ReaLity’S FlAw ~ II

“According to our studies, we’ve missed a major area that might lead to Atlantis,” my hands clammy and shaking as I hold my notes and stand before the council, “An area nobody has ever thought of before: underneath the seabed.”

A low murmur fluctuates through the members, hushed tones of discontent and dissatisfaction.  Without their consent, my expedition will never be anything more than paper work.  Kenji told me that it was unlikely that anybody would believe our explanation considering that the story of Atlantis had finally been cast off as a myth fifty years ago, especially due to the economy plunging in 2012.  People had simply given up on “fairy tales” and embraced reality thinking that it would do them one better.  But I could not.  In my heart, instinct demanded that I delve deeper.

It was a near-to-impossible discovery when my team uncovered a strange slab while surveying a site in Egypt.  The slab was nowhere near the tomb, but when it was unearthed, the symbols etched upon its surface were nothing like Egyptian hieroglyphics.  Back in the lab, they poured through previous research on old languages like Latin and even records of Mesopotamia; but nothing was a match.

Then, the second unexpected discovery appeared on a return excavation to the previous site.  A peculiar journal had been left in the individual’s tomb, propped between the mummified fingers.  The symbols were remarkably similar to those of the slab.  There were notations in hieroglyphs on some pages detailing the pharaoh’s belief of what Atlantis was and tales of how it came to be.  Anticipation and hope were a bubbling beaker of polishing fluid that would finish our deductions.

And now, here I stand, alone and terrified and…losing hope.  Little conversations jump from one lifeless council member to the next and furtive glances eye my isolated form.  I had projected the translations on the screen and certain passages from the journal dictating where a possible entrance to Atlantis would be.  A map on display on another screen is annotated with circles, lines and bold stars.  I roll the papers in my hand, tight, a habit I have when I had to speak in front of groups.  I feel warm and restricted.

An older member clears his throat, “What you are asking of us is a difficult expedition to grant.  The research you have done is impressive, but there is simply too much speculation left on the subject.  Our finds must be diverted elsewhere, to more relevant studies wherein we may conceive of an answer for the anthropological society.  The University of Province does not support treasure hunts, Miss Purcella.”


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