clown - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The clown is too skinny. He wears a striped shirt like he's just broken out of some cartoon jail and his arms are flexible toothpicks. The only thing right about him is his abnormally large hands and feet - great for catching baseballs if he's got the co-ordination. He walks like his legs object to he weight of his feet, like one of his close ancestors was a penguin. Ria starts to snicker and as usual that starts a contagion in the gang - everyone's laughing now. I guess I'll just have to go ahead and hire him, some folks are just naturally funny.
The clown was a caricature of every TV white faced, orange haired, big lipped buffoon I'd ever seen. I'd give him a zero for originality but that's what Tara wanted for the party.
The clown was like a cake that had been sitting in the kitchen for too long, buttercream icing all cracked. It was the heat of the day that did it, hot and dry like a Texas summer. Kara took him ice-water, "We'll get the party started then, get you in there as soon as possible." He bobbed his head, neon coils of hair rocking back and forth, and drank without saying a word. After thirty seconds or so he handed the glass back with more red make-up around the rim than had stayed on his lips.
The clown washed down some uppers with red bull and pulled on his fat suit. Clowns were jolly and fat, in seconds he became both. His face was already made, once he took his pharmaceutical helpers his hand would not be steady enough to do a good job. The only thing worse than being a clown was being an unemployed clown. His face was flawless porcelain white and his mouth made three times its original size in red. His eyes were lined with back as smoothly as if painted by an artist and on his cheek was a glittered star. He grinned into the mirror and the clown grinned back, already getting high from the drugs. He never usually drank but his new girl had given him some gin so he knocked back a couple. After a time he felt his high decrease, he wasn't so happy anymore. So he took another upper. He looked in the mirror again, no grin. His heart rate accelerated in his chest as if it would explode. He became hot and stumbled out into the wintry air, sweating and giddy....
From the darkness there stepped a man. At first his face was obscured by the dim, but then he shuffled forwards and the feeble light from the gas station sign was enough to illuminate his features.That bluish hue made him all the more pale, but it was clear that he was wearing thick white make-up. Each eye was in the centre of a black cross, his mouth was huge and garish red. The hair on his head was greyish and curly, but Steve figured that in the light of day it would be bubble-gum pink. Although it was the face of a clown his clothing was nothing like the stereotypes in children's literature. He wore combat trousers and hob-nail boots, topped with a black all-weather jacket. The clown turned slowly to Steve, unsmiling, and said "Do you want to hear the joke about the guy who went walking to a gas station late at night?"
It was a clown, like in the circus or on TV. In fact he looked like a cross between Bozo and Clarabell, who talked by honking his (or was it her?—George was never really sure of the gender) horn on Howdy Doody Saturday mornings—Buffalo Bob was just about the only one who understood Clarabell, and that always cracked George up. The face of the clown in the stormdrain was white, there were funny red tufts of red hair on either side of his bald head, and there was a big clown-smile painted over his mouth. If George had been inhabiting a later year, he would have surely thought of Ronald McDonald before Bozo or Clarabell. The clown was holding a bunch of ballons, all colors, like gorgeous ripe fruit in one hand. In the other he held George's newspaper boat.
Just when Odin was about to whine a clown burst in through the garden gate. He was as vivid as his mother's summer blooms - red hair more vibrant that a fire donned his head, starkly contrasting to the paper-white make-up of his face. His mouth was huge and raised into a smile and his steps had a bounce to them. Behind him trailed a mass of gay balloons, jostling in the brilliant rays, each as beautiful as the next. Then Odin spied his feet, clown feet! They were beyond large, at least twice the length of an ordinary shoe and they slapped into the grass like flippers. All thoughts of his complaint had been erased from his mind and he gawped to watch the figure approach, making a beeline right for him. How did he know? "Happy Birthday!" roared the clown and took him by the hand toward the best spot for his show. Even his "I am eight" badge couldn't outshine his smile.
I can't see a clown without thinking of cheap burgers and fries, maybe that's why they chose that icon - so we'd subliminally think of their food at every time we saw one. Clowns are everywhere: birthday cards, cartoons, kids books, parties. Their eyes peek out from beneath the pasty make-up and their mouths, so garish, smiles no matter the emotions of whoever is all dressed up. My friend Sam can't help but get freaked out by them, I can see why. They are odd, remnants of slap-stick comedy I guess from the days before television. I guess some folks like 'em, but I personally couldn't care less if I ever saw one again.