The Fairground at night

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Another very short piece inspired by a writing task on my course. 

Locked away behind swinging doors, ghouls, ghosts, witches and warlocks scare no one but themselves. The fears hidden, the trains are empty - stopped at signals for the night. The white spirits dance on the dark walls and the luminous lettering gently loses its memory.

Next to the Ghost Train the Waltzers have stopped dancing, no flipping stomachs with snatched kisses. No longer spinning to a merry tune, they sit apart from each other, noting the others have seen better days with slashed seats, bruised bars and garish paint chipping off stainless steel.

The pirate ship hangs upside down in the air, to empty the terror built up after a rough night on the high seas, and to save it from being sunk by the rain that is beginning to pitter-patter, spit and splatter around the park. The pirates have all gone home to mum, but some of them left their tea behind.

Once the tallest ride in the fair, the Ferris Wheel sulks below the pirate ship. The gondolas sway in the breeze admiring the views, the lights from Weston and the orange glow of Cardiff. It creaks and groans, showing its age; it doesn’t like it when the breeze whips around its rough seats and through its arms.  

The stuffed bears stare out at the rides. Gaudy colours, cheap fur; rumour has it they’re made from pet cats that go missing in the dead of night. The guns that people pop to try to win the toys hang forlornly in their holsters; battered and bent, even the sharpest of shooters could never shoot them straight.

And finally the Funhouse. A silent hall of mirrors reflects itself into infinity, the moving stairway is stationary while a giant slide is going downhill fast. At the bottom, his body lies bleeding, lifeless, dead.

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