Saturday's Storyteller: "Eleazer blew on the pinwheel, and as the shiny plastic spun, his reflection therein aged backwards."
by Belinda Roddie
Eleazer blew on the pinwheel, and as the shiny plastic spun, his reflection therein aged backwards. He did not quite believe it at first, not until he had sported a full brown beard, something altogether different from the white garish strands that he become accustomed to seeing on his chin.
He could only smile at his newfound youth for a brief moment until the wind picked up about him and the pinwheel spun the other way. As his eyebrows began to gray and thicken, in a heavy fright he clamped his hand down on the fragile star and blocked it from the cold. As he tramped back to his small cottage on the outskirts of the small Irish town, he furiously bolted the door, slammed the round little window shut, and drew the meager red curtain, so that not a wisp of a zephyr could disturb him.
Feeling the creak in his back once more, Eleazer inhaled deeply and allowed himself one slight puff against the pinwheel. Its edges spun like fire, and the rich oaken color returned to his hair with the flush of his ruddy cheeks. He gave himself one loud laugh - but only once he had placed the pinwheel in a small box and locked it tight with a key.
Within the small Irish town, the lithe shopkeeper who had sold Eleazer the pinwheel was sweeping the little wooden floor, her tattered shoes tapping blissfully to the sound of a lonely fiddler outside her door. The lonely fiddler visited her once every ten or so years, and each time he looked exactly the same. He always brought her little sweets and toys from a remote village just south of Dublin, and when he laid them out on the table, he would take up his bow and play the same lingering tune.
Awake ye, awake ye, great spirits of Eireann,
let grow your weedy fingers o'er small trinkets
and they shall blossom into sweet young flowers
but careful when they wilt.
The shopkeeper never liked to keep the objects for long, and the lonely fiddler did not blame her. She would sell them for a very small cost; sometimes she would simply give them away. The pinwheel she had given Eleazer had only been a penny, and as she stared into his milky, decaying eyes, she did not dare touch the copper coin he meekly offered.
Leaning her broom against the wall, the shopkeeper tied her hair in a braid in front of a delicate oval mirror. Another gift, one that had not been influenced by the sound of strings. She could hear Morrison's Jig outside her door. The lonely fiddler was waiting.
"I can't come out tonight," she said as the song subsided, and his footsteps drifted in echoes about the walls of the shop.
He sighed. The creases in his furrowed brow left no wrinkles on his pale face.
"You gave the pinwheel to that foolish farmer," he complained. "It was meant for you."
The shopkeeper walked past him, into the melting sunlight of the County Clare sky. The flat sheets of green were tinged with bronze.
"He deserved it more."
The fiddler grunted and nodded. He seldom agreed with her, but this was a strange time.
A mile away, in that small cottage, the young Eleazer romped around in the wind, picking potatoes and loading them up in a small sack. A small horse-drawn wagon passed by, driven by his daughter and her husband-to-be. As he waved, her face drew tight against her bones and she seemed struck with panic. Alarmed, Eleazer rushed toward the wagon to calm her, but she turned her head away, as if he were a rogue who had done her father away.
Cursing the day, he rushed to the chest and threw the box open where he kept the pinwheel. He was ready to blow on it again, to let the white drip from his face like hairy snow. But the beautiful material had been crushed and its stable pole bent, and it refused to blow in any wind.
Somewhere in the dark, a fiddler was dancing with a young red-haired shopkeeper, his bow stretching the crescent moon and drenching the night flowers with dew. They would bloom for a day, then wither away as their seeds fell onto new soil. And a middle-aged farmer plucked roots from the dirt and whistled a tune, his muscles some day returning to their rigid state before his lips let a fiery flower spin.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
Eleazer blew on the pinwheel, and as the shiny plastic spun, his reflection therein aged backwards. He did not quite believe it at first, not until he had sported a full brown beard, something altogether different from the white garish strands that he become accustomed to seeing on his chin.
He could only smile at his newfound youth for a brief moment until the wind picked up about him and the pinwheel spun the other way. As his eyebrows began to gray and thicken, in a heavy fright he clamped his hand down on the fragile star and blocked it from the cold. As he tramped back to his small cottage on the outskirts of the small Irish town, he furiously bolted the door, slammed the round little window shut, and drew the meager red curtain, so that not a wisp of a zephyr could disturb him.
Feeling the creak in his back once more, Eleazer inhaled deeply and allowed himself one slight puff against the pinwheel. Its edges spun like fire, and the rich oaken color returned to his hair with the flush of his ruddy cheeks. He gave himself one loud laugh - but only once he had placed the pinwheel in a small box and locked it tight with a key.
Within the small Irish town, the lithe shopkeeper who had sold Eleazer the pinwheel was sweeping the little wooden floor, her tattered shoes tapping blissfully to the sound of a lonely fiddler outside her door. The lonely fiddler visited her once every ten or so years, and each time he looked exactly the same. He always brought her little sweets and toys from a remote village just south of Dublin, and when he laid them out on the table, he would take up his bow and play the same lingering tune.
Awake ye, awake ye, great spirits of Eireann,
let grow your weedy fingers o'er small trinkets
and they shall blossom into sweet young flowers
but careful when they wilt.
The shopkeeper never liked to keep the objects for long, and the lonely fiddler did not blame her. She would sell them for a very small cost; sometimes she would simply give them away. The pinwheel she had given Eleazer had only been a penny, and as she stared into his milky, decaying eyes, she did not dare touch the copper coin he meekly offered.
Leaning her broom against the wall, the shopkeeper tied her hair in a braid in front of a delicate oval mirror. Another gift, one that had not been influenced by the sound of strings. She could hear Morrison's Jig outside her door. The lonely fiddler was waiting.
"I can't come out tonight," she said as the song subsided, and his footsteps drifted in echoes about the walls of the shop.
He sighed. The creases in his furrowed brow left no wrinkles on his pale face.
"You gave the pinwheel to that foolish farmer," he complained. "It was meant for you."
The shopkeeper walked past him, into the melting sunlight of the County Clare sky. The flat sheets of green were tinged with bronze.
"He deserved it more."
The fiddler grunted and nodded. He seldom agreed with her, but this was a strange time.
A mile away, in that small cottage, the young Eleazer romped around in the wind, picking potatoes and loading them up in a small sack. A small horse-drawn wagon passed by, driven by his daughter and her husband-to-be. As he waved, her face drew tight against her bones and she seemed struck with panic. Alarmed, Eleazer rushed toward the wagon to calm her, but she turned her head away, as if he were a rogue who had done her father away.
Cursing the day, he rushed to the chest and threw the box open where he kept the pinwheel. He was ready to blow on it again, to let the white drip from his face like hairy snow. But the beautiful material had been crushed and its stable pole bent, and it refused to blow in any wind.
Somewhere in the dark, a fiddler was dancing with a young red-haired shopkeeper, his bow stretching the crescent moon and drenching the night flowers with dew. They would bloom for a day, then wither away as their seeds fell onto new soil. And a middle-aged farmer plucked roots from the dirt and whistled a tune, his muscles some day returning to their rigid state before his lips let a fiery flower spin.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
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