Spring

A Story by Laz K.

Elephants, strongmen, and clowns

Slowly, Mrs. Morton sat up in bed. She reached for the alarm clock on the bedside table and wound it. The tiny cogs inside ground against one another. She watched the skinniest hand sweep around the face of the clock and marveled at the speed with which it moved.

Her husband was already in the kitchen, rattling pots and pans.

“Mabel!” he shouted. “We’re out of paprika powder!”

Mrs. Morton’s mouth opened, but there was no sound. She sighed, ran her fingers through her hair. In the kitchen, her husband flicked on the radio.

“It’s shaping up to be a beautiful Wednesday! Spring has finally arrived, everyone. Get out and enjoy the fresh bursts of color in the park!”

“Wednesday,” Mrs. Morton repeated to herself. “The grocer would have fresh bananas and whole-grain bread.” There was faint joy and gratitude in her soul now for having found purpose for another day. It was reason enough to rise, to dress, to live. She had some coffee, gathered her thinning hair in a small bun, and seeing blue skies she decided to ride her bicycle to town.

A small crowd was gathered around the bulletin board outside the church building. Other elderly women on bicycles paused on their way to the grocery store; a man dressed in black stood holding a humble bouquet of graveyard flowers; and the occasional gypsy lingered, with nothing particular to do and nowhere particular to be.

Mrs. Morton decided she would see for herself what all the fuss was about. Behind the glass cover, a poster blazed in loud color, a harsh contrast to the few black-framed notices announcing deaths in town, dates of funeral ceremonies, and the occasional listing of used furniture or farm animals for sale.

CIRCUS IN TOWN!
For Three Nights Only

Under the Grand Red-and-Gold Tent!
Step right up, step right up!
Enter a world of wonder!

Smell the sweet sugar of spun candy!
See the lights blaze against the night sky!
Come on before the caravan rolls on and the music fades into memory!

No one in the small crowd spoke. They stood transfixed by the images: elephants balancing on painted balls, slender dancers adorned with feathers, daring acrobats, fire-eaters and sword-swallowers, strongmen and fortune-tellers, trick riders and dancing horses, clowns with painted faces, a brass band, and other marvels.

Mrs. Morton stared and became aware of her own reflection in the glossy cover of the poster. She couldn’t help but think, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the saddest of them all?” The bitter aroma of self-consciousness, shame, and ignorance lingered in the air. The sight of distant lands, marvelous creatures, unfamiliar peoples, and bright festivities beyond the reach of the small town was a portal into the land of “What Could Have Been.”

Mrs. Morton’s face slackened and her shoulders sagged. Wistfully, she remembered a time when her hair streamed behind her as she rode her bicycle, her legs strong, her smile flashing in the sun. The graveyard flowers trembled in the old man’s hand.

Mrs. Morton resented the Circus. It was a cruel reminder of lost youth, of a life spent bent over fields, of endless small anxieties: the spring rains arriving too late or not at all, the sows birthing in the night and crushing their young, the city people at the market wrinkling their noses at the produce and driving away in polished cars without a purchase.

How many springs had passed before she arrived here, standing among the elderly townspeople as if posed for a portrait of old age and regret? The old man sniffled and coughed softly. Mrs. Morton took a deep breath, and brought her mind back to her shopping list. She would also need a bolt of floral fabric for curtains or slipcovers for the fading furniture in her dim living room. She gripped her wicker basket and, eyes down, left slowly.

The town had a charming little park at its center, directly across from the church. The settlement had grown around this green heart, and now paved roads on all sides framed it like a thick, black border, setting the lush oasis apart from the surrounding streets.

Very few of the local people set foot in the park even at springtime. They had no reason to do so. For the farmers, spring meant work in the fields; the shopkeepers could barely steal a moment to breathe; and the commuters in their cars sped past, their eyes fixed on the road.

Also, there was Hob. No one knew his full name, his age, or how he had come to make a home beneath the trees in the park. The villagers said he was “touched in the head.” He had no steady work and lived off what he could glean from the fields beyond town, along with the odd kindnesses of the baker, the grocer, and a few others who left him scraps or a few coins.

Hob owned no alarm clock or a radio. He did not know it was Wednesday, nor that spring had officially begun. Yet, on this day, when he opened his eyes, he was greeted by colors creamy, bright, and impossibly pure. He scratched his bushy beard and grinned a toothless smile. He drew deep breaths of the crisp air. Not yet hungry, he wandered aimlessly through the park, picking flowers and tucking them into his matted hair and buttonholes. He looked like a scraggy faun, or Pan himself, the old god of the wild.

Often he would linger at the park’s edge all day. From there, he would watch the spectacle of the town: people gliding past on bicycles, cars roaring by at breakneck speed, fattened animals of every kind being driven to market or the slaughterhouse, women in colorful dresses with ribbons in their hair, and little children with faces smeared from lollipops and ice cream.

Hob, the scraggy god of the town park, watched this circus with a flower wreath on his head and laughed. He knew most of the townsfolk, having seen them grow up, rush about, always busy, always worried. He recognized Mrs. Morton as she rode past him on her bicycle. He lifted a handful of freshly picked wildflowers and waved, but Mrs. Morton did not see him through her tear-filled eyes. The spectacle of spring blurred before her as she rode on, dreaming of elephants, strongmen, and clowns.

© 2026 Laz K.

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Chris Shaw

Thoroughly enjoyed your short story Laz. Two elderly people with a completely different attitude towards life. Descriptive and colourful. Happiness, we have to grow our own. Poor Mrs Morton, How she missed out on the joys of spring while Hob appreciated the small things in life.

Chris