Waldameer - Flash Nonfiction

"I fell into a burning ring of fire..." 

The rough rhythm of Johnny Cash booms. My body whirls. Lunges. A heavy weight is shifted to the side, then back again. Screams surround me.

It's hot here. My mouth dry from the spinning, from the permissible enjoyment of "Wipeout."

Clusters of faces, blurred at the edges, like a wisp of indecipherable grins; teeth baring wide. 

It's busy here, at the amusement park...though this is to be expected during the sunny season. Blue murmurs, rays of heat stab the hot metal my arm is lying on.

I remember this place well; look back on it with fondness. 

A place to which I came to visit most summers. 

The monotony of "Pirates Cove," stepping through the pilled curtain into the inky atmosphere, inhaling faux ocean and its staleness of years. 

Paper mache swashbucklers hold an intense, lingering gaze. 

"Aye, ye mateys." Crunched, noise-polluted audio. 

Expectation of the next room, full of smudged mirrors and an easy exit. Giggling, frantic, children racing through each scene, high on sugary delirium. 

I followed behind a gaggle of highschoolers once and held my breath in gasping repugnance as one of them flatulated. 

I stumbled and gasped, choking on moldy, putrid gusts wafting back toward me as I made my escape, winding through half-lit reflected glass.

A rickety bridge clacks with pattering footsteps, leading into the rooms following. Lights blare, music crackles, and walls close in. 

Eventually, I stumbled onto an acute incline, as if the hallway attempted to swallow me whole. Sharp right. Sharp left. Back to disinclination and then...blazing rays of summer day, a gust of sweet scent paired with subtle breeze. 

Refreshing. I blinked the illumination from my retinas.

Adolescence brought nervousness, especially upon rides detailing heights. Alas, I am a melodramatic acrophobe — passed through genes.

At ten years old, mechanical hot air balloons seemed appealing. Floating, drifting through the air unnaturally, the occasional grind of gears overlapping communal chatter.

The first minute; content. The second; juvenile trepidation. 

"The robot's got you," a repetitive chant, a low murmur, as I felt my stomach lurch. 

My hair fluttered each time the suspended metal balloon gained acceleration, my nervous system shot. Perhaps a screw would come loose, unhinging itself from my pillar. 

The basket would plummet upon the pavement — taking me with it. 

Pummeling the scorching sidewalk encouraged my palms to perspire. Imagination has its way to weasel extravagant terrors. 

A break for cotton candy. Salt water taffy. Homemade fudge. A child's saccharine playground. 

Freshly made fries. The potato shack in the corner exuded an intoxicating scent; one of grease and butterscotch. Crisp. An inevitable craving after a long day's fun. 

"Spinny rides" were my favorite; full of revel, much to my dad's stomach-holding lament. I, myself, never vomited due to over excessive whirling, but the summer I caught a virus proved otherwise.

I remember pacing in the scorching parking lot, my arms wrapped tightly around my abdomen, anticipating the worst. 

Trudging toward the entrance, a headache and pure nausea absorbing my senses. The woman asked for my season pass. Of course, I had it. Just...not the right one. 

I was holding up the line, and I could feel impatience seeping from my dad, just as I could feel the fluid seeping from my throat. 

Magnetized toward the trash can.

Another visit to the amusement park squandered.

Pangs, clicks, loud hums of spazzy harmony. 

"You won!" Neon lights flickering against cheap stuffed animals hanging from the wall. Lava lamps. Dance Dance Revolution. Those little sticky hands played with facile accomplishment.

Winning game after game after game. Over a thousand tickets, stored. 

My cousins had handed them over carelessly. My dad and my grandparents did, too. 

A five-foot-long snake. A four-foot-tall red giraffe. A large stuffed monkey. Even with these new accolades, sitting, daunting in my room, I still had over a thousand tickets stashed away for safe keeping. 

Still do.

It has been years since my last return. A place of summer tradition; of fond memories. I wish to come back once more, harnessing a new mindset and under new circumstances. 

Though, I realize that returning to a place of nostalgia can sometimes be demeaning. Places that once held strong meaning now seem dissimilar. 

I do not want to ruin the sentimental value of the amusement park. But I wish to see it, at least once more.