The Pin

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.