The Machine’s skin was hard, harder than any crocodile’s, tougher even than stone. Irgul stared at it. Today, after reaching manhood, he would become one of the four Bearers. After the feasting, they would parade the Machine round the village, like their fathers before them.
Irgul reached out and caressed the Wheel. It turned. An idea glimmered just beyond his grasp.
Sp’andor, the old shaman, watched the boy and smiled, remembering when he also had that seductive idea for transportation. Irgul would discover for himself, he thought indulgently, how easily clay pots smashed when jolted along the forest paths.
Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.