My Carousel

Round, ‘n’ round, ‘n’ round I go,

Where I’ll stop? Nobody knows.

When the crows glide with their beaks upside down,

And the bugs forget to sing their tunes,

By the dawn of the moon and the end of the sun,

That’s the time I’ll be done.

My Carousel spins faster and faster as my made-up song leaves my lips. The painted circus horses, rabbits, tigers, and zebras dance in the air. Sculpted feather crowns sit on their heads, others gnaw on guiding reins, and plenty wear decorated saddles and outfits. What competition is there with real animals?

Along with the bulbs glowing in milky light, my Carousel plays its music from invisible flutes and organs. As my melody dies down, so do the spinning, flying animals.

My Carousel comes to a stop.

I dismount from my dog—I never knew his name—and go to the edge of the railing, an inch away from the slow world. I look down at the girl who appears, smiling.

“Where did you come from?” she asks, eyes narrow. “There was only a broken-down carousel here a minute ago.”

I shake my head. “Silly girl, nothing is broken. This is my Carousel, and it has always run as it should.”

The girl is ten, possibly eleven, just like myself if we compare our images in a mirror. Though mirrors only reveal external layers and often give false statements, like those found in carnivals that stretch and curve bodies.

Short, chocolate hair clings to the girl’s face shaped as a bell. Her legs are covered by pants instead of a dress, and her shoes are clumpy, smothered in dirt. We obviously don’t belong to the same year; my Carousel protects me from the bothers of life.

She stares at me and my Carousel as if we are novelties, then pinches her arm. “Alright, fine. Guess I’m not dreaming.” She glides her hand down the shiny railing. “And I’m not just “girl”. My name is…”

I don’t listen to what she says, and frankly, I don’t have a care to give.

I wait until the faint buzz of words die off, then I give a curtsey, lifting up the sides of my evening gown. By now, she’s expecting an introduction from me.

“Ophelia Barrow.”

The name tastes better than decay on my tongue. Mother had first discovered it when her studies involved Shakespeare and detested it. Then her own lover died, my Father, when I was still in the womb. Mother used to say that no other name could suit me better. Now I say that no other home could suit her better than the dirt.

The rest of the carnival left long ago; Mother had incessantly demanded me to leave “the freakshow”, but she failed. Here, on my Carousel, I’ve always been happy. Nowhere else. It was made for me. I rode and rode, throughout the mornings and nights, unseen. After a few days, Mother gave up looking, and only showed back up when my starved body was found slumped on a painted tiger. That was the last time I saw her, and neither of us felt any emotion during my mortal departure.

Confusion now threads itself into the girl’s face, but she returns my gesture with a clumsy bow.

“Would you like to go for a ride? There’s plenty of room.”

I tap on the railing; it creaks open. I reach out my lithe, pale hand. After turning her head, she carefully accepts my invitation. Perhaps she thinks she’ll get in trouble, or she shouldn’t be here to begin with. But my Carousel lulls the stray shells in to shore as an ocean tide does. To resist, she would have to have her eyes plucked out and eardrums popped.

As soon as the girl is in the midst of the animals, she snaps her hand out of mine. “Your hand is freezing! You should get mittens.”

“Which one would you like to ride?”

The girl walks around. Eventually, she settles on a zebra. “This one.” She climbs on his saddle. “But I can’t ride long. My dad will get worried.”

“Ah, the zebra’s a good choice,” I tell her. “Are you ready?”

She shifts comfortably. “Yeah, I’m ready. But aren’t ya gonna get on an animal?”

“I’ll select one in a moment.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugs. “Anyway, how does this thing start? I didn’t see-”

I continue my song.

The gears churn, coming to life with my song as its oil. The girl doesn’t seem to notice. She laughs and sighs at the bobbing animals still stuck on their poles. The milky bulbs dip her in light and she bathes in it. She even lifts a hand free from grabbing the zebra, dangling it against the wind.

“Hey, Ophelllllia? I don’t…” Foam trickles from her mouth, down her chin.

I feel my eyes copy the bulbs, now flickering as they had done when I died, with milky shades. The color is warm, staining my baby blue irises.

By the dawn of the moon and the end of the sun,

That’s the time I’ll be done.

I don’t hear anything from the girl. I turn back as my eyes resume their natural tints. I select the new chocolate haired horse with its bell-shaped mane. I think the wooden-look compliments the girl; she has shed her organic existence for a better one. As with most children, her soul is simply scrumptious.

Now I am the one to bathe in the phony lights. They match my curls.

As my melody dies down, so do the spinning, flying animals.

My Carousel comes to a stop.

I dismount from my horse—I never knew her name—and I go to the edge of the railing, an inch away from the slow world. I look down at the boy who appears, smiling.