The ink-stained pages were strewn across the desk, no doubt about that, but there were other papers which littered the office. Some crumpled, discarded, others forgotten, and yet some still held their own place of existence, coming to the forefront of one’s mind on occasion, on season.
All knew of April’s Fool, surely; how could one not? How she danced, how she laughed, oh, how she entertained! She was as comedic as they come, and brought smiles to all in her presence. She could say anything, really, anything at all when she entered a room, behold, joy and merriment.
Her attire and countenance was jolly, being donned in bright, rambunctious colors and rather puffy rounds of cloth, that with softly ringing bells sewn to the edges. Her face was artistry, canvased with more colors and more colors, clinging to her lips, to her smile, powdered within her cheeks, her dimples, and jesterish symbols painted throughout.
She always emerged about this time of year, hopping off of her loop, and down to the ground. It was raining, gloomy, poured out upon all. She skipped, traveling by foot to every bar and every church; anywhere and everywhere. It was almost tradition, as all expected her arrival, but were surprised each time to see her show up. She loved the people around her and they loved the clown presented before them. “You’re funny!” they said. “You’re silly!” they said. “You should do standup!” they said. And she probably could, really.
From dawn until past-evening-dark time, she laughed, she danced, she joked, she did tricks and the sort. April’s Fool cheered up the souls of all she could, wiping away their tears of sadness and replacing them with tears of laughter.
But where did those tears go?
The funny thing about April’s Fool was the peculiar oddity which occurred that very night. As she finished her day, sauntering back into her room, the colors which shone so brightly now had begun to fade. She stared in her mirror as her smile slowly faded, cracks in her makeup becoming all-more revealed. And she sunk to a monochromatic flamboyancy, staring into space, blankly, but she was thinking.
All knew of April’s Fool, or at least, they thought they did, see. One can know someone on the stage, but do they know who comes off of it? Her body ached from dancing so much, but the people had began to expect a performance with her every arrival. Her head pounded, struggling with each setup to think of the next punchline.
Her colors hurt her eyes, her bells bothered her so, and she felt she was likely allergic the makeup, for it itched beyond purgatory. In her haze, a tear melted out of her face, as her expression screwed up, frustrated and pained. She pulled at her sleeves, pulled at her costume; but to tear of the fabric was to tear of her flesh.
She cried, for she was now allowed to do so, alone. They say April showers bring May flowers, but all of those showers must come from somewhere, and it was April’s Fool which provided them. She took upon the sadness of all around her, lifting others up and encouraging them to press on, and mourned herself, her tears watering the beauty which was sure to come. And she cried and she cried, succumbing to grief, no laughter to be had, no smiles to be shared.
Did anyone know she was more than a clown? Did anyone know she walked for she had no car? Did anyone realize they expected her, but never invited her? Did anyone know where she lived?
Did anyone know her real name was not April’s Fool?
Then the sun rose oncemore, and her time had been spent. The plants had been watered, and now began to bloom. All who longed for her in the rain now forgot about her in the shine. And she had served her purpose, climbing up, back onto her loop, suspended until the next gloom, for they would then expect the presence of dear April’s Fool.
ink stained pages 
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