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Laugh Clown Laugh

By Penny N Haavig

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Brooklyn, New York. 1930 The colors and sounds of vaudeville
"I don't know a lot of things. Why I don't scream bloody murder, when the voice from nowhere speaks to me. Why don't I tell someone? It's horrifying when it happens."
My attention's drawn to the beautiful ballerina adorned in a flowing white tutu with blond hair pulled in a bun. Someday, I'll be just like her.
In the last few minutes since I saw her last, Mama's hair is half-up in tangles, the bows are gone, and she's sniffling profusely. She's slumped over as walking on eggshells.
"What's happening to my mother?" I ask my Papa. My heart feels like it will burst.
Papa folds his arms. "Humph." The tension's so real, I can feel it in my bones.

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