Sandro

He carried it instead of food for years without rest and I can’t let them know it is here. ###

The scanners come on alternate festivals and our compound is being celebrated this year. How can I let my friends down? We worked so hard, long days, singing The songs through each scattering, again safe from the things that hide in dark places, without Transparency. We even found some Ego-objects hidden like secrets. ###

Before showing the pinwheel I’d found to our Master I held it up for the wind. ###

“The Child has Art, my dear. How very much this saddens us. She is gifted, Mother. She cannot help but seek inwardly – do you understand how this must terrify her? The Teacher tells me the Child has never won the Looking Game!” ###

When he put it in a jar in the earth before our compound was Blessed he told me why. “Mary said this would help us when she was saved”. For years after he ran I would dig the jar up on her Day and try, very hard, to see. When Mark lifted her to the sky so that she could feel Grace, Mary went limp as a prayer book as he spun her, tracing the orb of the sun. ###

The rust is thick under its lid. My hands are pink from trying, slipping as they grow wet, crimson runes forming on the palms. ###

The glass broke easily, loudly, and for the first time the thing she made and he carried fell into a shape I could see. Surely they will find me now. ###