"The Pole That Wanted to Be a Windmill"

 

[Screw the hiatus. I want my blog back.]

The pole had never heard the entire story, just one element of the plot: that, once upon a time, a man had engaged a windmill in battle. For the pole, it was enough. Even the traffic lights complained about how boring things were, and their lives were among the most colorful in the neighborhood. The pole aspired to the knightly life of a windmill but wasn't sure it was an attainable goal.

"It isn't," a lamppost offered. "There is nothing knightly about you. Why, just look at your bearing, all stiff and wooden." The lamppost then flicked its overhead light on, just in case the pole was having trouble seeing its point.

The pole was given hope one afternoon, when a utility worker nailed a thin red board to one side of it. The board crossed the pole's body, looking a bit like a pair of arms. The pole was armed! Or it was marked, at least. After that, the pole waited months for greatness. But greatness never arrived, and the pole's hopes, like the thin board's red paint, began to fade.

Then came the night of the storm. The wind wailed and the rain clawed and bit, and the pole rocked anxiously in its spot in the ground. "Flooding at the north end of the road," the poles and posts along the street called, their voices becoming part of the storm's untethered groan.

"Flooding at the north end of the road," the would-be windmill repeated as part of the relay. A splinter of a moment after it spoke, it saw the headlights: a car was approaching from the south.

The pole knew what risks the car and its occupants faced if they continued north. It also knew that windmills, especially ones destined to engage in heroic battles, weren't supposed to fall. But the pole could no longer deny the truth: it was neither knightly nor a windmill, and it wasn't designed for combat. It was, however, capable of tilting.

"There was another thing from some other story I heard once," said the pole to no one in particular, "something about, 'It is a far, far better thing that I do....'" With that, the pole shifted its weight and sent its body crashing down onto the road, ahead of the car's path. The thin red board separated and dropped onto the pavement next to it, like a weapon dropped in surrender.