Photo credit: Cheryl
Hala climbed over the bannister, pretending to clean, fixated on the forbidden artifact.
Closer, she dropped all pretense and stared. The silvery sphere floated above the pedestal. Its surface seemed to reflect a thousand candles, yet none of the temple’s colors.
She’d built a hole in her heart for it — its shape, its colors. The urge to understand its texture tortured her.
Resistance gone, she reached, hesitant, then full on, palm down, fingers splayed.
An indescribable tingle saturated her skin.
Hala woke prone, clerics yelling and pointing to her blackened, useless arm.
She smiled, to know what they never would.
Word count: 100. This is my first submission to Moral Mondays — this week’s prompt is “Look, don’t touch.”