The Theme-Park

An empty theme-park, short descriptive writing.

Sweeping over the ruined stone, twirling around the rides like a spectral dancer. The mist slowly settles upon the husk of the bygone glory days of the crumbling theme-park. Billboards turned memorial stones for the ancient rides, creak like doors from a bad horror movie. Supports that ache and groan like the risen dead as their decaying forms struggle beneath the relentless weight of the attractions they once so proudly held.

 

Nefarious graffiti stains the outside walls, vile mold spreads over the dried spray-paint and the ominous glow of the fading street-lamps, bathing everything in its eerie subtle glow. Shadows move like rats over the desolate street,  in a futile attempt to defy the remaining lights.

 

 The cold grasp of death lingers around this vile place, trees unseasonably bear and void of leaves and life. Protrude from the landscape like black skeletal fingers, punching through the earth in an unholy attempt to steal whatever life remains from the ruins of this forsaken place. Ribcage's float above the ground life the horrific plants found in death's garden.

 

The wind screeches through the barren arch-way, creeping over the metal and consuming all in its wrathful presence. Though cold as ice, the wind burns the skin like the depths of hell; scorching the soul in an abominable lake of fire.

 

 

Author's Note

English work, very boring.