The Carnival
Every June, my old elementary school has a carnival on its ground. This has been happening since I was a little boy. I used to have so much fun there. It was amazing. It had rides like the Ferris wheel and the flying teacups. The Ferris wheel was this huge wheel that carried two people in a giant circle above the rest of the carnival. I remember the first time I got on it when I was 7 years old. I had been begging my mom for months to let me ride it.
“Please, mom, please. I’m big enough now,” I would scream. However, she kept saying, “You’re too young, Billy. Maybe one day.” Of course, 7-year-old kids have short memories. I kept asking over and over again until she finally said okay, but she said she was going with me. “I’m a big boy, mom. I can go alone,” I said. She would not agree. “We’re going together, or not at all,” she said. And of course I said okay.
When the big day came, I was so excited. I almost had an accident while waiting in line. The guy who was seating people kept saying “Next” as more and more people got on and the line kept shrinking. His shouts of “Next” kept getting louder and louder and I knew my time was coming up. When we finally reached the end of the line, it felt like I waited a month, we got on and put on our seat belts. I was excited and afraid at the same time. Then it started.
I went so high up in the air that I got dizzy. My stomach began to turn, and I felt like throwing up. It was just too fast and too high for me. I didn’t get sick, but I was sure glad I was on the ground again when I told my mom, “Please don’t send me up there again, mom!”
