Open your hand is one of two parts of today’s prompt, taken from Sylvia Plath’s works.
The other is And dissolve of sorrow
They were part of a random selection chosen blind at a writing workshop. This is my response from that session.
‘Open your hand.’
Her tone demanded instant obedience so he opened his hand. It was what you did when you were eight and your older sister had that look on her face.
And her hands behind her back.
‘You’re not going to make me close my eyes?’ he said. They were the worst ones. If it was a good surprise, like a biscuit or a packet of sweeties, she would (mostly) let him keep his eyes open. If it was … not a good surprise, she made him squeeze them tight shut. ‘No peeking,’ she would demand. Once, she’d used a pair of white tights, unwashed. They had a tear in them and were no good to her anymore.
‘Yes, she said now. ‘Close them, really really tight.’
He gulped, did as he was told, hand out. And waited. No sound to help him figure out what the surprise might be, like the rustling of a sweetie packet.
Warm softness fell into his palm, velvety, plump, giving.
She sniggered. ‘Take a look.’
When he did, he inhaled sharply, eyes pricked with sudden tears, heart thudding to dissolve in sorrow.
A bird, recently dead.
‘Shouldn’t let Archie out of his cage to fly about the house, now should you?’ she admonished, but there was a tinge of kindness in her pretend grownup voice. ‘Not when the neighbour’s cat has come to visit.’
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A salutary lesson to be learned for her brother. Feel sorry for poor Archie though. After all he was no doubt just flying around minding his own business LOL.
Here’s my effort:
OPEN YOUR HAND. AND DISSOLVE OF SORROW
“Open your hand upwards to me in supplication.” God’s voice boomed from the heavens as Abraham gazed towards the skies in total confusion.
“But Lord, why should I do that?” Abraham asked. “After all, you have just told me to sacrifice my only son Isaac – a child that you arranged when my wife and I had given up hope of ever having children. Hardly seems like cricket.” (Author’s note: An early form of the game using sticks and a ball made of weighted wool was played in Palestine thousands of years before the birth of Christ. I am just modernising it a little.)
“Do not argue with me Abraham,” God responded. “And dissolve of all your sorrow for it is your duty to serve me without question. Perhaps you do not realise it yet, but you are to become the Father of all Nations.”
“How can I do that when you are asking me to kill my only child?” Abraham was becoming frustrated at the illogical nature of God’s reasoning.
“Patience, Abraham. All will be revealed in good time. In the meantime, go and prepare the funeral pyre.”
Abraham sadly bowed his head as he set about gathering enough wood for the fire. His seven-year-old son seemed totally unaware of his impending fate and was excitedly helping his father pick up any sticks they could find.
Why is God asking me to do this, Abraham wondered angrily. Murdering my only son is hardly going to achieve the aim of populating the Earth.
“That’s it, Abraham,” God said. “A big pyre – as high as you can make it. Splendid.”
The wood pile had reached the limit of Abraham’s outstretched hand and he was unable to add to it without overbalancing.
“Now, tie Isaac to the top,” God commanded. “And hurry up because I am very busy and have lots of other projects I need to address.”
Abraham grabbed his son and, before he could struggle, had trussed him like a heifer. He then tossed him on top of the timber pile and tried to ignore his son’s screams.
“Light it and let’s see it burn,” God continued. Abraham lit a taper and ignited the bottom of the pyre. Flames licked hungrily upwards to where his son was struggling and crying.
“Daddy, daddy, why are you doing this to me,” Isaac screamed. “I thought you loved me.”
“I do, but this is God’s will,” replied Abraham.
Just then, a hand reached down from Heaven, plucking Isaac from the flames and depositing back on the ground beside his father.
“Abraham, Abraham,” God said. “You have shown how your faith in me is totally binding. I do not need any further demonstration. Your son will grow to be a strong young man.
“However, see that lamb caught in the bushes over there. Go and get it. Seems a pity to waste a good fire and we can all have it for supper.”
Yes. Poor Archie!