A whisper of pre-autumn wind
It’s getting dark slightly earlier, and there is a whisper of pre-autumn wind cooling the air. Every year in my town, around this time, they have a carnival. I enjoy the feeling of being a fly on the wall, so on my evening walks the past two nights, I’ve cut through it, seeing smiling out-of-towners mingle with small crowds of familiar faces, hearing teens shriek as they dare to risk their lives on the notorious Zipper, listening to the rickety sound of the rides going ‘round and ‘round in circles.
The carnival is only a few blocks away from my house. Last night, I heard one of the rides running after the carnival was shut down for the night – likely maintenance on the machine. This got me thinking:
A carnival at night is one of the most unsettling (sidenote: a lonely space that should normally be full of life, like a school hallway at night or an abandoned mall. ) I can imagine. I think of the machine whirling around with no one on it – no screams or cheers, just twirling without the weight of any lumps of flesh at all, as it was built to do. Then I imagine the workers going home for the night, shutting off the lights, and leaving those crazy-looking machines behind. The machines sit on the grass in the pitch black night, untouched except perhaps by a curious bird or a little overnight rain. Everyone forgets about them and all the weight they’ve bared. They wait.