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The following is a short passage I wrote for my English 284 (short stories) class. The goal of this assignment was to create emotion using only perceptional illustrations of environment. I’m going to cheat a bit here, and include some music (Solitude By Ryuichi Sakamoto, Tony Takitani Soundtrack) that I think suits the writing. Hope you guys enjoy it.

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The boy made his way towards the faded steel ferris wheel that he imagined to be the center of the park. The ear piercing, rhythmic squeal of its grinding gears sent chills down his spine. It spun precariously on its axis as if might pop off anytime—rolling through the park and demolishing everything in its path like a freak hillbilly car show.

He squirmed through the crowd of misfits. A pair of monochrome clowns, black eyeliner streaking down their white faces, slowly clap oversized shoes through the thick mud. A cloud of spicy body odor follows their bent figures through the sea of bodies. To his left, a string of game booths. A noisy young couple, probably out without the permission of their parents, take turns throwing rusty lead darts against a tack wall of under-inflated balloons. The next booth is lined with wooden milk cartons and dirt stained, rubber softballs. The boy’s eyes climb the makeshift, rickety infrastructure of the tent. A group of lifeless, faded stuffed animals are lynched from the ceiling. The moist stink of their moldy fur betray any notion of their existence as ‘prizes.’ Their empty, unblinking eyes follow the boy’s figure, silently pushing him through the mob. 

He trips. His hands dive into the thick, warm mud, fixing themselves like a construction worker fallen into a mass of drying cement. The boy’s breaths become quick and shallow. He is covered in the shadows of strangers and pummeled by a barrage of faceless laughter. He rounds his sweat covered back, drives his heels into the ground, and pulls. Standing, the boy quickly wipes the brown mess against the coarse, dry denim of his jeans. A quick gust dashes through the carnival, snatching whiffs from every vendor. The boy is wrapped in the reek of watered down ketchup, over used honey buckets, and damp trash.

He continues to trek towards the spinning, metal giant. A patchy old horse to his right releases a reluctant cry. The boy, lightheaded and out of breath, locks eyes with the poor creature—a once muscle bound stallion, now confined to a twenty five square meter box of harassment. For a moment, their countenances reflect each other. The boy drops his eyes back to the ticket littered ground, drives his index fingers into his ears, and continues walking.

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