I bought a carpet from a man named Sid, who swore it did exactly what a magic carpet should, provided that the weather's fine and all the knots are tight and good. He didn't mention it was prone to bouts of existential dread, or that it preferred to nap all day inside a dusty garden shed. It looked like any ordinary rug you'd find in a suburban hall, with beige and crimson patterns and a tendency to slide and crawl. But SID, with one eye squinted shut and fingers stained with herbal tea, said, "This here is the Ferrari of the woven tapestry." I took it home and laid it out upon the kitchen's linoleum floor, and whispered, "Fly me to the moon, or maybe just the grocery store." The carpet didn't budge at first; it merely gave a heavy sigh, as if it found the very thought of flight a taxing way to die. I tried the ancient incantations Sid had scribbled on a napkin, involving words like "Elevate" and "Don't let any dust mites trap in." I even tried a gentle kick, which I immediately regretted, as the carpet nipped my ankle and then looked quite quite upsetted. Suddenly, with a violent jerk that nearly sent me through the wall, it bucked like some woolly bronco in a claustrophobic stall. It hovered just a foot away, then dipped its tassels in the sink, and made a sound like velcro being ripped—a most unpleasant clink. "Okay," I said, clutching a chair, "I see you have a mind of your own, but could we please ascend to heights where pigeons aren't as easily thrown?" With a wheeze of static electricity, we drifted through the door, leaving behind my vacuum cleaner weeping on the floor. We cleared the fence by inches, nearly scalping Mrs. Higgins' cat, who didn't take kindly to a flying rug acting like a giant bat. Up we went, past chimneys smoking, past the local park and swings, where children pointed upward asking why that man was riding strings. The wind was cold, my hair was wild, I felt like a bedraggled king, atop a throne of polyester, doing a most precarious thing. The carpet seemed to find its rhythm, humming a low, distorted tune, something like a jazz rendition of a very tired baboon. It zigged where it should have zagged, it zagged into a willow tree, and left me picking leaves and twigs out of my afternoon tea. "Steady on!" I shouted loud, as we buzzed a traffic warden's hat, who reached for his ticket book before realizing what he was looking at. We soared above the city lights, which twinkled like a million eyes, while I tried not to think about the physics of my sudden demise. The carpet had a quirk, you see, a most unfortunate design: it hated birds with a passion that was borderline malign. Whenever a sparrow or a pigeon dared to cross our path, the rug would lunge and snapping its fringe with a righteous, woven wrath. I spent most of the flight apologizing to the local avian crowd, who chirped their indignation from the safety of a fluffy cloud. Then came the issue of the GPS, or rather, the lack thereof, as the carpet seemed to think that south was actually up above. We ended up in Blackpool when I'd clearly asked for Rome, and when I complained, it folded its corners and started heading home. But "home" was apparently a relative term in the carpet's tiny brain, for we spent three hours circling a field of very soggy grain. I tried to reason with the wool, I tried to bribe it with some wax, I even promised I would never use a steam-cleaner on its tracks. It finally relented when I sang a chorus of "A Whole New World," though it winced at my falsetto and its tassels tightly curled. We descended near a chip shop with a grace that was entirely feigned, and landed in a puddle just as it started to heavily rain. The carpet soaked up water like a thirsty, oversized sponge, and refused to move another inch, ending our celestial lunge. I had to drag it three miles back, a soggy, heavy, woolen beast, while passersby asked if I'd been to a very strange, wet feast. Sid was nowhere to be found when I went back to demand a refund, his shop was now a laundromat, and my hopes were thoroughly jiff-und. So now it sits within my hall, a dormant, damp, and sullen rug, that occasionally trips my guests and gives my ankles a playful tug. It hasn't flown a single inch since that disastrous rainy day, preferring to judge my choice of socks in a silent, woolen way. I sometimes see it twitching when a travel show is on the screen, as if it's dreaming of the Taj Mahal or somewhere far and green. But then it remembers the pigeon incident and the willow tree's embrace, and settles back into the floor with a most disgruntled face. I've learned my lesson, surely so, about the magic of the loom: it's better to keep your feet on earth and your rugs within the room. For though the sky is vast and wide and full of wonders yet untold, a flying carpet's ego is a heavy thing for one man to hold. It wants to be the star, you see, the master of the atmosphere, while you're just the guy in pajamas clutching on in mortal fear. So if you see a man named Sid with tea-stained fingers and a grin, telling you that this particular rug is really worth moving in, just walk away, don't look back, and keep your wallet in your pocket, unless you want to find yourself launched skyward like a woolen rocket. My carpet's currently eyeing the cat with a look that's quite suspicious, and I suspect by morning time, the results will be quite malicious. It's a decorative piece, I tell myself, a conversation starter at best, but I know it's just waiting for a breeze to put my patience to the test. It's probably plotting a route to Mars or maybe just the neighbor's roof, for a magic carpet's vanity is the only thing that's truly proof. So here I sit, grounded and dry, with a rug that's quite a chore, wishing I'd just bought a sensible mat from the local hardware store. The moral of the story is, if such a thing can even be found, is that some things are meant for flying, but carpets belong on the ground. Unless, of course, you like the taste of willow leaves and rainy air, and don't mind a thousand pigeons giving you a murderous, feathery stare. But for me, the thrill has faded, the magic has lost its woven sheen, and I'm perfectly happy with floors that stay exactly where they've been. No more mid-air existential crises or tassels in the sink, just a quiet life without the need for an airborne woolen link. And yet, sometimes at midnight, when the moon is full and bright, I feel a little tug on my toe in the middle of the night. And I know the rug is calling, with its beige and crimson soul, wanting one last flight together, out of its dusty, floor-bound role. But I just pull the blankets up and pretend that I'm fast asleep, for some secrets are better left for the silent, woolen deep.
