Follow the Arrow

Slip of Paper

It began with a slip of paper.

The paper itself was mundane by all means, but this morning it was almost magical, flying through the air, urged by the winds of what was once called spring. It tumbled and turned and tossed its way through the suffocatingly toxic air, dodging plumes of smoke that emanated from a myriad of factories.

Then as it began to fall off the top of a building, it was picked up again by a rogue force, pushing rebelliously ahead.

Meanwhile, not 500 yards from the slip of paper, a man in a long trench coat trudged his way through the dingy streets in his familiar line of acquaintances, all headed to work. Though the recent downpour had been torrential, the man—commonly known to his colleagues as John—shuffled through the murky puddles in his black shoes, not providing them any thought—or any thought of anything at all.

In fact, no one in his line thought of anything either. The prospect of thinking had died out centuries ago. In its stead, citizens of New Blark were expected to carry out their obligations—whether it be fulfillment of appetite or attending work—without question. And for centuries, only minor occurrences interfered with the system. Some of these occurrences included the uncovering of banned novels, originating from before the Transformation when everyone thought for themselves. The reason for the Transformation exactly has been clouded for as long as anyone can remember, and frankly, everyone regarded the mystery with severe apathy, as the system worked well and equally.

However, due to the corruption of free will, almost all of nature had been adulterated and then rid of altogether. The sun and moon were blanketed over by clouds of thick regret which flooded acid rain; bodies of water were contaminated with so much chemical waste, the earth seemed to bleed red rivers; and the dirt turned into dust that fled away in the whispers of the wind, eager to flee. Albeit, it was said nature reigned still somewhere. But as addressed before, no one regarded the matter with much attention.

And John, a thirty-five year old victim of the system, who had no hand in creating it, continued walking in his work line. He had a noticeable lack of laugh lines around his mouth, and his once piercing blue eyes were clouded over by dullness. Additionally, his blond hair was smudged with some sort of dirt, which had found him down the past street or other. Had John known what would occur subsequently during that morning, he probably would have thought twice about what happened next. But again, he preferred not to think at all back then.

The aforementioned slip of paper dipped down again as the wind died with abrupt finality. The paper slid through the air with certainty as if completing a dance which had taken years to perfect. Half way through, however, it stalled only slightly before falling, yet again, until finally, it landed gently upon John's unsuspecting shoulder. Sensing the touch of the paper, he snapped his head toward the thing and took it with precise fingers as he walked. The parchment was ivory white, and a very ink-blotted arrow took up most of the space. Under the arrow, in a small scrawl were three words: Follow the arrow.

At this, John stepped swiftly out of his work line to ponder over the paper. Two of his colleagues, who had been walking behind him, glanced at John in mute surprise before filling the gap and resuming forth: a set of wind-up toys with grimly-painted faces.

John turned the paper over, expecting to see someone's name or a second set of directions, but the space was only filled with the ivory color. He glanced up, his line already too far into the distance. Then, he looked back to the paper. Follow the arrow, it read. And he must concede to the new order, he concluded. The arrow currently pointed north, and so, he marched northward.