2018-10-11 17:17 fiction flash-fiction Benjamin Brood

A Thousand Hands

By the slippery rock. Beyond the stagnant pool. After the fallen glade. Consider the orientation of the guiding star. Assume a neutral alignment. Don't worry. As the light is filtered, you will become aware of the various environments, those that co-exist. The rocks that you've left behind yourself as a trail will no longer be necessary. Return will seem obscene. Throw away the glasses, you will no longer need them, they will sink into the earth, rot slowly, mushrooms will grow up from them, wet moss will see through them. Proceed steadily, but not hastily, past the rock wall, being aware that you must never look up. This would be disastrous, you must never, ever, look up at what lives above the rock wall. Then, there, you will find the caves. Descend carefully. You do not need to fear the dark, soon you will adjust. By the images of the hands, a thousand, a million of them, it doesn't matter, these are our hands. We painted them each, to make sure we would be remembered, while understanding the futility of such an action. By the roaring stream. In the cave. It might be difficult, it might have changed through the ages, but you must cross the stream. You will find the entrance, and in that room you'll find the way we went, the final position of the dials, the proper switches, it should tell you where we are.