Nick remembered his only Ferris wheel. It happened during the county fair when he first felt wrong about this whole growing up thing. He was ten, and his brother was six or seven. Nick waited in line and climbed up onto the seat while the carny with the cigarette clinging to his lip lowered and clanked the bar into place across the seat. Nick noticed the carny’s dirty and yellowed fingernails and promised to always keep his own clean. He waved to his mother who stood by his father and brother who was too short to go with him on the Ferris wheel, which was fine with Nick because he only wanted to see the view from the top and not be distracted by the kid. And the wheel began turning, cranking into motion. Nick held the sides of the car as he went higher. He could see the whole valley and the river winding, and maybe that was imagination, but he would never tell the difference.

*Miel MacRae was born at a young age somewhere in Sin City and has since lived on both coasts and a little in between. Having been accused of appearing too serious and serially chided to smile more, she would like to leave this disclaimer: “Chill, dude, it’s just my resting face.”

Her debut novel, a literary fiction called The Stories We Don’t Tell, due out summer 2014 from Booktrope Publishing.