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A SPLOTCH OF HOPE by David Henson

  • Writer: Mason Young
    Mason Young
  • May 18
  • 3 min read

Updated: May 23


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One summer afternoon, it appeared in the sky like black ink on blue canvas. We were kids, but even the old-timers said they’d never seen anything like it.


The smudge was halfway up from the horizon. It looked the size of a fingertip whether viewed from the ground, an airplane or through our most powerful telescopes. Scientists claimed that within the mark was nothing—not air, light, space, nor time. A perfect void.


We set aside our playground games to stare up at it. Our teachers had us write essays. We let our imaginations run wild — the smudge had risen from the darkest ocean depths; it was the black eye of an invisible dragon; a passage to another dimension.…


For a year, the smudge didn’t change and seemed harmless enough. Then, on the anniversary of its appearance, it doubled in size, rattling our nerves like castanets. When it happened again the following year, the sky felt smaller, the air heavier and acrid. When the smudge doubled yet again, panic gripped us. Would it keep growing until it swallowed the whole sky?


The world began losing its color, trees drained of their green, fields muted and gray. We lived in a constant twilight, as if we were looking through dirty water. Birdsong faded, and the ocean’s surface seemed still, like something holding its breath.


We dedicated our lives to planning for survival in darkness, stockpiling food, medicines, fuel…. We planted seeds in underground vaults covered with giant mirrors and illuminated with artificial light.   But every year, we harvested less.


Eventually the smudge claimed everything we’d looked up to — except — a single bright splotch of sky. We thought for sure it would be swallowed, too. But the splotch hung on and became our last hope, something to nurture.


We built towering bonfires, sacrificed things precious, and chanted our voices raw. Oh, bright splotch, in your name we ask for more light. We pledge allegiance to you. May our journey of a thousand miles begin with a single step graced with your light. May you show our animal guides the way.


Over time, our jumble of prayers and pleas found rhythm, borrowing from the cycles we were trying to regain.  

We drew patterns in the soil, emulating the constellations we could no longer see.


Whether we believed or simply hoped, we found solace in our rituals. Were we over-zealous? Definitely. Mad? Probably. Whatever we were, the splotch grew — perhaps because of our efforts, perhaps despite them — year after year until normalcy returned to the sky. 


Today when we tell the younger generations of the days when the sky was a dark void, they think we’re exaggerating, that our proofs are fakes. We’ve learned to not prod their doubts. We know, for now, the young are still cloaked in innocence. 


We’re not so lucky ourselves. When the sun sets, and shadows stretch, our fears rise. Cloudy nights with no stars are the worst. We try to sleep. We tell ourselves we’ll awake, and the dark will be gone. 


But we’re old enough to realize … there’s promise of neither.




David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net, two Best Small Fictions and a Best Microfictions. His writings have appeared in various journals including Ghost Parachute, Bright Flash Literary Journal, Moonpark Review, Maudlin House, Gastropoda, Literally Stories, Pithead Chapel and Gone Lawn. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.

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