Time Flies By

My name is Rosaline Braney. My Grandson is nearly 25 years old now and works in his local fairground. I have come back to visit him. I have been meaning to travel back to London for so long but only now I have managed to pluck up the courage to actually get on the train and come.

I entered the run down fair ground with an un-wanted black and grey cloud, similar to a cloud of dust, rolling overhead. As I walked past the paint ridden rusty gates I get a send of isolation. There are a couple of small groups of people standing around silently speaking to on another, as if they were in a lecture that didn’t interest them at all.

I strangely don’t smell anything that I should be. I don’t smell anything at all. Very unusual. Before, I would be able to smell the burgers from the burger stalls and the sweet smell of the women’s perfume that most women would put on to impress the handsome lads that always show up in these places. Now, nothing.

All of the rides here look like if they were used again they would instantly break and cause a serious accident. All of them so rusty and, when they are used, I hear the creak from the moving parts of the very old rides. As I walk down he long stony pathway covered in crispy brown leaves, I hear all of the rides creaking like they are ready to retire, and be taken down and be changed and used for something else. Like their life as a ferris wheel or a carousel waltzer or a runaway train has come to an unfortunate end.

I finally get to the stall where my grandson works, but he is currently not there. I sit down on the crooked, wooden bench close by which has pieces missing off it, from heavy rains like the one that has just started, and I wait there for approximately 5 hours in the cold for him. He finally arrives with a big cheesy grin on his face. He looks just like his father. The short reddish-brown hair that blew around in the wind and couldn’t be held down by anything. Hazelnut eyes that looked as beautiful as the rainbow that had just appeared from behind that black cloud. I get up and I try to talk to him but it seems that he can’t hear me.  I wave my hand in front of his face but it seems that he can’t see me either.

He takes his wallet out of his back pocket and opens it. He takes out two pictures. On the back of the pictures there seemed to be writing on the back. They were dates and a name. One had written on it 1940 – 2009, William Braney. That was my son. On the other side was a picture of my son. He died only a few months ago. On the other picture underneath it said 1932 – 1960. I couldn’t read the name as he had covered it up with the other picture. I looked at the picture, and was so shocked to be looking at a picture of me. Suddenly I realized I were dead, and had been for 49 years now.

I decided to look for a way to contact my grand-son as I was desperate to talk to him. It had been too long since I had. I turned around to see a 10 year old girl with wavy light brown locks that reached just below her shoulder with a purple headband in her hair with a purple flower on it. She had luscious turquoise eyes that looked so very similar to the Pacific Ocean, the way there were many different shades of turquoise presented in her eyes. She was wearing a baby pink tracksuit, with a silver printed butterfly on the right side near the top of her tracksuit bottoms and across the back of the tracksuit top. She also wore dark-purple, unbranded trainers.

She was looking straight at me with her luscious turquoise eyes. I could feel it. She pulled on her mums long greeny-brown cargo pants to tell her mum that I was looking at her, but when her mother look at where she was pointing she said that she couldn’t see anything there at all. She just kept telling her daughter that there was nothing there and that her daughter was just seeing thing because she couldn’t see anything at all. But I was there; I was standing right in front of them.

I waited until her mother had walked on far enough down the long, stony pathway covered in those crispy brown leaves, before I asked for the young girl’s help. After I told here about myself, she agreed to help me out with contacting my grandson. But I knew she wouldn’t be able to help me while she were with her mum because she would have gotten too suspicious and would have taken her home again, so I told her to come back tomorrow , and that I would wait underneath the old oak tree in the centre of the fairground for her return.

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This is my first story which was written a few years ago.

Let me know what you think about this story..................