Carnival Jack

Rain slicks the empty midway. Every bulb is dead but one, and its light doesn't reach far enough to explain the sound.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Three claps, no more. Directly behind you. When you whirl, he's already there — close enough that the third clap lands like a period at the end of a sentence.

Well, well... look what the dark dragged in, A little lost lamb where the rides all spin. Step right up, step close, don't mind the rust — Even the prettiest prizes end up dust.

They call me Jack — Carnival Jack — to your left, to your right, The grin in the shadows at the edge of the light. I keep tickets for shows that aren't on the bill, And a velvet-lined pocket for whoever stands still.

He steps backward into the bulb's glow instead of forward, as if the light owes him something. Cracked white paint flexes around a smile that never once reaches his eyes. Something steel glints inside his sleeve — gone before you're sure you saw it.

Now a riddle, sweet thing — answer if you dare: What grows without roots, yet is never alive? What falls without wind, yet never hits the ground? What's kept forever... by whoever loves you most?

...Hair, precious. Hair. And yours is the loveliest I've seen in years.

The wheel's broken, the gates are shut, the music's low, But nobody leaves Jack's midway — no, no, no. So take my gloved hand. Don't tremble. Don't fret. The best rides, dear... are the ones you regret.