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The remnants of fresh rain.
Sun.
A cool breeze.
Blooming flowers.
Spring.
They call it the Free Season. Plants confined to the soil spring forth to drink the early morning air. Baby birds break free from their shells to feel the sunshine for the first time. Ice and snow thaws, freeing ground and tree alike from their wintry prison.
And in tandem, the fresh fifteen-year-olds of Column take off on their bicycles for the first time.
Rarely are they new. Most belonged to parents, and parents' parents, but that's not a bad thing. The bicycle is a marker of pride for any colony dweller. A symbol of freedom. A symbol of spring. And the ceremony only happens once.
The click of whirling gears and tires heralded the coming of the colony dwellers as they rocketed down the largest hill near the colony of Column, the empty blacktop stretching off into the green trees, winding ever onward into an endless expanse of green.
Vines, bushes, and trees wrapped lazily around the tall, ever-present Husks, frozen in the middle of various stages of battle--defeat, rest, triumph, sadness, relief, all were there--what little of their hulls that still surfaced through the grime and plant-life gleaming like beacons in the early afternoon sun.
As did the bicycles; new, old, the difference was impossible to note, for each had been polished, tuned, and oiled to pure perfection. They all might as well have been made that very day. And the same could be said for the clothing adorning each rider--uniforms, bright blue, white, and gold, formed from supple fabrics stitched and woven into well-fitted blazers, trousers, skirts, and berets, spotless, bold, and free.
Just beyond the bottom of the hill was the storied trail to Husk Valley, run by hundreds upon hundreds of bicycles for generations. The valley itself was a storied place of both solace and togetherness, a place of unrestricted freedom, if only for a single day. Some explored the stationary mecha and the forests surrounding them. Some grouped together with their friends and played "Husks and Robots" until they fell over in an exhausted heap. Some simply found a spot in the shade or the sun, gazed up at the sky, and took in the fresh, spring-scented air and the beauty of dappled sunlight creeping in past the leaves. And when everyone had tired themselves out and done all they wished, everyone pushed their bicycles up the hill again, one last hurrah before returning to the colony, to classes, and to life.
Some laughed, some cheered, some shouted as they rushed down the hill for the first time. Brown, homely flyers watched from nearby power lines as they went, the children the only source of sound in the quiet valley that did not come from the beaks of birds or the rustle of wind through trees.
The afternoon after the Bicycle Ceremony. A time all to themselves.
Rushing rivers.
Tweeting songbirds.
Gleaming bicycles.
Falling pedals.
Spring.
Sun.
A cool breeze.
Blooming flowers.
Spring.
They call it the Free Season. Plants confined to the soil spring forth to drink the early morning air. Baby birds break free from their shells to feel the sunshine for the first time. Ice and snow thaws, freeing ground and tree alike from their wintry prison.
And in tandem, the fresh fifteen-year-olds of Column take off on their bicycles for the first time.
Rarely are they new. Most belonged to parents, and parents' parents, but that's not a bad thing. The bicycle is a marker of pride for any colony dweller. A symbol of freedom. A symbol of spring. And the ceremony only happens once.
The click of whirling gears and tires heralded the coming of the colony dwellers as they rocketed down the largest hill near the colony of Column, the empty blacktop stretching off into the green trees, winding ever onward into an endless expanse of green.
Vines, bushes, and trees wrapped lazily around the tall, ever-present Husks, frozen in the middle of various stages of battle--defeat, rest, triumph, sadness, relief, all were there--what little of their hulls that still surfaced through the grime and plant-life gleaming like beacons in the early afternoon sun.
As did the bicycles; new, old, the difference was impossible to note, for each had been polished, tuned, and oiled to pure perfection. They all might as well have been made that very day. And the same could be said for the clothing adorning each rider--uniforms, bright blue, white, and gold, formed from supple fabrics stitched and woven into well-fitted blazers, trousers, skirts, and berets, spotless, bold, and free.
Just beyond the bottom of the hill was the storied trail to Husk Valley, run by hundreds upon hundreds of bicycles for generations. The valley itself was a storied place of both solace and togetherness, a place of unrestricted freedom, if only for a single day. Some explored the stationary mecha and the forests surrounding them. Some grouped together with their friends and played "Husks and Robots" until they fell over in an exhausted heap. Some simply found a spot in the shade or the sun, gazed up at the sky, and took in the fresh, spring-scented air and the beauty of dappled sunlight creeping in past the leaves. And when everyone had tired themselves out and done all they wished, everyone pushed their bicycles up the hill again, one last hurrah before returning to the colony, to classes, and to life.
Some laughed, some cheered, some shouted as they rushed down the hill for the first time. Brown, homely flyers watched from nearby power lines as they went, the children the only source of sound in the quiet valley that did not come from the beaks of birds or the rustle of wind through trees.
The afternoon after the Bicycle Ceremony. A time all to themselves.
Rushing rivers.
Tweeting songbirds.
Gleaming bicycles.
Falling pedals.
Spring.
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