The Temple of the Hand

What follows is a piece I wrote for a flash fiction contest several years back. It didn't win, but it got good feedback and, in my biased opinion, it's worth sharing. Enjoy.

On the way to the Temple of The Hand I pass a filthy beggar on the street.

“Could you help me get some food,” he asks through rotting yellow teeth.

“The Hand helps the deserving,” I say and keep walking, trying to hide my revulsion.

My stomach is growling and I cannot sate my hunger with empathy for the downtrodden. The Hand blesses the competitive, not the empathetic.

The Temple welcomes me with an ablution of bright light, cleansing the beggar from my mind. I wander the aisles, selecting my divine favors. Eggs and bread for the body, a bottle of wine to provide my soul some small comfort in a harsh world.

I approach the priest and hold out my plastic talisman to transmit my offering.

“Insufficient blessing,” the priest intones.

I put back the wine and soon storm out of the Temple with just the bread and eggs.

Then I see the beggar again. I sit down, still masking my discomfort at his appearance, and offer some bread. He accepts it without comment.

“I’m sorry for what I said. I’ve worshiped eight hours every day for the last twenty years,” I tell him. “But the priest says I’m not blessed enough for wine.”

“I worshiped for thirty years,” he replies. “Then a priest told me The Hand no longer valued my worship. I’ve been living on the scraps of the blessed ever since.”

“But The Hand is supposed to be fair,” I say.

“The Hand is fair,” he says, “according to The Hand. And The Hand would know, right?”

“I guess that’s true,” I say. “The Hand would know.”

Thumbnail image: "Tian Tan Buddha VI" by andryn2006, with modifications by PickleGlitch, is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.