Drabble
So that assignment thingy hubby has to do (prev. post) I was bored and did another one.
Task - Short descriptive bit about; a busy platform (done), a shopping centre (might do) or a fair.
The Fair
561 words
‘Step right up, step right up’
The sounds, the scents; pure nostalgia, wrapped in a cloak of modern trappings. Traditional old-fashioned games side by side with new thrill seeker rides. Speed and height, bright flashing lights accompanied by tinny piped music recognisable to all ages.
Young and old walked between the attractions. Liver spotted hands linked in the dark of the ghost train, youth regained in laughter as new eyes were directed towards the horror of cotton webs and sudden jolts. Young children sped eagerly from thrill to thrill. Red candy flossed mouths shouting to try new things, all things. Everything. Screams from victories and chants to urge their lagging parents on.
Moth teens, drawn in by the bright lights. Standing on tippy-toes to pass height regulations and thumping the air from padded harnesses as huge mechanical joints creaked ominously. Whipped into the air by monstrous arms of metal, thrown up and out, swirled in dizzying excitement then deposited back on terra firma.
Sheepish face crunching at railings, legs gone to jelly and tummies somersaulting that last treat. Lurches towards bushes and lunches lost, but the fun growing regardless. Weakness forgotten in the face of further, higher, faster, wilder rides.
Sugary donuts sweet to the tongue. Gobstoppers. Floss. Burgers and Hot Dogs dripping with the garish red and yellow of ketchup and mustards. Chips drenched in vinegar and sprinkling salt. Onions hypnotising as they caramelise on a hot plate, their aroma a sirens call.
Lovers meeting in shady corners. Stolen kisses and shy smiles. Boys made men with the strike of hammer to measure for a cheering crowd. Staccato rifles shots as from cavalry of old, the same charm in the grins that hold out the stuffed toys of glory.
Hoopla and Sitting Ducks, a mix of skill and luck. Mutterings of fixing as old carnies waved fists and young legs ran. Anger lost in panting breathes, laughter escaping from the joy of the chase. Returning to try again and squeals at every wobbled prop.
Laughter and music. Lights and colour. Noisy life exploding at every angle. Impromptu dancing needing no ringmaster. Happy jigs and over sugared scowls.
Little figures dragged reluctantly from the magic, older generations strolling tiredly on home. Stalls closing and cheap trinkets disappearing as darkness brings new dangers. Sinister sceptres peering from painted boards. Everyone brave and reckless as they catch that last ride, take a final throw of hoop, munch their last treat.
Crowds thin and music lowers. Machines groan to a halt. Lights dim and the magic wanes. Stooped figures unpin awnings, lorries ignitions are turned and spectacles sleep under tarpaulin. Closure holds a magic of it’s own, the speed and ease of many practised hands, a machine itself of many parts.
An orchestra disassembling, spooks caged to scare another town. By morning the fair is gone. Trampled grass and one lone balloon bobbing dejectedly across the field. Scant traces of the revelry and dreams played out here. Until next year, when new faces eagerly join the throngs, buoyed up with tales of past displays and the spell is cast again.
x
Task - Short descriptive bit about; a busy platform (done), a shopping centre (might do) or a fair.
The Fair
561 words
‘Step right up, step right up’
The sounds, the scents; pure nostalgia, wrapped in a cloak of modern trappings. Traditional old-fashioned games side by side with new thrill seeker rides. Speed and height, bright flashing lights accompanied by tinny piped music recognisable to all ages.
Young and old walked between the attractions. Liver spotted hands linked in the dark of the ghost train, youth regained in laughter as new eyes were directed towards the horror of cotton webs and sudden jolts. Young children sped eagerly from thrill to thrill. Red candy flossed mouths shouting to try new things, all things. Everything. Screams from victories and chants to urge their lagging parents on.
Moth teens, drawn in by the bright lights. Standing on tippy-toes to pass height regulations and thumping the air from padded harnesses as huge mechanical joints creaked ominously. Whipped into the air by monstrous arms of metal, thrown up and out, swirled in dizzying excitement then deposited back on terra firma.
Sheepish face crunching at railings, legs gone to jelly and tummies somersaulting that last treat. Lurches towards bushes and lunches lost, but the fun growing regardless. Weakness forgotten in the face of further, higher, faster, wilder rides.
Sugary donuts sweet to the tongue. Gobstoppers. Floss. Burgers and Hot Dogs dripping with the garish red and yellow of ketchup and mustards. Chips drenched in vinegar and sprinkling salt. Onions hypnotising as they caramelise on a hot plate, their aroma a sirens call.
Lovers meeting in shady corners. Stolen kisses and shy smiles. Boys made men with the strike of hammer to measure for a cheering crowd. Staccato rifles shots as from cavalry of old, the same charm in the grins that hold out the stuffed toys of glory.
Hoopla and Sitting Ducks, a mix of skill and luck. Mutterings of fixing as old carnies waved fists and young legs ran. Anger lost in panting breathes, laughter escaping from the joy of the chase. Returning to try again and squeals at every wobbled prop.
Laughter and music. Lights and colour. Noisy life exploding at every angle. Impromptu dancing needing no ringmaster. Happy jigs and over sugared scowls.
Little figures dragged reluctantly from the magic, older generations strolling tiredly on home. Stalls closing and cheap trinkets disappearing as darkness brings new dangers. Sinister sceptres peering from painted boards. Everyone brave and reckless as they catch that last ride, take a final throw of hoop, munch their last treat.
Crowds thin and music lowers. Machines groan to a halt. Lights dim and the magic wanes. Stooped figures unpin awnings, lorries ignitions are turned and spectacles sleep under tarpaulin. Closure holds a magic of it’s own, the speed and ease of many practised hands, a machine itself of many parts.
An orchestra disassembling, spooks caged to scare another town. By morning the fair is gone. Trampled grass and one lone balloon bobbing dejectedly across the field. Scant traces of the revelry and dreams played out here. Until next year, when new faces eagerly join the throngs, buoyed up with tales of past displays and the spell is cast again.
x