This is a Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers submission. Eagle-eyed readers may spot that it’s basically two weak puns in search of a story, but it was the best I could manage under the circumstances. Thanks to momtheobscure for the picture.
Brett had always been the best living sculpture on the esplanade. There was something about the way he held himself. If he hadn’t been stationary, you’d have called it swagger. Whether he’d dressed as a toga’d up roman or a truculent beat constable, holidaymakers would thrill to his magnificent impassivity and throw change, otherwise destined for slot machines, into his oversized, upended stetson.
But Brett had a secret: hayfever, an was an invidious condition that had ended the career of more than one street performer. At first, over-the-counter antihistamines seemed to prove an answer, but, in time, he was hooked. With no means of funding his habit legitimately, Brett was forced to turn to a life of mime.
Inevitably, it all caught up with him and Brett was charged with bringing the profession into disrepute. They went easy on him, gave him community service. It was a bit of a come down, all told, but Brett found some consolation in using his skills to warn motorists about a hold-up on the A30 into Newquay.