By Angel Amorphosis
The carousel groaned as it turned, its golden poles smeared with the fingerprints of a thousand forgotten riders. Painted horses reared in frozen delight, their glass eyes glinting with a happiness that had long since curdled.
The child climbed on.
Not because he wanted to—but because he’d forgotten how to say no.
A quiet organ tune clinked out through a crackling speaker. 3/4 time. Always 3/4 time.
He chose the horse with a cracked smile and a nameplate that had been scratched blank.
His name had been Matthew, once.
As the platform began to spin, so too did the sky.
It started with a breeze—cool and damp—then a sudden curtain of rain, thick as syrup. Thunder cracked so loud the carousel jolted beneath it. Children screamed. Adults ran for cover.
But the ride did not stop.
Lightning flashed, strobing the carnival into a series of still photographs:
- A balloon let go
- A face smeared with candy and tears
- A clown’s makeup melting in the downpour
The carousel spun faster. And then slower. And then… wrong.
The mirrors at its center reflected not the riders, but versions of them—distorted, grown-up, bitter, bored. One child saw themselves in a suit and tie, crying at a desk. Another, pushing a pram with hollow eyes. Another, screaming into a microphone to a crowd that wasn’t listening.
Matthew looked into the glass and saw nothing at all.
Just a flickering silhouette, undefined—unformed but watching.
Then—CRACK—lightning struck the iron arch above. The carousel jolted. The horses’ eyes blinked once.
And the dream tilted.
Somewhere beneath the floor, gears began to grind a different rhythm.
Something was waking.
And somewhere, in a layer just outside the dream, Angel remembered.
Not everything. Not yet. But enough.
Enough to know that the carousel wasn’t just a ride. It was a ritual. A loop. A lie.
And Matthew had ridden it long enough.