A pane of glass hangs in the sky. The pane is cylindric in shape, wrapping around itself on a continual loop. It hovers above me while I sit on my particular patch of dirt in an unsuspecting moment. Before I’m aware, it descends, ensnaring me in its enclosure. The light catches the glass, and I glance up. Moving to examine it, I reach out to touch the obstruction. It is a smooth surface with no cracks or blemishes all the way round. Through the clear glass the world hasn’t changed, but it’s not the same either. The light refracts on the ground in a new, subtle way. The longer I look, the more my eyes adjust to this new lens of life.
The glass towers over me, at least twice my height. The top of the cylinder appears to be open, though the top is out of reach with nothing to climb. I try anyway. I jump over and over to no avail. Panic begins to press within my chest to my heart. I grit my teeth and pound the walls. I exert all my strength in an attempt to break the glass. I punch, kick and wail. The glass refuses to give. It takes. It takes my rage, my strength, my endurance. Its refusal to crack even in the slightest leaves me screaming and cursing it. My voice gives out and my strength is extinguished. I collapse to the dirt.
I don’t realize until now that I am crying. Weeping. Rivers run from my eyes, soaking into the dirt. Puddles form around me and still I have more tears to shed. Puddles turn to pools. Slowly, the pool stretches the full circumference of the glass, and the level begins to rise. Centimeter by centimeter it climbs. My feet are soon buried under salty water, and still the tears flow from my eyes. Slowly, painstakingly, the water rises higher and higher.
The water ascends past my ankles, knees, hips, and shoulders until I’m bouncing on my tiptoes with my head barely above water. When I can no longer touch the bottom, I kick my legs out and float. I drift there, looking out the top of the glass cylinder, still weeping. My tears continue to carry me up until I reach my hand out and find the top edge of the glass. Small waves of tears splash out the top as I hoist myself over the side. I slide down and collapse on the ground, finally free of my glass prison.
I sit drenched from head to toe, shivering and staring at the tear-filled cylinder. Over time the water descends. It soaks little by little into the dirt beneath. The decline of the water is subtle. The type of slow that goes unnoticed if you keep staring at it. Only when you look away for a bit and revisit it do you notice the difference.
After a time the totality of the liquid seeps into the ground and the bare, damp soil remains. The glass cylinder is just the same as before, only now I am on the other side. I look within and notice something inside the glass. Something new on the ground. A small green sprout has burst through the dirt. New life has formed. New life that will spread. More sprouts are sure to follow, each growing in turn. Eventually, the cylinder would be overflowing with luscious plant life. Maybe, like me, it too would fall over the side and start spreading to the world outside the cylinder.
For now, it would stand here, a terrarium once filled with terror that has led to new life. I look around the same view I’ve seen hundreds of times, but somehow it’s the first time. I’d never noticed the other cylinders of glass nor the people that gathered around them. They study the interior of the cylinders like children at a zoo, sharing the stories of what begot the beauty blooming inside. The interior of each cylinder is unique. The plants differ in color, shape and size. Some cylinders are full to the brim of plant life while others have young plants with hardly any growth.
Someone walks up to me and looks inside my cylinder, smiling at the single sprout within. I return the smile and put my hands to the glass. Glass that once caged me. Glass that brought me fear, rage, and anguish. I don’t know if it was worth it, to be on this side of it. But I’m here nonetheless. Staring through the glass.
Tyler Chimento is a writer with a love for literary and speculative fiction. His stories often center on the introspective and emotional journeys of his characters. Tyler is also a voracious reader, drawing inspiration from inspiring stories regardless of their genre. Originally from Austin, Texas, he lives in Northwest Arkansas with his wife and their three children.
Featured image by on Unsplash.
