The Comedian

“Who are you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you know anything?”

“I’m not sure.”

The leaves were flimsy in the eyes of the sun, almost see through, silky. They floated up and down with the ocean breeze. Waves crashed like many islands have waves crashing. A bird, petite in its figure, swooped down to a lone dead branch shaded by the leaves. With a jostle of feathers, its beak creaked open to unveil stubby teeth and a high pitched yell that sounded like metal sliding across concrete.

He inhaled piles of sand. A man laid on the sandy shore, his eyes shot to the blinding horizon. The pale blue sky fluttered with tight knitted airy clouds. He stood himself up, sand billowing down his ragged, three piece suit missing its blazer. His hair was oddly neat, paste-like. He stared around, examining his surroundings. The terrain were blotches, almost a watercolor painting. The man saw his blazer on the shore, water had doused the sleek fabric. Calmly, he made his way over to his shirt, picking it up as the sea collided with his shoes, and dropped it back in the ocean. It was unusable.

Through the watercolor forest, he saw the village which kept the island neat--at least as neat as an island can be. He searched his mind for memories, yet all that could come to him was a picture of a woman, a tall, dark woman with braided hair which ran down her back and rough cloth top which revealed her midsection and a skirt of the same, bland fabric. She was beautiful. She kept on his mind for what seemed miles until he reached the outskirts of the town. No walls. No security. It was free.

He had grown the urge for water, the sun had begun to toll on him and his legs became weak. The houses were structured perfectly with silver stone bricks in straight lines and each house was symmetrical. He grew no haste, sauntering over to the nearest house and knocking a rhythm that came to him naturally: Shave and a Haircut, two bits. The door opened to a young boy, who couldn't be older than 7, and he bore the same cloth that the woman wore.

“Water.” The man spoke, his voice hoarse and gruff. The boy took a step backwards, turned his head around, and bellowed to a relative in perfect english.

“Sister!” The sister came around to the door with the younger boy cowering behind her. The man had his squinted, the sun had become heavy, and it seemed that it had yet to falter to night or behind clouds.

“Yes?” The sister asked, her head rubbing the hair of the boy.

“Water.” The sister examined him, staring from head to toe. She pulled the door open to the man.

The house was much larger than the outside would perceive it, hay stood for walls with archways instead of doors. The sister poured out a teapot into a porcelain cup, painted on the side with the bird that resided in the forest. Inside the cup was a flower bud and bits of unknown seeds. As the water streamed into the cup, the bud unfurled into pink petals. Soft, delicate, unbroken by terror. It sparked something in the man. A memory of serenity. The girl held the tea up to the man.

“Drink.” So he did. All that was left was a wilted flower.

“Where am I?” The man

“Florset.”

“Ah.” He didn’t understand.

“Who are you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you know anything?”

“I’m not sure.” A smile curled on her face, soon opening into a boisterous laugh, ringing throughout the home. “What’s so funny?”

“You.”

He thanked the girl and waved goodbye to the boy. The sun had begun to set yet the heat had never waned. He wandered around the town, peaking into stores, searching for any type of human life. The bird from earlier sat perched on an odd stone tower. Marbling ran like veins through the silver. A carved out circle stood at the top of the pillar and, at a certain angle, the sun filled the hole perfectly, casting a snakelike shadow on the gravel. He stared for a moment but eventually abandoned it.

He then began to try different doors, yet to no avail he gave up and sat on a park bench, staring at the stone structure with the bird staring directly at him. His eyes soon faded and day turned into night.

Sweat doused the man’s head and body. Flames flickered around, dancing to a rhythmic beat. His eyes began to clear, viewing upon the bodies of fire twirling like deranged ballerinas. He sat up straight and his head shot around. The moon filled the hole of the stone as the bird stared into his heart, the one that beats so slowly and methodically, one could call him dead. Soon, the flames were extinguished and a man, wrinkled around the edges and wearing the same cloth as the woman, sat next to him.

“What is your business here?”

“I don’t know.” And, as the girl had laughed, this man too laughed. He seemed to never stop. He retold the “joke” to the villagers around him, and soon they laughed. The bird opened its beak and began to laugh.

“Comedian.” The villager spoke.

“How’s that?” The villager laughed.

“Why, just like that!”

“What was with the flames?”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” All the man did was nod his head. The man began to grow under this one night as a comedy phenomenon, being dubbed The Comedian by the locals. The man adapted the name yet never changed his confusion. He mainly did crowd work, and every Thursday night he’d perform. Every now and then flames would erupt around the stone statue, and everytime he’d ask a question about the statue or anything about the island, they’d just laugh and laugh. Odd bunch of people.

A Thursday night, instead of performing, The Comedian was taken behind the gates where The Dictator was housed. Through metal gates and grand stone hallways, The Comedian was sat in a lavish room furnished with two chairs, harrowing towers of books and a lone fireplace which provided the only light in the grand room; along with this was a grand piano. He sat along for what seemed like hours, his feet resting on the patterned rug. The rug laid out a series of events, all of them containing the stone tower. Before The Comedian could examine it further, The Dictator came in, seating himself in the opposite chair. They made their hellos. The Dictator had a youthful face, his eyes contained peace, and he carried himself with a smile.

“You’re The Comedian?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you dress like that?”

“I don’t know.” The Dictator began to laugh, lurching over his knees in delightful pain.

“I see why they call you that. I’d like to offer you something. An opportunity to become a true legend.”

“No thanks.”

“Okay. May I ask why. I haven’t even said what it is.”

“I really don’t know.”

“This is no time for jokes Mr. Comedian. I just wanted to give you the option. The illusion of one that is.”

“Then why give me an option?” The Dictator slapped him across the face.

“Come with me.” The Comedian followed The Dictator out to town square where flames erupted at the stone structure. “You are valuable, yet you don’t understand what is needed on this island. You are needed by the Gods.” The Comedian’s head is thrusted into the circle, and he stared to the moon. Fire engulfed his body.

“Any last jokes before you ascend?”

“Why?” They all laughed.