SHORT STORIES & WRITING CONTESTS

50 feet

I'm gripping onto the rail with both hands, knuckles white 50 feet above the ground, my aunt's red gel manicure digging into me in a fist. She's red in this light, hanging suspended at the very top of a ferris wheel,and her head's thrown back in the grey area between a scream and a laugh. I've given her whip-lash, red lips parting over old teeth and I know you can always tell a dog's age by the mouth. My aunt's whitening strips didn't work. Her laughter is tangible in this yellow spill of sunlit afternoons, something I can hook onto, a grip with all ten fingers. I can see the lipstick on her teeth. She's imperfect, and I can love her for this, yellowing teeth and all. My thighs stick, summer-slick to the gondola of the ferris wheel as I shift, and am reminded yet again that I didn't come here to stay; I'm only filling for something greater, for the mindless floods of summer-loving kids. But I'm infinite here. I can't see my sister here, and I know she's eaten my funnel cake but I can't see her licking the last of it from her fingers, sticky sugar-white smile gleaming 50 feet below. 50 feet. I've been higher, and so has my aunt, but here we're flying, the bubbling din of the boardwalk no longer cloying, no longer stifling. I don't hear the man yelling "2 more! 2 more to win! 2 more!" but I hear my aunt's laughter more than anything. We can see the sea from here – here, 50 feet above everyone I've ever known – here, That's all I want to be, I promise.