Weekly Writing – September 23 2023

The guide walks ahead of them with a telescoping pole held importantly above and ahead. A white slit in the dark, like the wick of a phantom candle leading the way.
Every hundred paces, they cluster up close behind him, like children hemmed in by the roar of thunder. A dozen sets of eyes turn upwards, wet and dazzled even by the pole’s pale hue, as bred as they all are for the dark. The guide lofts it solemnly higher, and they all sigh relief as it strikes the rocky ceiling far above.
The shape of the world echoes back to them, every granite knob and dewy spike announcing that everything is still in order. And they walk on.
Strung out in a line just long and loose enough not to tread on each other’s heels. Their breathing stitches them together, a soft snake winding its way through the caverns.
One hundred paces. The guide stops, and the silken, nervous snake of their procession coils up behind him. Up goes the pole, stretching and thinning farther and farther into nothing but silence.
Nothing but silence. The guide waves it about, trying to knock on the sides of whatever narrow chimney he’s stuck it into, and only silence wobbles down the length of it.
Those below start to murmur, barely holding the silence at bay. Upturned eyes are wet and dazzled with fear, so they don’t know which of them is first to start wailing.
Several join him in the next breath, and even those who don’t can feel the sound twisting up and finding no ceiling in their hearts. How horribly far astray have they wandered, after all? Which wrong turn did their guide take them down in the dark? Who ever heard of a world without a ceiling?