Two races inhabited George’s world. Top-dwellers soared, carefree, on huge silver wings.
George was a bottom-dweller, his undeveloped wing buds enlarged into calloused bulges, useful only for carrying heavy loads.
So George became a climber, labouring upward, encouraged by climbers above telling of wondrous treasures, until one morning he reached the final peak. Resting by a stream, he saw, reflected in its water, his weathered face, aged and scowling. Far below, he saw his family, abandoned on a grassy plateau. George was old and alone.
Frantic, he called to lower climbers: “Go back! It’s a lie. Be content.” But they heard only what they wanted to hear.
Perhaps my recent retirement from the workforce has influenced my story for Friday Fictioneers this week. I’m feeling particularly light and carefree, and I’m so looking forward to having the time and headspace for things I want to do. I didn’t make it to the top of the pile, but I have spent thirty six years as a bottom-dweller, teaching, and that has brought rewards of its own.
Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. You can read all this week’s stories here.