Michael Anthony is an artist and writer living in New Jersey. His work “focuses on life’s small beauties, the raw natural essence, and to trigger different emotions.” www.MichaelAnthony.MyPortfolio.com
The Haunting of the Funfair Fiction by Seán McNicholl CW: Death (of a child)
I see the ghost of her hiding amongst the hobby horses. The flash of her smile whirs past me on the swing chairs and vanishes before I can turn to see. Her squeal rings out as the wheels of the Big Dipper thunder by and drown out every other sound. How I long to see her. To hold her. My God, she loved the funfair. Elbows and shoulders push by me, yet I feel alone here. Surrounded on all sides and yet alone. Without her. Stranded on my island of grief in a sea of happiness, whose waters are churning and frightening. I cannot leave my island even if I wanted to. And I don’t. I feel closest to her in my grief. I dreaded returning here, worried that I would feel her absence more acutely, more painfully. But I do not. Her absence is no greater here than anywhere else. She simply isn’t anywhere. And I miss her. God, I miss her. But this place is a painful reminder of those carefree days when my new life, the horror in which I am now stuck, seemed unimaginable. The lights; the noise; the smells; all that once was so vibrant and alive is now shown for the gimmick it is, the gimmick it always was. Nothing more than cold steel rowed by iridescent coloured glass. A sick parody of the ruse of life. The Haunted House can hold no horrors greater than our home where her untouched bedroom lies empty. Her bed… God, her bed shall no more rest her head and her dreams shall never be woken. All whilst I live in this nightmare. Damn this waltzer mocking me, swinging its children round and round. I cannot bear it. Oh, what I would give to lift her in my arms and swing her once more, just once. My mouth is dry like the torture of candy floss but void of the sickly sweetness it brings. Instead, a sour taste perfumes around me. I swallow. Swallowing is difficult. I can see the joy of the other children as they run wild and free, unshackled from their parents. It torments me. I can see it but I cannot touch it or be privy to it. And I don’t want to. They move past me in shoals, like herrings behind the glass. They can stay there. The roar of the Big Dipper assaults me and I see that final moment once more. The bumper knocked her clear. I see her face before me, permanently painted with a poppy bruise upon her temple. The violent knell of the Hammer Game throws me back to the church bells when they lowered her into the grave. A four- foot box. Five years old. Six foot deep. She is dead. And I am standing here alone, a ghost of myself, hiding amongst the hobby horses.
Seán McNicholl is an Irish GP who enjoys writing short stories in a variety of genres. His words have been published in numerous magazines. www.seanmcnicholl.com