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update from sparkleup

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Madison Scott-Clary 2021-02-15 23:25:41 -08:00
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writing/hand-of-god.html
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<p>Hands.</p>
<p>Always hands.</p>
<p>Jude had tuned out, and some distant part of her was surprised to find that she had stood, that she had been pacing, that she had stopped and hunched and tensed, once more facing the outcropping. The outcropping of pale and dead rock, new and uncharted, growing these last few months. The rock that resisted study and comprehension. Resisted humanity, pushed it away with some dark sense of unwelcome.</p>
<p>That finger pointing toward God.</p>
<p>Tare short and round-headed so that they do not freeze easily.hat finger pointing toward God.</p>
<p>Elanna&rsquo;s voice broke through the compulsion. &ldquo;You okay?&rdquo;</p>
<p>The botanist frowned, the tension draining from her as a blanket settled over her unsettled mind. Turned, abashed, back toward camp. &ldquo;No. Maybe. I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The hand of God had loosened its grip around her mind and here she was, back at camp, back beneath the trees, back by the tall reeds, back by the ferns fingering the air and the fronds like hands reaching out to them.</p>
<p>It did not last.</p>
<p>The camp grew quiet once more. Sarai handed her bookmark back and she fingered it, book forgotten. She felt the letters etched into the thin brass, felt the words there, proven now to be incorrect, felt the letters telling lies against her skin. She felt the weight of that hand, at once comforting and threatening, settle once more against her brain-stem, compressing, caressing, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing&hellip;</p>
<p>The camp grew quiet once more. Sarai handed her bookmark back and she fingered it, book forgotten. She felt the letters etched into the thin brass, felt the words there, proven now to be incorrect, felt the shapes telling lies against her skin. She felt the weight of that hand, at once comforting and threatening, settle once more against her brain-stem, compressing, caressing, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing&hellip;</p>
<p>The quiet grew thick. The air grew heavy. The light failed.</p>
<p>And one by one, they went to bed. The physicist. The linguist. The archaeologist. The botanist.</p>
<p>One by one they retreated to their tents and their own personal narratives diverged once more. Perhaps they slept, perhaps not. Perhaps they dreamed.</p>