Joey 1997 [updated] May 2026
The Slide of Mirrors was a garish purple tube at the far end of the midway. No line. No attendant. Just a sign: "One rider at a time. No refunds."
He slid for too long. Minutes. Hours. The mirrors on either side didn’t show his reflection—they showed other Joeys. A Joey with a black eye. A Joey holding a gas can. A Joey crying in a parked car, 1997 written on the license plate. At the bottom, he landed in a pile of dried leaves and ticket stubs from a summer fair decades old. joey 1997
Joey found the time capsule on a Tuesday, buried under the old sycamore tree behind his grandmother’s house. The tree had been struck by lightning the night before, splitting open like a book, and there it was: a rusted metal box with "JOEY 1997" scratched into the lid. The Slide of Mirrors was a garish purple
The Slide of Mirrors was a garish purple tube at the far end of the midway. No line. No attendant. Just a sign: "One rider at a time. No refunds."
He slid for too long. Minutes. Hours. The mirrors on either side didn’t show his reflection—they showed other Joeys. A Joey with a black eye. A Joey holding a gas can. A Joey crying in a parked car, 1997 written on the license plate. At the bottom, he landed in a pile of dried leaves and ticket stubs from a summer fair decades old.
Joey found the time capsule on a Tuesday, buried under the old sycamore tree behind his grandmother’s house. The tree had been struck by lightning the night before, splitting open like a book, and there it was: a rusted metal box with "JOEY 1997" scratched into the lid.