Mother of Wheels

A (very) short story

Robert Fludd, Diagram of the Macrocosm, 1617, via Public Domain Image Archive

Dear Friends,

It’s been a while since we’ve heard from the mother, but she is always with us.

— Sal

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Wheel Mother

The mother takes over my hand again. She places a bet—our bet, my bet. Good fortune attracts good fortune, but which mother is this?

Today, I’m dressed for yesterday, the way a song from a years-ago sorrow is playing everywhere I go. Some people have a low threshold for mystery, like the question of whether two particular people will fuck: that’s the mystery. I can tell you the answer. They don’t fuck.

The mother was one of those people. She took a chance when she saw one.

I often wonder if our lives are defined by our tragedies and breakages. I used to think this was true of the mother, yes.

I have other friends who believe that lives are defined by small moments, almost invisible to anyone who isn’t seeing them from the inside. These moments often begin in the past and gain significance slowly. Lit windows becoming visible as night comes on. But what if we don’t remember anything in the blue evening?

Actually, the mother fucked early and fucked often, and I am, not surprisingly, one of the results. When you look at me, do I look like money lost or money won?

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Mother Stories

Here are more from this series of very short stories of the mother.

Mother of Tales, Mother of Protest

Mother of Spring

Mother of Wrath

Mother of Carpets, Mother of Snakes

Mother of Bread, Mother of Vinegar

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I’d love to hear your thoughts and your stories.