The Carnival is Dying

December 20, 2007
By Layla Fassa, Tarrytown, NY

The carnival is still alive. The sounds of patrons screaming and steel screeching come from the mountainous metal monsters in the distance. Cotton candy clouds in the sky are identical to the spun sugar in your hand. You can taste fried dough and hot dogs when you inhale. Blinding lights, blinking enough to cause a seizure. It makes each person that passes by into an anonymous silhouette. You feel stranded, your own island in a sea of strangers.

The sky is turning a nighttime shade of dark blue. The crowd is dwindling, mothers and misters signaling it’s time to leave. All that’s left are droves of drunkards and teenagers sucking cancer sticks.

The plush depictions of cartoon characters that are propped in the prize booths stare. They aren’t staring at you, but behind you. You take a paranoid peek over your shoulder. You see a little girl with wide eyes and a confused countenance clutching a pink puff in her tiny hands.

You walk towards each other, a hesitant hobble. You recognize her, but you can’t remember where from. You reach out to touch her face. It’s smooth and icy. Your eyes scan your surroundings. Fear fills you. A house of mirrors, midnight, and the carnival is dying.

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