For the love of Orlando Bloom

I have to write something. So sayeth my best friend, and I quote, for the love of Orlando Bloom. I love my best friend. She's cool, she's wacky, she needs help... the world should love Melinda Poitras. Let me see... what do I have in my load of stuff that I haven't posted on here that's actually good?? Hey; I know... I wrote this to freak out my sister... it worked, somewhat. Anyway, its not all that good and its macabre, but what do I care? You're the only one that reads this...
Side note: my grandmother just gave me a lollipop that looks like and eye out of its socket. Yes, I'm eating it. It tastes like coke. I love my grandma.

The Carousel
The night is still and dark. The sliver of moon that shines sluggishly through the night is fading, as if tired, leaving its place to the waiting darkness below. Clouds drift through the sky, obscuring the stars. Wind whispers through the trees, and its murmurs seem almost hostile, almost menacing. The night is watching. Waiting. The gate of the abandoned parc eases open with eery silence.
In the dark, hidden in the wild, overgrown vegetation, a little girl trembles in fear. A whimper of sheer terror escapes her as the trees around her bow to a violent gust of wind. She starts to cry, soundlessly praying for someone to come, for someone to find her, but suddenly the wind stills. She risks a peek from behind the trunk of the tree where she has taken refuge, the leaves she is sitting on cracking under her. She winces at the sound. She knows, as only a child could, that there must be silence now.
Then the gate closes, creaking on rusty hinges, and she jumps as the bolt that secures it clangs into place. The beat of her little heart picks up. She is trapped now, truly trapped in this nightmare. She hugs herself for comfort, for warmth. The warm summer night has suddenly gone cold and angry.
The clouds above her drift away, letting the moon shine upon the parc once more, and the wind picks up its now familiar tune. The light of the crescent orb falls upon the center of the plaza, illuminating an ancient carousel; once luxurious and elegant, it is run over with mold and creeping plants. The child feels fear creep over her as she sees the figures upon it. The wild eyes of galloping, colourful horses and the chipped wings of fantastical beasts are tarnished and worn by time. Under the light of the crescent moon, the brilliant gold of the rambards is naught but a sickly yellow, the bright colours of old are tainted with gray. The paint is chipped, the wood is worn, and the carousel stands, a witness to centuries passed.
Music begins to play from the carousel, soft, gentle and menacing. The trees begin to shiver in the wind and the little girl takes a deep breath as the light of the moon falls upon the tombstone beside the merry-go-round. Tears of terror she does not feel begin to fall upon her cheeks. The name that has been engraved in the cold granite has long been worn away by the passage of time, and yet she sees that the soil looks as fresh as if a body had been burried beneath the stone yesterday. She begins to tremble, starts to back away from the tree she was hiding beneath, that suddenly seems all too close to that terrifying tomb; only to find herself with her back against another towering oak. The rough bark digs into her clawing hands, making her bleed. She whimpers, wanting to scream, as the music continues to play, as the carousel begins to turn, pushed by the wind, creaking and shuddering on its base.
A voice rises in the wind. The childish giggle whispers through the trees, carried by the menacing wind. She shudders as the innocent laughter crescendoes into hysterical cries, she starts to cry in terror and fear, silent sobs shaking her shoulders. The silhouette of a young boy, dressed in a sailor suit and his head crowned with a white and navy blue berret, shimmers into sight. He gallops on the back of the carousel's black-winged stallion, his wind-blown hair is mussed, his clothes are wrinkled, his eyes are mad, and his white shirt is stained with crimson blood.

Muahaha... preferably to read on a dark and stormy night. I was wondering if I could freak people out with what I write... tell me, please do, tell me if I succeeded. Its not the best thing ever written but its... evocative enough. The subject freaks me out a bit, so of course I had to write it down and see if it would still scare me... and others, while we're at it (another evil laugh).
Okay, that was fun, and now I have to go eat lunch. Buh-bye, people, or person, as the case may be. Love ya, Moona, you're the only one that actually reads what I write. Though of course you have other qualities too...
Claire