The second round of stories from our runners-up of the George Condo Short Stories Competition are featured below. Congratulations to Cathy Bryant and Elina Koudriakova
Old Clown by Elina Koudriakova
The stench of urine and disinfectant filled the girl’s nose. The air was thick with despair and death. She felt the white washed walls begin to close in.
‘You get used to it eventually’, the nurse declared, sensing the girl’s unease. ‘Of course, a lot of trainees drop out before they get there, but I think you’ll be just fine’.
The flippant comment set the girl on edge. You should not get used to it, you should do better. They deserve better. She could make a difference, she just had to have perseverance. Or would she just become flippant and cynical, as her mentor seemed to be. Did that come with years on the job?
The nurse led her on, ‘this is the communal area. We have a selection of books over here if they get bored, but most of them bring their own things for entertainment.’
The girl frowned at the yellowing pages of generic romance novels covered in twenty years of dust. Why twenty? That’s when this place opened of course. She let her gaze wander. Some of the elderly residents were playing chess and various other games. Some were quietly chatting. A lone figure drew her eyes. His white wispy hair rested on his shoulders, a stark contrast to the bright red polka dot outfit. Seeing the girl’s puzzlement, the nurse led her closer.
‘This is Mr Rogers. One of our recent arrivals.’
‘Why is he wearing that outfit? Did he work as a clown?’
‘Used to be a university professor. His mind’s just gone, refuses to wear anything else. Senile, you know.’
‘I can hear you, you know’, the professor stirred to life.
The nurse raised her eyebrows, ‘You’ve been pretending Mr Rogers.’
‘Well, that’s how you see us all, isn’t it? Senile old clowns.’
Smiling Girl with Blue Eyeshadow by Cathy Bryant
I had never before seen my older sister wearing makeup. I was terrified.
Now I’m aware that she had simply whitened her teeth, but to the child I was then it looked as if they had been filed, polished and sharpened, until they looked like bone.
She bared them at me in a wolfish smile.
“What do you think, baby bro?”
I shook my head and hid behind the sofa. The wolf’s grimace followed me and laughed a little, and I thought of Little Red Riding Hood.
“Come on, don’t be silly!” she grinned, and I began to feel stupid. Wolves killed little girls, not boys, in the stories. Though the jutting nose and chin were out of dark fairytale too, and witches didn’t care whether their prey were male or female. They would eat boys as happily as girls, despite all that stuff about slugs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails. Perhaps witches preferred that stuff to the sugar and sweetness of girls.
Who was this and what had she done with my sister?
“Go away!” I barked. “Witch!”
At which her face fell and her head drooped, and she was my sister again.
She took refuge in anger.
“That’s mean! You’re just jealous because you’re too small to understand grown-up things.”
I looked at the smears and runnels of bright blue eyeshadow, inexpertly applied, and as well as looking like a wolf or a witch she also looked like my lovely (mostly) sister.
“You look beautiful,” I said softly. “Like a princess.”
And her face lit up and she beamed like a little girl.
No; not a wolf, nor a witch, I thought as she left the house. More like a clown. Please god, please let no one laugh at her.
George Condo, The Art Collector, 1985. Image courtesy Galerie Bruno Bischofberger, Zurich © the artist
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