The Long Game
Do Not Turn Left At The Crossroads
He stops ten steps short of the sign planted in front of the intersection. He reads the sign, which says in white painted letters, “Do Not Turn Left At The Crossroads”. He looks to his left and sees the road continuing on until meeting the horizon, but little else. Besides the crossroads are fields of amber grass; straight stalks are cut cleanly and uniformly to the height of his knees. He looks forward and then to the right — there is nothing to distinguish any of the paths from the other, except for a sign singling out the left path so clearly. He approaches the sign to examine its letters. He thinks it’s hand-painted — there’s a neatness to it, but something in the way the stroke lifts off the Capital T’s says to him a person wrote the sign. It’s planted firmly in the ground of the road with a wide stake. The road itself is dust and broken rock. He looks ahead, and then to the right. He rocks on his toes and looks left again. He’s hoping to see something obvious that would give him a reason not to go to his left, but nothing comes. When he turns from left back to forward he’s seeing the same straight line to infinity, and he walks forward past the crossroads.