CONEY ISLAND IS DEAD
“Coney Island is dead baby,” Deborah said as she pulled the needle out of her arm. Tom had done his first. “Dead,” Tom repeated. He sat there. He could feel the sleeping coaster move, its shaky ride sliding him from one side of the seat to the other. “This is my Coney Island,” Deborah tapped her bicep.
She tilted her head back until she could see the carousel straight ahead of the tip of her nose. “Oh I used to love horses.” She forced herself to her feet and started running, knocking over an old rust and black trash barrel. “If you get on, I’ll see if I can juice this thing up.”“With what, magic?” a small trickle of blood ran from her chin, another from her arm.
Deborah sat on a white horse, her teeth bore out matching the angry expression of the horse. There was some shine where she patted its neck. Tom tracked the snake, crawling on his hands and knees, the concrete pushing back hard against his knee caps. “It has to work, it has to work,” he thought, slowly following the wire. It was a trail that led him to a tattered end. Deborah sat on the ride going up and down and up and down.