The Forgotten Carousel

The once brightly colored horses hang their heads in shame. Their painted hides flake and crack, the leather reins in their mouth hanging like strips of dead flesh.

Where once the happy squeals of children filled this place, the only sounds now are the chirps of birds and the incessant click of Geiger counters wielded by the dark tourists.

The horses hear nothing, inanimate as they are, but you can still see in their eyes signs that they want to dance once more. There is a feeling that death is not eternal, and that life will somehow find a way.