The carnival lights veiled the stars. His mouth was drawn up in a mischievous shape as he took my limp hand in his own and he pulled my spirit from my body. The rain twisted through the wind and made mirrors on the ground that reflected the fair above.
He began to run, pulling me through the array of light and noise. The air smelled of burnt popcorn, sweat, and sweets no matter how hard the rain tried to purify it. The faster we ran, the more everything seemed less its own.
He helped me onto the carousel and propped me up on a red horse. Music played and the horse came alive. The music played, the horse danced, and the world spun. My eyes would not close, my hands began to sweat and grip the horse tighter. The music played. I reached out for him, but he was gone.
The music played. The world was not defined, just a blur of colors and lights. The music played. I am ensconced in red, gold, blue, and white. The music played. People laughed and howled and jeered. The music played.
The crowd was a collection of pointing fingers, flashing teeth, and shinning eyes. The music played. I lost my grip and the red horse took advantage, bucking me off into the abyss of lights and awful noise. I reached for him, but he was gone, and so I fell into the spindling tornado of popping balloons, bubbles, and that stomach twisting smell of frying dough. I screamed and the music played.
Gabriella McClellan is poet based in Greensboro, North Carolina. At age eighteen, Gabriella has been writing poetry for eleven years. She furthered her education of poetry by attending Duke University’s Young Writer’s Camp. Gabriella lives and works on a small farm where she derives much of her writing inspiration from.