The fair lights humped to life, and then extinguished. Weak current briefly, bravely overpowered the circuits, but as the feverish schoolboy rolls back under the covers, the moisture proved fatal to the sparks, and the lights surrendered to the rain. Just the evening prior, the sky circled the black-silhouetted pines in parabolic orange cream: a deceitful pudding of sky, attracting admiration from the fair goers while to the north the grey, linty clouds recessed, poised to make a judgment.
Under a dark and silent caravan, Mrs. Whitworth shook in wet rage. The girl left her behind. Mrs. Whitworth vowed when she returned home, she would piss on her petticoats, and scratch the heirlooms! She would never forgive the girl for forgetting her. Stupid, stupid girl. When the fair was in full corpulent bloom, in a moment of boasting, the priestess summoned Whitworth out of her pocket to show her off, displaying her like she was some prize pumpkin! The girl’s pride demanded a spiteful response: Mrs. Whitworth’s neck snapped and bit the girl’s wrist, escaping with bullet-speed. The girl did not give chase.
But in the dark fall morning, the deserted fair shambled out of its glamour (or what little shabby glamour it contained), the portal arrays closed and padlocked, and the path to the woods lie scattered with crows' bones and garbage. The rain melted the candy-corn sunset from the night before, and melted the sugar and salt, the soggy tickets and fish heads, forming tributaries and islands of filth, down to where Mrs. Whitworth sought ersatz sanctuary.
Writer's Note: This tale shall be told moon-to-moon.