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Clown Reproduction by K. Turner

Juggling five apples at once in an empty room, empty of people. Three walls, all stripy above their midpoint and red below.

The slippery, shiny skin of the apples slides against your palms, cooling them. They go around and around, carouselling around your head in flashes of ruby red.

Sticky hands follow shortly after, and with them comes worry. How long have you been here that the apples are rotting in your hands? Such probing questions and disturbing thoughts are liable to make you lose an apple, you think.

Then you drop the apples in a tumble onto the floor. They squish into it as they land, because they’re very old. Promptly you collapse onto the floor yourself, not a human being but a sack of apples.

Another person walks in and picks you up. They start to juggle.

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