, author John Bruno shares colorful glimpses of the fictional world of a diverse group of spirited individuals who offer thought-provoking messages as they experience both mundane and life-altering eventsoften with a surprising twist.

From Russ, who finds truth through hardship, to Margaret, who embarks on a journey to find her independence, Bruno combines humor and old-fashioned storytelling with introspective questions about goodness, insecurities, and the fortitude of the human spirit that will encourage others to contemplate their own destinies and life purposes.

Both inspiring and charming, this compilation of short, short stories shares provocative reflections and vivid revelations while revealing the eccentricities of a few relatable and amusing characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781426974809

Book preview

Contents

Too Perfect

Far From the Tree

Nothing is Anything

The Spirit of Bob Thurmond

Sputnik

The Calling

Who Could Know?

Halloween

Joe

It’s a Mystery

Chez Paree

Ruth’s Outing

Her Best Laid Plan

Perseverance

The Sky’s the Limit

Ode To Be Owed

Fears of a Clown

A Cut Above

Feary Grandmother

Soul Food

Clarity

Accidents Do Happen

The Trumpet

Time Will Tell

True Love

For Erika

My sincerest and most heartfelt thanks to everyone for their support and help in the writing of this book. Peter for his patience, time and skill, Frances for her ability to help me around the technical issues and for telling me she liked what she was reading. Catherine for using words that were too kind to describe my writing. Charmaine for being more enthusiastic and helpful with the project than I could have hoped for. Sue for sitting patiently while Erika would read her stories over the phone and say only good things about them and Dar for handing me a popular book at work one day and saying I could do that, then reading what I written and not taking it back. To everyone for assuring me that what I was writing was something that someone might want to read and for putting up with me handing them more and more stuff to peruse. Terri for letting me be on her radio show (I know Terri, OUR radio show) and for eagerly asking to read what I had written the previous week and always saying it was good, and for so many other things. And of course my huge thank you to my dear wife Erika for making it all possible and worthwhile, for giving me the gift of time to write, for calling me a writer and for letting me sit and watch her face as she read, not minding me asking her what part she was reading when she would smile or chuckle or gasp. Her name should be Patience. Thank you all for the constant nudges in the right direction and for being my dear friends.

A special thanks to you, the reader, as well. Although we don’t know each other personally, I am grateful to you for trusting me with your most valuable possession, time. My wish is that you feel it was time well spent.

The stories and characters in this book are all works of fiction. Any resemblance to any real people or events are very unfortunate coincidences.

Too Perfect

Russ was starting to wonder if he was a little bit crazy. It seemed lately that everything he wanted, everything he thought about, would just happen. The house on the lake that he and his wife Deb shared was as he always imagined it would be. It was an A-frame with windows that went from floor to ceiling, overlooking the lake. There was a fireplace and even though it was a large home, it was cozy. The lake was just the right size for sailing, providing a few miles of run, yet it was sheltered and deep enough to not have to worry about knockdowns or running aground. It seemed to Russ however, that on those days he felt like an exhilarating sail, the wind would pick up and the waves became a little choppy, while most of the time the sun was bright and the sky blue. On those days when he slept in a little because the bed was warm and the air just a little chilly, he would arise to find a low overcast and the distant rumble of thunder. Somehow, he thought, it always suited his mood.

Out back of the house was his workshop where he had been building a boat. It was a twenty foot sloop made of wood, or at least it would be when he finished. He had been working on it as long as he could remember and the end of construction was nowhere in sight. It was the process that he loved. The smell of the wood when he entered the shop was intoxicating to Russ. The feel of the wood’s resistance to his chisels and saws and the fact that from blank pieces of wood a living breathing boat was being born from his hands and head made this a most special place. For some reason this boat was more than the sum of its parts to Russ. He knew that nothing bad would happen so long as he had the boat to complete.

Deb loved their life at the lake. She loved Russ and she loved their home and their three dogs, Sam, Jack and Gypsy. Sam and Jack were smart, handsome, robust mixed breeds, Sam being a shepherd/border collie cross while Jack was a kelpie/cattle dog mix. Gypsy was a little rat terrier who was not quite as good looking or smart as her brothers, but was the only one who enjoyed a good sail. Sam and Jack looked after their little sister and kept her out of harm’s way. Jack would even chew the ends of her rawhide bones for her as she didn’t like them until they were wet and soft. Invariably he would chew on them for about five minutes while she sat patiently waiting. He would then get up and walk over to her, dropping it in front of her while giving a look that seemed to say, Okay, it’s all yours now. Only then would he walk over to his own bone and happily chew away next to Deb and Sam at the fireplace. Occasionally he would raise an eyebrow glaring at the flames when a log unexpectedly would pop.

These were perfect days. Russ could not remember a cross word between Deb and himself, nor even the need to ever reprimand the pups. Friends and family would come to visit but never when they were not welcomed, and mostly it seemed only after he had thought about how nice it would be to see them.

Most days found Deb and Russ and the pups taking a long walk along the trails through the woods that surrounded their place. Gypsy, though a fraction of the size of everyone else, would always lead the way. If one pup stopped to linger over an interesting smell, the other two would come over to join in the investigation, otherwise they tended to move independently, though not so independently that they couldn’t be caught looking over their shoulders to ensure that Deb and Russ hadn’t fallen too far behind. These walks would end on the beach with a game of catch with a ball or Frisbee or both. Gypsy, being the princess that she was would sit very regally on the picnic table and watch the nonsense from a safe distance.

Things between Russ and Deb had never been better. Could they really have been together over thirty years? Deb did not look old enough and frankly, Russ didn’t feel old enough. How could two people spend so much time together and never want it to stop? Russ decided that maybe it was time to stop asking questions when he really didn’t want the answers.

Why now though? He couldn’t stop wondering. Russ couldn’t remember ever having this nagging sensation before. Something seemed to be looming, something… something not necessarily dark, but disruptive was at work, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was only a sense, a vague feeling that the applecart was about to be upset, and he didn’t like it. He retreated to his workshop and was alarmed to realize how close to finished the boat was. Now he made a conscious decision to never finish it. There was plenty to do to keep him busy, but he would stop short of naming her. Placing a name on her would signify that she was done, and for no rational reason he could come up with, Russ was convinced that this idyllic life depended upon that boat remaining undone.

Just having thoughts like that, such irrational beliefs, were causing Russ to become agitated. What is going on, he wondered. He realized he had to make a very strong effort to live in the moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he had to remind himself like this, but it would probably have been when he was in his thirties and was very nervous and unsettled. Russ believed those days were so far behind him that he almost never looked back, but now it was all rushing at him. He remembered the anxiety and stress, the migraines and the worry. He remembered his childhood full of fears of losing his parents in an auto accident, a seed placed by his well meaning but neurotic grandmother who would tell him every time his parents went out and left him alone with her, that she hoped to God that they didn’t end up in a ditch somewhere. He remembered his fears of sudden catastrophe that were also the result of his beloved grandmother painting her anxiety on his fresh childlike canvas of a mind.

I knew a little boy who was in church and suddenly started screaming, she told him. It turned out he had a brain tumour and died later that day.

That was only one of dozens of things she told him before the age of eight that would have made the toughest of men uncomfortable. He could laugh now though, or so he thought. Surely he was just having a little flashback, and with that was able to dismiss the feelings for a while. Too much spare time was allowing his mind to wander into mine fields, or mind fields as he called them to amuse no one but himself. Keeping a little busier would surely be the answer.

The next morning he awoke early and decided to go for a short sail before breakfast as he often did. The sun was just peeking over the horizon and the slightest mist would soon burn off the lake. The breeze was gentle and warm, so he cast off for a half hour on the water. The little boat responded to his fingers like a racehorse, even in the light airs. The I-SEA-YOU was a good little boat and he felt she took good care of him. He assured her that the new boat he was building would never take her place, and all felt right with the world.

Russ was thinking of how he left his little family that morning. Deb was asleep, looking angelic with her head on her pillow. Jack was snoozing on the foot of the bed, though he did open his eyes when Russ scratched him behind the ears as he left the bedroom. Sam was curled up on the floor next to Deb, and Gypsy was curled up in her favourite chair in the corner. It was a picture he had seen a hundred times before, and it always made him smile. While lost in that daydream, he failed to notice the cats paw rushing across the water toward him. Twenty feet from the dock the wind hit his little boat with a fury he had not seen on this lake. He had just moved forward to douse the sail and prepare to tie up when he was knocked overboard. Russ was not a good swimmer but this close to shore it wouldn’t be a problem if he hadn’t hit his head on one of the large smooth rocks that made up the entire region. He wasn’t knocked unconscious, but he was dazed and barely managed to make it ashore. His little boat was slammed against the rocks but Russ didn’t even notice as he struggled to make his way to the house to get some help from Deb.

Deb, he yelled once inside, Deb, but there was no answer. He was dripping water and blood when he went in the bedroom, only to find it empty. There appeared to be no one home. He thought it was the worst possible time for her to take the pups for a walk. Russ was very dizzy and dazed and felt that only his will was keeping him from dropping to the floor as he staggered around the house. Deb, he yelled again, just hoping it would work the third time. Nothing, no response, so he staggered out the door on the off chance she might be in the workshop. Deb, he called again as he entered the shop.

Russ, she said in a calm voice, you look like you’ve been swimming. Let me show you what I’ve been working on.

She led him to the transom of the boat where she had attached a name board she had carved and painted. It said GYP-SEA in gold letters and was firmly fastened to the boat. Russ was confused. Deb was not at all distressed by his appearance. He no longer felt cold and wet. He couldn’t feel anything. No, he said in a half whisper, no, it’s all over, and he closed his eyes as the sun came streaming in the shop window striking him in the face.

Meanwhile in the hospital in town, Deb had just given the medical staff the nod to take Russ off life support. He had his stroke a week before and she was finally convinced that at eighty-seven years old and after sixty-six years of marriage, he would not be coming back to her. She knew she wouldn’t be far behind.

Far From the Tree

Death is a lousy shot kid, my dad said from his hospital room bed. Consarnit, he’s had more chances at me than I can remember and yet he can never finagle the big ending. Here I am again, laughing at his shenanigans.

My dad had been in what should have been a very serious car accident but remarkably, it wasn’t. Both cars were totalled while two more were damaged. My dad was the most injured, partly because he was eighty three and partly because he had a sore back to begin with. They weren’t really sure if there was any real damage, but they wanted to keep him a little while for observation.

Tell me about the accident dad. What happened?

Aw, this guy ran into me is all. He was driving along higgledy-piggledy all over where ever he darn well felt like. I swear he was higher than a giraffe’s backside on something, that crack or whatever those kids take nowadays to get themselves all flummoxed . There’s no way he would have been driving that way iffen he wasn’t up to some monkeyshines.

Specifically dad, what happened? I asked a little more firmly. My dad is hard to keep focused at the best of times. Once he’s excited, it’s almost impossible to keep him on track.

"Well sir, I was getting onto the expressway to visit your aunt Beatrice, on account of I wanted to ask her about the hullabaloo that took place over to the legion hall