Wheel Spinner

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 29, 2018

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Submitted: September 29, 2018

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Wheel Spinner

There once was a spinner of wheels, whose function dictated the way the world feels. A young little chap, who spun & spun & spun his wheels from days light to nights black. The birds they sang, and the plants they grew, and the people of the world went on to do what they do. No one knew of the wheel spinner, whose very life gave life to all else. The lad took pride in that, and though no one knew of him, the birds would visit from the mighty trees in which they sat. When the people of the world wondered of the things beyond, the birds would come to sing by his pond. Song of stories of wonder and fright, of people enchanted by reveries of flight. Tickled by tales of grandeur in life and in death, the young lad laughed so joyously he couldn’t hold onto breath! The wheels spun and they spun, and for a time life was good. But the birds suddenly vanished, suddenly stopped to come when they should. The lad held strong, but while spinning the wheels he wondered what had gone wrong. He longed for their melody, the tune of sweet song. He continued to spin, tears on his cheeks all along.

His youth became bitter and his skin came to crack; he wondered if the old birds would ever come back. His arms grew disimpassioned the more his heart sank, the wheels then stopped spinning, the world then turned blank. The people of the world were simply frozen in space, unaware of the tragedy that dictated their pace. Unaware of happiness or pain, or of the impressions that made the lad feel quite insane. He drifted on a wave of his own grief, cycling through yesterdays and todays, well knowing that the people of the world were drifting in their very own ways. They lived as he did, because although he ambulated, breathed, and thought, the return to progress was far from caught.

 

“Whatever they had done to make the birds leave, to change they must all have the privilege to live and to breathe.”

 

And so he spun the wheels; and spun and spun, and the people of the world went on to do what they do. The birds became a memory; the grating of the wheels his new melody. At times the cogs in the wheels would screech and produce the right tune, fooling the lad now an old man, that when he looked up there the birds would loom. He eventually learned to stop searching or caring or brooding, until one night he heard the sound of low mewling. Behind him stood a wee little owl, with feathers as bright as the moon that covered its head like a cowl. The old man turned unable to look, until the owl introduced itself with a peck and a hoot. The man finally gave in and began to believe.

 

“This owl is no trick though my senses deceive.”

 

Eventually his skin had lost all its cracks; his youth then renewed, the young lad was back. The people of the world went on to do what they do, but someone thought different, that much he knew. The owl and the lad lived on with the joy of the few; little did he know that the owl was from you.


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