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Weekly Contest #352
My waterlogged boots made dull thuds against the grounds of the lifeless carnival. The thuds were where idle chatter, victory bells, shaking coaster bars would have been. They buried the place of the screams, the laughs, the scent of fried pickles, the bright blue summer sky, even quaking hands gripped to gondola rims. Maybe it was just a mistake, trying to bury the petrichor. I had no idea where my daughter had gone. I came to a halt, my hands down by my knees. I gave up the constant breathing. Whatever heavy breaths tried to broke through ...
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