The Same Story

Every small child knows the tale; there’s a pantomime, a film, a puppet show. Parents read it out of storybooks when the little ones are tucked up in bed.

“…And so she pricked her finger on the spinning wheel and fell fast asleep. Just as the evil witch had said.”

They would gasp, and sigh, and cheer when the evil, (She had to be evil), old witch was killed by the young, good prince who had to save the girl.

They would remember, sometimes, and laugh at how simple they use to be. When childhood had been sunshine and smiles. They would forget the terror they had felt at such a simple, wooden, object.

Most children grew up and hardly knew what one does, though they knew the shape. Machines made cloth, factories made cloths; not plants, not people.

They appeared in garage sales, on street corners and half made roads. They sat in town halls, creaking. They lurked in offices. Oddities that were quaint, ignorable, full of danger.

And so they pricked their fingers and there was no prince to save them.

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