Centaur search for laughter

In the widespread, unruly space of wave shimmering, where the sun shone reasonably among the dark storm clouds, one could hear the unparalleled clustering of hooves long before the creatures came into appearance. It was there that Bartholomew, an unbearable centaur of dubious ancestry, was engaged in an unexpected profession: the art of raised comedy.

Bartholomew, or Bart for his friends and some hecklers, was not your average centaur. Unlike his cousins, who tend to meadows reciting epic verses or wrestling with the heavy cloak of their noble heritage, Bart had gravitated to laughter. Its lower half, a strict chestnut stallion, was strong and courageous, while its upper half was unfair, with a beard who seemed to have a life of its own and a nose that fell as much as half of it. He had a certain way to shake his torso while giving works that, on good days, were funny enough to make local satires crying tears of wedding.

The wave was traditionally calm, in addition to the casual argument of wool among the blames that were usually escalated into a cacophony of shine and wrong curses. But on this special evening, the tension was noticeable. The big annual gathering was around the corner, and the ambition was to entertain the mythical sphere beasts-including wet gorgons, very serious unicorns, and wild ogres, all of them were upset about the lack of quality entertainment. Bart often said his real goal was to make at least a gorgon laugh before he died of old age, a feature similar to the tickling of a stone statue.

As Twilight descended on the wave, painting the horizon with colors that were, honestly, much more flattering than most residents deserved, whispers filled with Laughter of Bart-A strange assortment of forest creatures, fairy and a very dissatisfied Hedgog by the name Edgar-Ephulation. Bart took a deep breath and controlled his galloping heart, reminding himself that tonight was the night. Armed with a bucket of acorns for bribes that otherwise they could throw it, he was put in a makeshift phase that would be collected from the old crates and remnants of the last Satyr. The scene had not seen the light of the day since it collapsed under the weight of a particularly heavy goblin.

The crowd was a great mix. Unicorns ignited their men with nervousness, the ogres bowed with the wings folded, disguising their amusement behind the departers of Gruff, while Gorgons looked closely, perhaps even sharpening their petrifting eyes. Bart cleaned his throat dramatically, a gesture that only served to make the audience shift vaguely, and then it began.

“What is the difference between a centaur and unicorn?” He bark, a gentle glow in his eyes. “One stays long and proud, and the other …” He made gestures for particularly wild unicorn in the front row, who had somehow managed to look as regal and fully interested. “… it’s just here for hay compliment!”

The falls echoed the audience, but carried continued, his faith as the belly of a dragon after a good meal. “Honestly, I don’t understand unicorns! They spend the whole day falling in love around and avoiding mud. I mean, do you know how difficult it is to find a good mud pond in this wave? They are practically missing!”

The crowd cried and carried felt the emotion of victory through it. It was a intoxicating elixir, this laughing and he was determined to drink deep. He began in tales of his life as a Centaur, recounting the time he tried to play with a pack of hounds, just to end up following in the fields by a particularly enthusiastic dachshund. “You know you are in trouble when your tail starts to withdraw from the embarrassment!” He tried as the gorgons bowed forward, almost entertained despite themselves.

But there were not all fairy tales and jokes. Bart was not divided by the darkest side of centaur life. “Let’s talk about grooming,” he said diligently, glittering in his eye, shining like the elusive treasure buried in a dragon tomb. “Do you know how difficult it is to find a good barber? I went to this place, and when I went inside, they thought my man was a bush!

The laughter rolled over, and even the gorgons were starting to repent, their expressions softened for something that resembles amusement. But just as Bart began to feel the growth of hope that tonight he can actually reach unimaginable – making a gorgon laugh – the earth shook violently, making a collective gas rise from the audience.

Out of the forest appeared unimaginized gromthor, a wonderful og with a superiority for destroying things that bored it. He had a reputation for his temperament, but honestly, it was his complete and complete lack of coordination he carries more. Like an old ship taken from irony and bad decisions, Gromthor stumbled, his eyes polished with confusion.

“Why are they laughing?” He rrew it, the earth wavering further with each syllable. “Have I lost something?”

Bart, at one point in instinctual genius, turned opposite, “gromthor!

The crowd exploded into extraordinary laughter, while Gromthor, seemingly unaware of jokes, scratched his head. “Framework?” He repeated, more confused than ever. “Like a photo frame? I don’t pick it up – my house has no walls!”

“Exactly!” Bart withdrew, “Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but in your case, it is more like it is in the eye of the beholder who has happened to forget his glasses!”

A laughing explosion broke out of the crowd, and even the confused and Gromthor expression began to be released into something approaching joy. Bart then realized that Gromthor was not as different from him; He just needed a small nude in the mood.

The night wearing stories and jokes of weaving Bart that seemed to expel the gray clouds from above. The atmosphere, stupid with laughter and cider, prompted a strange kin among the most impossible friends – Centaur, Ogre and stone gorgons that took the curves by snoring with disbelief.

As the stars were overlooking above, Bart breathed, ready for his last night’s joke. He stopped, scanning the sea of ​​faces, mentioning the ends of their smiles, and then shouted, “so tell me how do you call a centaur without a sense of running?”

The public bowed, anticipating cracking through the air.

“Lost!” Bart shouted, and as if orchestrated by an invisible, gromthor force, in a sudden turn, grabbed over a hay mound and fell into a bunch of annoying fairy. The appearance made the crowd roar, and for the shortest moment, even Gromthor was powerless with laughter, the walls of his wild behavior that evaporated like the morning fog.

Bart stayed there, soaking in applause, the joy dealing with the crowd – unicorns, gorgons, ogres and everyone else, united in a moment of understanding, smiling, laughing. At that moment, he realized that perhaps his real research was not to take a gorgon for laugh at all, but rather to make everyone see that under their absurdities and differences were a common land where humor could reign supreme.

As the last echoes of the laughter faded at night, carried smiled, the faith withdrew because he knew he had created a much larger connection than the simple comedy; A connection of humanity shared – well, separated, in the middle of a still unique and incredible wonderful world. And in the fiery splendor of the fire, he could not help but ask himself if he probably had finally found his place in a field that felt just a little less scary, a laugh at a time.

Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.