HoratioPatrick
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horatiopatricks dot blogspot.com
Reaction Welcomed. Am Greateful.
Chapter One. MY NAME IS HORATIO PATRICKS
Maybe it's safe to say that I am not a standard person. But then perhaps I am. I was born much existence ago, though not as many years ago as some people were born, though sooner than a respectable amount of others - I feel old enough in certain situations certainly. There are certain words I use in this story that you may not comprehend. I will endeavour to explain them further. I apologise if sometimes my language is not first-rate, for English is not my premier tongue.
When I was seven years old, I was crossing the road, and a hefty automobile passed by. The driver was a gentleman named Maurice Clement, and he would prove very important to my life, later on in my life. At the time of the incident he appeared less so. He stopped at the traffic lights. There was an aspect of his appearance at the time that was remarkable. At least to the seven year old me. Thus, I remarked upon it, but Mr Clement was not amused. He blurted out something in French, at that time I didn't understand French, so I was rather confused. I laughed my childish laugh (not a crime, being a child), and this infuriated the gentleman further. He uttered more French words, then some in another language, which I understood. I was horrified at this anger, stepped back. My mother there with me, looked embarrassed and somewhat angry, both with me and with the gentleman.
I am interrupted from writing this tale by a strange sight. Out of my window are three clowns walking along in unison. The street is grey and chilly, 5 storey offices rising on both sides, the usual litter on the street. Around them is some sort of drug-crazed youth; the three clowns fascinate him. Contrary to usual clown behaviour, they are subdued, looking down, hurrying along. I seem to remember hearing in the news that there's a clown conference somewhere in town, clowns have come from all over the country to spread their lies. "Lies?!" I hear you ask. Yes, clowns lie; I found that out long ago. Later I shall tell you about that. It’s worth hearing.
Anyway this individual, fascinated by the clowns, is making no secret of his awe of the three, he is darting, around them, faster and faster, whipping himself into frenzy so it seems. He is calling out, but these windows are substantial and closed and the street is long and now they are getting to the end of the road, and I cannot hear.
Now the clowns have stopped and changed their tact somewhat. They are pushing him away, but he looks like he's refusing to go. They are not standing for that. One's hitting, the one with red hair. The man is falling down. It is not pretty. Punches. I do not know why the clowns are doing this. They are getting very violent. It looks like they are hurting the man quite a lot. Maybe I should descend and aid the man. But the clowns are too strong; they’d be hard to stop.
No, I will go. I must.
I am back.
Three days have passed. The help I gave turned out disastrously. I ran into the street and shouted at the clowns,
"Hello, clowns. Please stop"
I was polite. Maybe in hindsight that was a bad idea. Clowns who attack aren't generally the politest.
The clowns then pointed out to each other that I was a witness and should be silenced by fair means or foul. I suspected foul means were more likely. Silencing people is against the law after all. Though clowns have always gone close to the line between for and against the law. More on that in the future.
I pondered reason. But then I dismissed this reflection.
They were running at me, my pondering, or perhaps my instinct produced a reaction – to run.
And so I ran.
Reaction Welcomed. Am Greateful.
Chapter One. MY NAME IS HORATIO PATRICKS
Maybe it's safe to say that I am not a standard person. But then perhaps I am. I was born much existence ago, though not as many years ago as some people were born, though sooner than a respectable amount of others - I feel old enough in certain situations certainly. There are certain words I use in this story that you may not comprehend. I will endeavour to explain them further. I apologise if sometimes my language is not first-rate, for English is not my premier tongue.
When I was seven years old, I was crossing the road, and a hefty automobile passed by. The driver was a gentleman named Maurice Clement, and he would prove very important to my life, later on in my life. At the time of the incident he appeared less so. He stopped at the traffic lights. There was an aspect of his appearance at the time that was remarkable. At least to the seven year old me. Thus, I remarked upon it, but Mr Clement was not amused. He blurted out something in French, at that time I didn't understand French, so I was rather confused. I laughed my childish laugh (not a crime, being a child), and this infuriated the gentleman further. He uttered more French words, then some in another language, which I understood. I was horrified at this anger, stepped back. My mother there with me, looked embarrassed and somewhat angry, both with me and with the gentleman.
I am interrupted from writing this tale by a strange sight. Out of my window are three clowns walking along in unison. The street is grey and chilly, 5 storey offices rising on both sides, the usual litter on the street. Around them is some sort of drug-crazed youth; the three clowns fascinate him. Contrary to usual clown behaviour, they are subdued, looking down, hurrying along. I seem to remember hearing in the news that there's a clown conference somewhere in town, clowns have come from all over the country to spread their lies. "Lies?!" I hear you ask. Yes, clowns lie; I found that out long ago. Later I shall tell you about that. It’s worth hearing.
Anyway this individual, fascinated by the clowns, is making no secret of his awe of the three, he is darting, around them, faster and faster, whipping himself into frenzy so it seems. He is calling out, but these windows are substantial and closed and the street is long and now they are getting to the end of the road, and I cannot hear.
Now the clowns have stopped and changed their tact somewhat. They are pushing him away, but he looks like he's refusing to go. They are not standing for that. One's hitting, the one with red hair. The man is falling down. It is not pretty. Punches. I do not know why the clowns are doing this. They are getting very violent. It looks like they are hurting the man quite a lot. Maybe I should descend and aid the man. But the clowns are too strong; they’d be hard to stop.
No, I will go. I must.
I am back.
Three days have passed. The help I gave turned out disastrously. I ran into the street and shouted at the clowns,
"Hello, clowns. Please stop"
I was polite. Maybe in hindsight that was a bad idea. Clowns who attack aren't generally the politest.
The clowns then pointed out to each other that I was a witness and should be silenced by fair means or foul. I suspected foul means were more likely. Silencing people is against the law after all. Though clowns have always gone close to the line between for and against the law. More on that in the future.
I pondered reason. But then I dismissed this reflection.
They were running at me, my pondering, or perhaps my instinct produced a reaction – to run.
And so I ran.
