“Quinces”

I never thought so years ago when I was only an apprentice clown in Hackensack, but stay in this business long enough, and you come to absolutely treasure using quinces in your act. You suddenly find a bunch laying near some newly-poured concrete fixtures, or you stare out in amazement at potted plants that never bear any red Rutgers or Marglobes, but, rather, are loaded down with good-size, burnt-orange quinces. (Mind you, savvy folks will immediately know if you try and substitute something on stage like peppers or apricots, and they won’t hesitate to deafen you with jeers or thrustingly keep giving you the finger. It can get kind of ominous, believe me, because only a quince is a quince, and (to slip into character for just a moment) even a prince is not a quince.) But then you juggle your fruit for all you’re worth, fine fellow, you bring yourself to dripping perspiration if you’re not there already, or you bombard the audience enthralled, or at least stuff the front of your person so full of quinces that you’re mucho months pregnant and oh-so-ready to drop— there’s a ton of shit you can do, and all of it will work—and the laughter which begins in crescendos, I find rapidly mounts and humps hysterics.

William Blome

About William Blome

William C. Blome writes short fiction and poetry. He lives in-between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Amarillo Bay, Prism International, Laurel Review, The Oyez Review, Orion headless, Salted Feathers, and The California Quarterly.