Over the Crest

Text 1: Skyline, by Rowan Bell

An original short story extract.

The safety bar pressed firmly across Leila’s lap. She gripped its smooth handle and watched the platform slide away. At first, the carriage only crawled, leaving the station with a polite little bump.

Then the climb began.

The rails rose ahead like a ladder against the sky. Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack. With every sound, the carriage dragged her higher. Below, the paths narrowed into grey threads and the people became coloured dots. Leila tried to call to her brother, but her voice came out thin and small.

At the top, the chain stopped pulling. The clicking ended. For one long second, the carriage balanced on the crest and the whole park waited beneath them. Leila could hear nothing except her own breathing.

Down.

The carriage dived. Wind slapped her face and snatched the scream from her mouth. The track twisted left, right, left, throwing the sky and the ground across her vision. Everything became strips of colour — blue sky, green trees, red roofs — stirred together too quickly to name.

Then the station rushed towards them. The carriage slowed with a series of heavy jolts, and Leila discovered that she was laughing. Her hands were still locked around the bar, but she turned to her brother and managed one breathless word: “Again.”