Summer
1961
It must have only been a few years back, maybe '56 or '57. My pops was never great at talking about his feelings — he only told me that he loved me once or twice. The last time we were here, walking through the gardens, I saw a look in his eyes that I couldn't quite understand. He watched a young couple stopping to smell the azaleas, and smiled, while a tear welled in the corner of his eye, and then trickled down his face.
At the time, I asked him what was wrong — he told me that it was nothing. He said, 'Your mother and I used to be like that.' At the time, I was pissed at my mother (still am), so I rolled my eyes, and tried to get him to focus on my new suggestions for the park. Instead, he waved me off, sitting down on a bench and deeply inhaling the mélange of floral stenches he seemed to love; I much preferred the sights, sounds and bustle of big city living. I used to say that I'd rather inhale exhaust fumes, over a sea breeze.
I think I get it now.
I think about my father a lot. I wonder if he would have accepted the changes I've made to the fair. I hope he could have seen my vision come to life, improving on and adding to his wonderful creations; I wonder if he would have liked the rides, or the games. I think about what he would have said, seeing the throngs of people flooding into the faire, back in the '59 season.
Those were the good days, when there were more smiles than flowers in Dixie Fun Faire; when children's laughter was louder than the calliope on the Dixie Carousel, and business was booming. We all had big hopes, and even bigger dreams, but…
But I couldn't stop thinking about the Pleasure Garden, and all that it was to my father. Maybe he was right, and it was better back then; there is a simplicity to the beauty that I see now. I know, one day, this park will be bigger than either of us dreamed — but I wonder if it will make me as happy, as the flowers did my father.
Fall
1969
It was nearly a decade ago, the early 60's, when Orville, Orion and I hopped a rail and ended up standing at the gates to Dixie Fun Faire, slack-jawed and bug-eyed. There were more people than space to move, and the chaos of noise was magical. When the three of us first saw the land, the crowds, and the smiles, there was something that told us 'stay here and stake your claim'.
So, we all found work at the park. But not just work, it was more than a job. This was a family, a world, an escape from the modern perils. It was Eden on earth, just a few hours drive from Jacksonville, a paradise amongst the swamps. Of course, that was about when everything fell apart.
'66 was a bad year for our family. Orion turned to drink, and Orville grew distant. My brothers were drifting away, lost without the place we had grown to call 'home'. I couldn't lose them, but more than that, I don't think I was ready to give up the park.
I don't know if I'll ever be ready.
But somehow, as if lured back by the siren song of the laughter at the park; we bought our dream, and knew what we had to do. We needed to take what made this place magic, and we knew that there were big shoes to fill.
Clown shoes, to be exact.
The summer of '67 changed our lives, when we opened the new-and-improved park. Within weeks, the Hampstead Bros' Circus was the biggest attraction this side of the Suwannee, tourists flocking from miles around. Americans, Mexicans, hell, even some Canadians made it all the way down here, just to see what all the fuss was about. Back then, the park felt big, and the laughter felt bigger.
Now? You and I might be the only two left that can remember what the roar of a crowd sounds like. Do you remember how loud it could get in the big top when we used to fill every seat, and any space somebody could stand in to gawk? I swear, the tent would shake with laughter itself, the sheer joy of the audience reflected for all who stepped onto our stage each night.
The tent is humorless on most nights, now.
When somebody had a rough day, I used to say, 'wait for next week, things will be better soon'. I don't say that anymore.
For now, all we can do is wait. Things are going to get better next year, I just know it.
Winter
1982
Frost freezes the joints of slumbering beasts, the winds of ice crack through rivets; there is a quiet death that fills the park, and it shows no signs of thawing. The winter months are always tough, waiting for a reason to exist. Seasonal entertainment is just that, seasonal.
How many seasons have we waited?
The crowds are elsewhere, and the workers left to their other jobs, leaving Funland as a ghost-town; we are still here.
Still, that one spins around the Carousel, pretending to gallop. That one, over there, works the kettles every day, making sure there is always a steady supply of fresh popcorn for the stands, while those ones man each stall, waiting for a customer. The ticket takers and tour guides are at their post, standing stalwart in the frost, while the acrobots and clowns dazzle and delight, weightlessly flying through the air, each performance a feat of perfection.
We were created, for a purpose, to do one thing, every day, for our entire lives.
Does it matter if we have an audience? Would it be better, if we couldn't remember the past? Could we have made a difference, if Mr. Funland had asked us to? Maybe. Maybe not.
Still, we wait, like we do every year, for life to return to the park. We are ghosts, shells stuck in a loop, unable to change what we are; if I had flesh, I am sure that my heart would ache, for the seasons of the past.
Still, each day, the horse pretends to gallop, the popcorn is popped — we each have a single purpose, regardless of the presence of guests. We cannot stop. In that way, the park is still alive, even in the dead of winter.
Ghosts working for ghosts, as we wait for the past to return.
Spring
2013
Our world says that the new cannot exist without removal of the old. There is only so much room in our minds, let alone our cities, or our cultures. To destroy what remains would be to acknowledge a past that we have forgotten; obliviousness is a choice we each make, contributing to the great wall of ignorance that pushes us all forwards. We build atop that which has been abandoned, so that we need not ever face the past, so that we can stay within our safe warm bubbles of the new.
Everybody who is still at the park has one thing in common: our bubble burst, and we cannot risk going back. You cannot forget that which you have seen to be true, not without killing yourself. Yet, we cannot build atop that which exists, without crushing the souls that remain. We are surrounded by the souls of those who once were; but most do not hear them, for fear of what they might say.
In Aethosland, all we do is listen. We hear the birdsong of carnies in the early morning, rising with the sun, phantom laughter knocking morning dew from leaves. The midday sun fills the park, as do the grinding sounds of rust and steel, industrial behemoths that cannot bring themselves to rest. As the sun sets, tears mingle with hushed whispers as a wind blows in from the west, carrying an anachronistic odor between the collapsing buildings, bringing memories of a better time.
There is a hope that cannot be crushed. It has lingered, a torch passed down, unwillingly, to those who are next. In turn, we shoulder the burden, grasping at the fleeting moments of yesteryear, blinding ourselves to a finite, linear, temporal truth.
There is still a magic here. There always will be. Maybe in a few months, when spring gives way to summer, things will be good again, just like they used to be, just like they always will be. One day, we will be just like the brave souls who came before us, the ones who have always believed in the park, and still do. We will return to the glory days, I'm sure of it. Finally, we will be just like them. And even though I know things will be better this year — part of me fears that I am already like them.
Maybe, I worry, all we have learned from the past is how to wait.
Queerious
Uncle Nicolini, and is a rewrite of the original linked tale.