In a place as dark as your search history, there’s a long corridor. Iron torches lined either side of the corridor. The flames gave little light. The shadows danced in the darkness. In the windless corridor, the dances were like a ritual, a summoning, a tribute.

The walls rose like an ancient fortress, built from unyielding stone. The ground beneath was rugged and uneven, adding to the treacherous terrain. Above, the ceiling arched impeccably smooth, a masterpiece of craftsmanship without flaw or blemish. An endless trail to the dark, the path wound sinuously like a slithering snake. A terrible place to play hide-and-seek.

In a place as dark as night, a young man came to light.

Dark hair fell on either side of his face. His dark eyes reflected little of the surrounding light—enough for the inner flames to shine through. In the windless corridor, he moved like the wind.

He pranced and danced like a merry man. He packed light but he breathed heavily. Caused not by the vigorous hike nor the stagnant air, but the heart-pumping sight unfolding before his eyes.

It might have been months but it felt like years. His drive to search for the book had always been real. To feel its weight now—the textures of its pages and the wisdom of its contents—made it all surreal.

Bound in a glossy cover, the book rested on his palm and left his bicep stiff. The humid corridor made his palms slick and damp. Every now and then, the book would slip from his hand like a bar of soap. Every attempt to escape the young man's grasp had failed. Until now.

He tripped and fell forward. His hands saved him from a bloody nose. The very same hands the book had leaped from.

The book thumped down the steps with a forbidding beat. Each step sent the book cartwheeling into the air worthy of a standing ovation. A standing ovation from the beckoning darkness beyond the steps.

“No!” The young man leaped onto his feet.

His body ached from the fall but his feet kept pounding down the steps.

Two steps.

His vision narrowed.

Three steps.

His steps widened.

Four steps.

His breath shortened.

Five steps.

His arms blurred.

The steps became a blur.

His heart banged against his chest.

In the windless corridor, he was the wind.

Until he wasn't.

The steps vanished from the young man’s feet and he took a sucker punch from the floor.

He tried groaning in pain but dust hugged the young man like an old friend. He coughed and hacked like his lungs fell out. His head throbbed from the rush, the roar in his ears were like a sold-out stadium.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

He shut his eyes and took deep breaths till the throbbing dulled. The pounding in his chest eased. He felt his muscles deflate as his body shed heat. The cold air struck him like a wave. The hairs on his arms stood. He felt eyes on him.

In the thick of the inky void, a storm drain came to light.

“Hiya, Qaley!”

He froze. He couldn’t believe what he saw. It was something you would only see in your dreams, or a movie where a raccoon could talk and shoot lasers.

In the storm drain, there was a clown.

Like those you see in a circus doing silly tricks, or in the mall giving out balloon animals to little kids. The face of the clown was chalk-white. Tufts of hair the color of ketchup retreated as far as possible from its hairline. A red smile was painted over its mouth, the tips curving upwards above his eyes like devil's horns.

“What a nice book.” The clown held the book up. “Do you want it back?”

Qale hesitated, but it couldn’t hurt to be nice. “Um… yes, please?”

“You look like a nice boy.” The clown’s smiled. “I bet you have many friends.”

“Used to... but we don't keep in touch anymore.”

“I bet I can cheer you up! I'll give you a balloon—do you want a balloon, Qaley?”

“I'm not supposed to take stuff from strangers.”

“Oh! Well, I'm Dollardumb—the standing clown. Dollardumb? Yes? Meet Qaley. Qaley, meet Dollardumb”. The clown giggled. “Now we aren’t strangers, are we?”

“Mmm...” Qale couldn’t deny that logic and he was not about to have a debate with a clown in a storm drain. “What are you doing in the sewer?”

“A storm bleeew me away,” said Dollardumb. “Blew the whole circus away. Can you smell the circus, Qaley?”

Qale leaned forward. He could smell sweet corn, buttery sweet corn, and fried chicken—hot fried chicken! The kind that would crunch as you sink your teeth into the tender whites. The kind that would have hot burning grease running down your hands. The kind that would have you suckle your fingers while its spicy aroma made love to your brain.

And yet under it all was the smell of flood and decomposing leaves. That smell was wet and rotten—the cellar-smell.

“I-I should get going now.”

“Oh! Without your book?” asked Dollardumb. “You don’t wanna lose it, Qaley. You’ll never find another like this!”

The clown wore a baggy silk suit with great big orange buttons. A layered ruffle—made of the same silk as his suit—covered his neck. On his hands were big white gloves, like the kind Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck always wore.

“Here.” Dollardumb offered the book. “Take it.”

It was tempting and Dollardumb was right—he wouldn’t find another book. However, Dollardumb was also the poster-boy of danger. Qale took one long look at the book, shook his head, and headed for the stairs.

“Wait! What about the circus? Little nice boys like you love the circus, yes?”

Qale stopped walking.

Dollardumb took Qale’s immobiled form as a positive sign to continue. “There's peanuts... cotton candy... hot dogs... and—”

“How you get to the circus?” Qale asked in a quiet tone.

“Oh! I can float there!” The clown grinned. “And when you’re down here with me, Qaley, you’ll float, too—” A zip interrupted the clown.

“What are you doing, Qaley?” The smile on the clown’s face evaporated. Dark eyes stared dagger at the clown, causing sweat to form on Dollardumb’s oversized forehead. “There’s… there’s cotton candy. Little nice boys like you love cotton candy, yes?”

Qale whipped around and stalked towards the clown. His form blocked the light from the stairs like a foretelling eclipse. His looming shadow seized the clown. Something was building inside the stammering clown—something he hadn’t felt before.

“T-there’s balloons,” said Dollardumb. “Little nice boys like you always love balloons. Please—”

A long stream of golden liquid shot towards Dollardumb. His bright red nose was the perfect target. Qale had whipped out his manhood and directed his not-so-little member at the clown. “Do little nice boys have this?”

The clown could have avoided the humiliating shot. But Dollardumb the standing clown just… stood there. He had dropped the book to shield himself. It was a useless attempt.

Qale was a virile young man—he had amazing aim. Dollardumb's oversized head helped too. The clown was soon a soaking mess.

Great relief washed over Qale. He hadn’t taken a piss since breakfast—it was dinnertime. A greater relief was knowing the clown was mortal.

“P-please…” Dollardumb the standing clown was pitiful. Makeup streaked down the his face. Yellow piss soaked his big white gloves. His baggy silk suit was now a soiled rag on his lanky frame. The once great big orange buttons on his suit hung in defeat.

“Who’s floating now?” said Qale .

“P-please… Qaley,” Dollardumb pleaded. “More please, Qaley!”

“Y-you...” The young man zipped up and stormed off. Leaving Dollardumb the standing clown to soak and bask in the glorious nectar.