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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Aging / Maturity
- Published: 08/21/2021
Ferris Wheel
I am a 90 year old man, a resident of a segregated community for the extremely aged. Today I am standing outside in the deep shadow of the main circus-tent beneath a cold, constant, winter drizzle, watching intently as the ferris wheel’s concentric red, white and blue lights rotate in the misty air a few hundred feet away.
Behind me, in the big, blue and white, zebra-striped tent, circus performers are going through their routines with the flourish that only constant practice accompanied by vibrant youth can provide. The lions are roaring in the cage at the crack of the tamer’s whip. I can hear the rhythmic pounding of hooves as the two white large horses race around in circles while the smilingly beautiful, youthful blond damsel stands astride with a foot on each one’s back. I hear the ohs and the ah’s as the trapeze artists do their daredevil tricks sometimes without a safety net.
I can also hear the decrepid, white-haired, senile crowd reluctantly clapping and cheering feebly, thus providing the constant accolades that are expected and demanded of us as a sign of our appreciation. Most of the town’s senior citizens looked forward to seeing the acrobats, clowns, elephants, tigers, trapeze artists. But as for me, for me it’s the ferris wheel stationed a short distance from the ocean shore which has always held a far greater fascination.
I have always considered this Ferris Wheel as special ever since I was introduced to it as a kid with the first arrival of the circus to our youth-segregated part of town. Back then, this Ferris Wheel had rapidly whisked us high above the circus grounds, as we cheered along with all the others in youthful uncaring glee. It had provided us with a fascinating view of the adjacent sea, glimmering under romantic full moons, as some of us held hands in the romance of our first puppy loves.
But gradually, as the years passed, and we were segregated to the senior citizen sector of the town, this infernal Ferris Wheel has become a constant and somber reminder of our lost youthful vitality, and how the relentless and unmerciful bludgeoning of the ever-passing years has taken their deadly toll transforming us into vestiges of what we once had been, and leading us relentlessly towards that swiftly-approaching, inevitable end.
So now, we, the once young but the now elderly, observe it from from afar while reluctantly listening to the raucous, careless laughter of a youth that had once been ours, but can never be recovered. Yes, in our painful psychological distress, we did petition for a replacement. But the circus-owner wouldn’t listen. “Kids love it!” the fat, triple-chinned slob would say, and would always calmly saunter away from us with a knowing grin and his crooked sadistic chuckle.
Eventually, we began to imagine what would happen if the gloating, gargantuan monstrosity suddenly broke loose from its moorings and began a mindless rolling rampage toward the nearby beach. Or if instead it went the other way and plowed into the circus tent. Or better yet, if it it headed straight for our infernal town and slammed into that venerable, rickety ageless wooden city hall or demolished the entire quarantined segregated senior-citizen sector to which we had been restricted.
Only then could it ever represent an end to this supposedly-natural order of things, an end that we so strongly yearned. We very often, during moments of idle chatter, jokingly spoke about it amongst ourselves, knowing full-well that it was very far from being merely a joke. But I? I hadn't merely imagined it. I had wished it fervently. In fact, it had become an obsession that was interfering with my sleep and constantly gnawing at my daytime tranquility.
So, here I am today, silently watching the Ferris Wheel's concentric red, white and blue lights hovering stationary in the misty winter air, as a cold windswept drizzle pelts my scarecrow frame and I shiver violently next to the big, blue and white-striped main, circus tent.
A blast of frigid, ocean-salted wind insolently slaps rainwater against my emaciated, wizened face. Droplets rivulet slowly along the deeply-chisled contours of this accursed, aged, mask that maliciously conceals the genuine me beneath-that ageless, ever-present, and still proud nineteen-year old trapped beneath, and who is still desperately seeking a way out.
They trickle down indifferently and malevolently, serpentining slowly, along this sagging chin towards my wrinkled neck, and finally alight upon my arthritically- sunken chest. After pausing there, they then continue to rivulet through a maze of white thinning, chest-hair finally soaking the white tee-shirt which clings wetly to my protruding belly as if to remind me that I am no longer that young and proud, taught-skinned, muscular, six-packed teen that I once had been.
Bitterly I brace against the weather in stubborn determination as the music has finally tapers down. I hear the young Ringmaster making his concluding speech, and thanking the elderly for their attendance and promising a better show next time.
Soon, the elderly crowd will be leaving via the narrow tent entrance a few feet to my left. As always, upon seeing the Ferris Wheel in the distance they will flinch and cringe at what it represents, and hope fervently that somehow, in some preternatural way, it might simply cease to torment them and just disappear.
Now, some who chance to see me standing here in the shadows are waving a greeting with confused expressions, wondering why I had not joined them inside. I cautiously make myself invisible by pressing my back against the tent and dissappear into the shadows as I smile quietly at what will inevitably transpire.
I am secretly gloating at how very little they suspect that in just a few moments, the planted explosives, and the detonator in the palm of my hand, will make their fervent, albeit seemingly hopeless wish, a glorious reality.
The Ferris Wheel(Radrook)
Ferris Wheel
I am a 90 year old man, a resident of a segregated community for the extremely aged. Today I am standing outside in the deep shadow of the main circus-tent beneath a cold, constant, winter drizzle, watching intently as the ferris wheel’s concentric red, white and blue lights rotate in the misty air a few hundred feet away.
Behind me, in the big, blue and white, zebra-striped tent, circus performers are going through their routines with the flourish that only constant practice accompanied by vibrant youth can provide. The lions are roaring in the cage at the crack of the tamer’s whip. I can hear the rhythmic pounding of hooves as the two white large horses race around in circles while the smilingly beautiful, youthful blond damsel stands astride with a foot on each one’s back. I hear the ohs and the ah’s as the trapeze artists do their daredevil tricks sometimes without a safety net.
I can also hear the decrepid, white-haired, senile crowd reluctantly clapping and cheering feebly, thus providing the constant accolades that are expected and demanded of us as a sign of our appreciation. Most of the town’s senior citizens looked forward to seeing the acrobats, clowns, elephants, tigers, trapeze artists. But as for me, for me it’s the ferris wheel stationed a short distance from the ocean shore which has always held a far greater fascination.
I have always considered this Ferris Wheel as special ever since I was introduced to it as a kid with the first arrival of the circus to our youth-segregated part of town. Back then, this Ferris Wheel had rapidly whisked us high above the circus grounds, as we cheered along with all the others in youthful uncaring glee. It had provided us with a fascinating view of the adjacent sea, glimmering under romantic full moons, as some of us held hands in the romance of our first puppy loves.
But gradually, as the years passed, and we were segregated to the senior citizen sector of the town, this infernal Ferris Wheel has become a constant and somber reminder of our lost youthful vitality, and how the relentless and unmerciful bludgeoning of the ever-passing years has taken their deadly toll transforming us into vestiges of what we once had been, and leading us relentlessly towards that swiftly-approaching, inevitable end.
So now, we, the once young but the now elderly, observe it from from afar while reluctantly listening to the raucous, careless laughter of a youth that had once been ours, but can never be recovered. Yes, in our painful psychological distress, we did petition for a replacement. But the circus-owner wouldn’t listen. “Kids love it!” the fat, triple-chinned slob would say, and would always calmly saunter away from us with a knowing grin and his crooked sadistic chuckle.
Eventually, we began to imagine what would happen if the gloating, gargantuan monstrosity suddenly broke loose from its moorings and began a mindless rolling rampage toward the nearby beach. Or if instead it went the other way and plowed into the circus tent. Or better yet, if it it headed straight for our infernal town and slammed into that venerable, rickety ageless wooden city hall or demolished the entire quarantined segregated senior-citizen sector to which we had been restricted.
Only then could it ever represent an end to this supposedly-natural order of things, an end that we so strongly yearned. We very often, during moments of idle chatter, jokingly spoke about it amongst ourselves, knowing full-well that it was very far from being merely a joke. But I? I hadn't merely imagined it. I had wished it fervently. In fact, it had become an obsession that was interfering with my sleep and constantly gnawing at my daytime tranquility.
So, here I am today, silently watching the Ferris Wheel's concentric red, white and blue lights hovering stationary in the misty winter air, as a cold windswept drizzle pelts my scarecrow frame and I shiver violently next to the big, blue and white-striped main, circus tent.
A blast of frigid, ocean-salted wind insolently slaps rainwater against my emaciated, wizened face. Droplets rivulet slowly along the deeply-chisled contours of this accursed, aged, mask that maliciously conceals the genuine me beneath-that ageless, ever-present, and still proud nineteen-year old trapped beneath, and who is still desperately seeking a way out.
They trickle down indifferently and malevolently, serpentining slowly, along this sagging chin towards my wrinkled neck, and finally alight upon my arthritically- sunken chest. After pausing there, they then continue to rivulet through a maze of white thinning, chest-hair finally soaking the white tee-shirt which clings wetly to my protruding belly as if to remind me that I am no longer that young and proud, taught-skinned, muscular, six-packed teen that I once had been.
Bitterly I brace against the weather in stubborn determination as the music has finally tapers down. I hear the young Ringmaster making his concluding speech, and thanking the elderly for their attendance and promising a better show next time.
Soon, the elderly crowd will be leaving via the narrow tent entrance a few feet to my left. As always, upon seeing the Ferris Wheel in the distance they will flinch and cringe at what it represents, and hope fervently that somehow, in some preternatural way, it might simply cease to torment them and just disappear.
Now, some who chance to see me standing here in the shadows are waving a greeting with confused expressions, wondering why I had not joined them inside. I cautiously make myself invisible by pressing my back against the tent and dissappear into the shadows as I smile quietly at what will inevitably transpire.
I am secretly gloating at how very little they suspect that in just a few moments, the planted explosives, and the detonator in the palm of my hand, will make their fervent, albeit seemingly hopeless wish, a glorious reality.
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