2018-09-09 17:18 fiction flash-fiction Benjamin Brood

A Poetic Tether

We don't know where it came from, we can't imagine where it goes. Descriptions of it will be inadequate. However, to glean what it might be, we need to attempt an approximation. No photography, digital or otherwise, is possible. When our team gathered, we sat around it, cross-legged, mildly awkward and anticipatory. We didn't know what we waited for. We didn't know much, but at the time it seemed to make sense. It had grown from the soil. It had coalesced. It had formed from the hopes and dreams, or it had congealed from fears and nightmares. We would find out, one way or another, our duty was exploration. We carried objects with us that were personally and socially important. A tennis racket. A crucifix. A cookbook. An attractive handbag. A new toothbrush. An out-of-date train schedule. Things like this, objects that would tether us. This would be a difficult task, we told ourselves, but the demand was obligatory. As our physical discomfort grew, so did our certainty, and then there was poetry.