Carnival

Short description of a carnival in its opening hours before people arrive.

The key twisted in the worn lock, turning into place with a clunk. He pushed lightly against the gate and it swung open. The hinges shriek. The worker shuffled in, sighing deeply, his reflective yellow jacket a blemish amongst the mélange of rub-worn tent flaps, greyed steel beams, and empty stands. The air wasn't cold but it chilled him nevertheless, so he stuffed his hands under his armpits �" his pants weren't made with pockets. The trees whistled with a gust of wind, their bare branches dancing like a marionette of twigs. A leaf caught against the worker’s leg, bullied by the autumn breeze over the gate and across the fairground. He brushed it off his leg and it was crushed underfoot gently. He approached the roller-coaster in the centre of the grounds, a hunk of metal twisting towards the sky like a deformed snake, and started to climb the service ladder �" once red, but now flecked with repeated use and rust, much like the rest of the ride. Reaching the top, he paused and took in the view. Leafless trees were sparsely sprawled across the swathe of flat grassland, candles on a birthday cake that abruptly ended at a characterless town. A small range of mountains leered at him from atop the horizon, the scrawled mounds of stone seemed to roll up the steep bare slope, like mountain waves. He turned to the control board and pulled the lever.

Lights flickered on hesitantly all along the track, illuminating it against the dull early morning grey, and a cart pulled up to the boarding track, returning to work after a night shift. Eerie carnival music started to play below, and the worker whistled to himself as he climbed back down the ladder, mimicking the familiar tune. When he reached the bottom he heard the gate shriek again, and a woman with long black hair stepped in, a jumble of half-finished make-up, assorted gymnast clothes and signs of sleep deprivation. She gave a friendly nod to the worker before turning and heading into the dressing room in the back of the carnival, behind an unremarkably large circus tent. Her ragged jogging shoes were soon followed by another key, another turning of the lock, another grinding of metal against metal and a steady trickle of people flowing through the gate in to the carnival, switching on rides and preparing stalls. Giant, spinning, grinning teacups whirr to life like they never stopped, the ker-clunk-clunk of rain covers being drawn out reverberated faintly, drowned out by the symphony of foxtrots and waltzes from the loudspeakers, and the cacophony of pinging game music and boxes dragged, dropped, picked up and placed again. Game show lights flicker epileptically and the humdrum of chit chat takes it place. The aroma of cooked pretzels permeates, not quite blocking out the faint smell of manure. Someone, somewhere laughs. A sign is propped up against the gate:

“The Breathtaking Balthazar

- Master of the Unknown-

Showing every 3 hours, on the hour!

First show: 10:00 AM

Last show: 20:00 PM”

A car pulls up beyond the gate and a small child stares with a mixture of awe and excitement at the dreamland of music and games. The parents smell manure.