Ficlets

There was a spot on the edge of the old boardwalk that was so warn down that it was clearly indented; a single giant thumbprint pressed into the old wood. This was the old jumping-off point, where all of the kids went swimming in the summer. I sat in its smooth concavity, dangling my toes over the edge until they just broke the surface of the water.

In the distance, in the early purple fog of April morning, the old Ferris wheel loomed in the distance. Long out of operation, its red paint sifted to the ground like tainted snow.

Closing my eyes, I could almost smell all of the cotton candy and hot dogs and paper cups of fresh clam chowder. Could almost hear the haunting melody of carnival music. Almost feel myself getting swept along the crowd, pressed between warm summer bodies as the fireworks bloomed overhead on the Fourth of July.

I came to the end of the boardwalk to remember what it was like when we were young and happy and innocent.

“I thought I might find you here,” said a voice behind me.