When the town was founded, the fish schooled thick enough to walk on. Stick a pole in the water, and it would stand up as if sunk in sand. We barely needed boats.
The fish were a gift, the traditions told us. We must be worthy of it.
We laughed at the idea. What would fish care about a little cheating, a little theft, a little blood spilled on land they never touched until they died, drowning in air?
Then the fish were gone. Nobody knew where.
We had no other industry.
We thought we knew sin. We were wrong.
The Paradox Of Tarleton’s Pebble
16 hours ago