Where's the Link?

By Cato Weisberg.

My finger hits the “send” button and instantly a world of possibilities comes into focus -- 10,000,000,000 possibilities to be exact, each a Zoom link with a unique code attached. Each with characteristics and an appearance of its own. In this possibility space there is no light, darkness, or physical matter. Only 10 billion unique possibilities floating in nothing, waiting for their population to be reduced by exactly 99.99999999%. A fate which is inevitable, this possibility space will not last forever. The space represents an absence of knowledge, a gap that can be filled with one of many possibilities. I do not care to think of all of them, but they are all there, they are all possibilities. As I browse the web waiting for my friend to respond, the possibility space flourishes, like a garden kept alive by my uncertainty. The possibilities unknowing that all but one of them will cease to exist in just a few minutes, a likely better fate than the possibilities left in the wake of other questions. For questions where an answer is never to be found the possibilities drift about endlessly, each with an ignorant yet undying hope that they are the answer. No, the possibilities I’ve created will not share this fate, as long as the meeting does occur. Approximately 12 minutes later my friend sends me the link back, unknowing that they have caused the nonexistence of 9,999,999,999 possibilities. When I read the message all but one of the possibilities are extinguished and the possibility space ceases to exist.


Recent Posts

See All


By Joy Ku, '21. Sun went missing in the sky The shadows did retreat Raindrops dripping, dripping by The rushing hoard of feet Songbirds then did take to heart To sing to their content The grumbling cl

Blue Jay

By Sarah Short, '23. To the Blue Jay that perches upon my backyard fence, you are the naïve portrait of my solitude in all of its glory. You sit so hushedly, meditating upon the verdant. Too: I wonder


By Nora Diday. We sit on thin wooden chairs facing a crucifix. The song echoing through the hall smells like loss to the four of us, reminding us of the last time we were here. She grips my hand tight


  • Black Instagram Icon
  • Black Twitter Icon

© 2019-2020 BARE Literary Arts Magazine.