Attractions

Attractions

Music blares over the fairground, lilting and old-fashioned-gay, metallic as it crackles through gramophonic speakers.

Up-tracked-jolly voices of the side stall callers, shouting their exhibits and games to the crowds intermingle with the shrieks and excited yells of the children.

The carousel horses pirouette, never tiring, heads high, proud, with wooden painted smiles, and cheery glint of eye. Ternion feathers top noble heads bobbing and rising in the lilt of a mechanic canter. Real leather harness, damp from the sweat wet hands releasing the trapped aroma of worn leather. Proper stirrups jangle against the horse’s flank urging it on, faster. The hard wooden saddles polished and made shiny by a century of skirts and britches. The undulating running board smoothed and worn by a multitude of pounding feet ripples and rolls.

The carousel is ridden nightly by a million sparkle-eyed children with one face. Pin points of coloured excitement on cherubic cheekbones, eyes shining love for “their" horse.

The dizzying swell,

of the carousel

as it tosses and turns,

lurches and churns.

Prancing, and dancing,

as children be glancing,

at parents, as they fly,

catching the eye.

A smile and a wave,

some shrieking, some brave.

A pat of the neck,

a peer just to check,

that Mummy and Daddy are there,

and they care.

Safe boys and girls,

the horse unfurls,

now faster than fast,

the ride doesn't last,

it's slowing and stopping,

it's time to be offing.

Goodbye little horse,

I'll see you of course.

Next year back here,

I'll ride you, my dear.

Monied folk, gentlemen, move among the stalls and rides as the urchins run between them begging for coins. Picking up the discarded scraps of food, thrown as if to hungry dogs, they have no interest in the gaudy rides, only of their next feed, survival.

The carnival is rich pickings for the hungry, plenty here to pickpocket and steal, a beggar’s wonderland.

They are adept at avoiding the feet of the gentlemen as they heft a swift kick at the filthy, lice infested children, human vermin.

The Ladies strut in their bustles and bows, hats trimmed with ostrich feathers and tulle, gowns of rich brocade and velvet, trailing in the mud. Their waists pulled by laces so tight that the diaphragm heaves with the effort of drawn breath. Feet forced into button-up-boots that are too small. They’re a strange sight, these women with ram rod straight back and heaving bust. They have tiny waists and huge bulges to the rear and too-small feet.

And the men aren't much better, with their monocled eye and tailed suit making them look
like awkward penguins.

My sister and I sit in our tent, high on the podium; fused by the skin and organs that we share. We watch as the freaks line up and walk slowly passed us, laughing and pointing at our discomfort and pain.

We used to giggle back at them, but now we usually just huddle, stroking each other for comfort,aware of the beating that will follow this degradation if the coffers aren’t pleasing to our master. Day and night the freaks walk past us, stream after never ending stream. We might meet the eye of a sympathetic looking lady but invariably she casts her eyes downwards, disturbed almost into a faint because one of us looked her square in the eye.

What strange people they are. How they taunt us for being oddities before going to their opulent homes while we’re thrown a few rotting scraps by our master. My sister and I are joined by more than our shared body. We’re also bound together by love.

For what do we have except each other?