Lancelot Loses His Miracle

He was at the top of the ferris wheel when it jolted loose and went careening down toward the river. First he was afraid and screamed, but it landed solidly and was just a ferris wheel again so he stopped. He was alone on the wheel. There was a knife in his pocket, folded in on itself, sharp and deadly, that he’d been holding when the wheel broke free, toying with the idea of killing himself, slashing his throat at the top of a ferris wheel. He’d cut his finger. He sucked on it absentmindedly, blue sky, black earth, blue sky.

The wheel splashed into the river and began sinking. The carnies were a good half mile away so he climbed on top of the frame and balanced there to give them as much time as possible. He couldn’t swim. When the trucks pulled up, only his head was above water. He waved at them calmly as they rushed about, the water up to his chin, his mouth… the wheel ground into the riverbed. He was safe. In the grey murk of the water he pulled the knife from his pocket, gave it to the rushing current.