the magic carousel

Every turn of the carousel muffled merriment, until all that was left was a silent, spinning wheel, the rictus of a Kabuki grin on the face of each mute, horrified child. Every turn of the carousel shrank them, till they became little matryoshka dolls put out and sold as souvenirs.

At their lifelike details people marvelled, and to the fair people took their kids. And the carousel cranks up again, neverending, always revolving, always reeling children in. And the dolls sit and stare, noiseless except when they fall from tiny hands and break.

Look into their eyes, look at your reflection, and see that you are but a dream of the stolen child, conjured up in a mind and living a life that doesn’t exist. Blink. Realise this. Then fall, break, and come alive again.

The end.