STAGE FRIGHT

~Night one~

The audience cheered loudly, roars of satisfied entertainment and laughter filled the carnivals tent.
The acrobat's performance was flawless, just as practiced. Augustine, a younger member of the circus and a member of the clown act, watched from behind the cascading burgundy curtains that concealed the backstage.
Augustine clawed at the velvet curtains anxiously as he took a grandeur at the impressive act.

"Act two, prepare yourselves!" A crew member yelled.

Augustine looked one last time into a mirror.
His red mascara contrasted with his blue and white jester style makeup and complimented his rosy cheeks.
The clown flinched when he felt a presence behind him and hands on his shoulders, the Ringmaster.

Augustine instinctively shrunk against the boss's figure as he looked up at him through the reflection.

"Do not disappoint me, dear."

The clown shivered as the Ringmaster, Kenan, whispered in his ear. His smile had always been something that both scared and allured Augustine.

Kenan's hands slipped from Augustine's shoulders as he left the vicinity, Augustine missed the brief warmth that they brought him.

Backstage is cold. The type of chill in the air that lingers in a clinic or a hospital.

The clown took a deep breath as he and the other member, Marlo, of clowning made his extravagant entry.

The tent hums before the lights even rise—low chatter, popcorn crunching, the distant thud of a bass drum testing its echo. Backstage smells like greasepaint and rubber. Shoes too big. Costumes too bright.

He’s already shaking.

“Breathe,” says Marlo, without looking at him. Marlo’s voice is calm, practiced—like he’s done this a thousand times and forgotten what fear feels like. He tightens a suspender strap, checks the mirror.
“It’s just the same as rehearsal.” He reassured the boy.

"It’s not." Augustine murmured.

Rehearsal doesn’t have a crowd. Rehearsal doesn’t have eyes.

The youngest clown—Augustine—nods anyway. His hands won’t stop fidgeting with the frayed edge of his glove. The white fabric is already smudged gray. He tries to pull it straight. It won’t stay straight.

The Ringmaster gives the signal.

The music swells.

Marlo bursts through the curtain like a firework—big steps, bigger grin, honking horn, tripping over nothing and everything. The audience laughs instantly. He owns the space. Every stumble is intentional, every fall a setup.

Augustine follows a beat too late.

Already wrong.

He nearly misses his cue, almost collides with a prop stool. Someone in the front row snickers—not at the joke, but at the mistake. It hits him like a spotlight sharper than the one above.

Too loud. Too bright. Too many faces.

His chest tightens.

Marlo spins into him, recovering the moment smoothly, turning Augustine's hesitation into part of the act—tugging him forward, presenting him to the audience with a flourish. “And this,” his gesture says, “is my assistant!”

Augustine tries to bow.

He trips instead.

A few laughs. Not the right kind.

His thoughts start racing faster than the music: You’re messing up. They can tell. You’re not funny. You’re just—

He misses the next cue entirely.
The juggling pins clatter to the floor.

Silence—just for a second, but it feels endless.

Marlo swoops in again, scooping up the pins, juggling them effortlessly, spinning them behind his back, restoring the rhythm. The audience laughs, applause flickering back to life.

Augustine stands frozen.

He shouldn't be here.

He shouldn’t—

A pin bounces off his shoe and rolls to a stop right in front of him.

Everything slows.

The music is still playing, but it’s distant now. Like it’s underwater.

He looks at the pin.

It's just one pin.

Pick it up.

He bends—slow, careful—and grabs it.

No one laughs.

No one reacts.

It’s quiet again.

And then—something shifts.

He tosses the pin. Not high. Not fancy. Just a small arc.

Marlo catches it without looking.

A beat.

Augustine throws another—slightly higher this time.

Marlo catches again, now watching him, adjusting.

The rhythm starts building—not planned, not rehearsed.

Augustine throws faster.

Marlo keeps up.

The audience leans in.

There’s no time to think anymore.
No room for the noise in his head.
Just movement.

Throw—catch—step—duck—spin.

Marlo sends a pin back toward him.

Augustine flinches—but his hands move before fear can catch up.

He catches it.

A real laugh this time. Warm. Surprised.

Something clicks.

The lights don’t feel blinding anymore. The crowd isn’t a wall—it’s a wave, and he’s finally riding it instead of drowning under it.

He exaggerates the next throw, stumbling on purpose this time. The pin wobbles wildly through the air.

Gasps—then laughter.

He leans into it.

Trips bigger. Throws higher. Misses on purpose and scrambles to recover, turning every near-failure into a joke. His body loosens. His timing sharpens. The fear dissolves into motion.

Marlo steps back—just slightly—letting him take center.

Augustine doesn’t notice.

He’s in it now.
Fully.

The act builds to its peak: a chaotic cascade of pins, near-collisions, synchronized chaos that looks like disaster but lands perfectly every time. Augustine spins, slides, catches the final pin behind his back—

And sticks the pose.

Silence.

Then the tent erupts.

Applause crashes over them, loud and endless.

Augustine blinks, like he’s waking up.

Marlo steps beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder, giving the audience a grand bow—but angling it so Augustine is the one in the spotlight.

For a moment, Augustine hesitates.
Then he bows too.

This time, he doesn’t fall.