Lacy’s grip on the polished brass pole held her like a bronco rider beyond her mandatory eight seconds. The calliope music didn’t help. Neither did the rotational momentum nor the pumping motion—up down, up down—like she needed her bucket filled during the Dust Bowl, and her well had run plum dry.
“Lacy dear, it’s a ride, honey. You won’t fall off. And if you do…” (What kind of psychotic rationalization is that?) “I’ll be here to catch you.”
Fuck that! But, yeah—sure enough, I’m here. Am I gonna let this plastic pony get the best of me? Hell no!
Lacy relinquished her home-run grip on the carousel pole to switch to a bear-hug of Flicka’s frolicking neck. She gave her father a quick smile to reassure him. “I’m okay, daddy.”
Jeeze, will the guy quit the hovering-hands bit? I said I got this.
“You’re such a big girl now. Look at you.” Dad expanded his father force-field. “Like you could clear the gates at a gallop.”
This ain’t the frickin’ hunt club, dad. And you ain’t no fox.
Lacy tried to lift her head to look around at the other merry-go-victims but the rolling-wave motion had tempted lunch’s corndog into returning to the light of day. It took all her will to keep that puppy kennel-bound.
“Daddy, I think I’ve had enough.”
“One more spin honey. You have to do ten or you’re not a real rider.”
Lacy tongued the side of her cheek. Her icy-blue eyes had yet to develop their penetrating glare. To her they appeared like Kaa’s eyes, a snake to which she felt akin. Evenings often found her practicing her entrancement on herself, staring into her vanity mirror like she could see into another universe. So often though, her power failed. Every time in fact. Regardless, she focused her sapphire lasers trying to burn through her father’s retinas, through his fatty-grey matter, all the way to the back of his skull.
“Alright, it looks like you’ve had enough.”