The
Pin
They
don't see how we live. How our lives are spent lapping a worn,
circuitous conveyor belt in a pitch black netherworld. They never
have to suffer the incessant din the Machine's gears make, when you
just want to gather your thoughts for a moment but you're being
endlessly shuttled around a clanging metropolis. The only window of
silent clarity to ponder our existence, and their's; when the Machine
selects the next ten, drops us into the light, and retreats.
For
a few seconds we stand facing them. Poised. There is pride,
solidarity and purpose among us, before the boards begin to
tremble, and another gormless sphere, expanding with menace, attempts
to annihilate our resolve. They often contort their bodies in agony
and wave fists of injustice when their spheres graze but leaves us
standing, and this truly gladdens my heart.
Reg
was the oldest pin. The Grand Daddy. But he looked the youngest. His
flawless paintwork and smart red neckband as vibrant as the day he
arrived. Each morning I would catch him muttering to himself, trying
hopelessly to convince the rest of the boys that the universe had
destined him for greater things, and that there was was a reason he
had been made slightly smaller than everyone else. God obviously
wished for him to never know the indignity of unjust aggression
because whenever the Machine set Reg up, he would immediately topple
over without fail.
One
afternoon, minus fanfare; after the giant claw that aligns us had
hauled itself back out of sight, Reg was left standing before us. He
was head pin. We were utterly speechless. Deprived of time to
contemplate what significance this could possibly hold, I caught
sight of a suited man ahead, unleashing his might through a navy-blue
sphere which ominously began consuming the horizon. I thought I could
see Reg push out his chest and hold his head high.
