#yeahwrite

Sisphye

Today is the first day, and today he approaches the rock for the first time, with hand still soft from years of royalty. His last trick has not panned out, but he still looks for an escape on his first trip up the hill. It takes him a whole day, or nearabouts as he can tell, to get up the hill and for the rock to begin its first decent. He stares in disbelief as it falls, still not understanding what he had been cursed to.

Today is the 30th day, if his tally on the side of a tree at the base of the hill is anything to go by. It is hard to tell without a day cycle, or other worldly constructs, but those who watch over him occasionally change, so they are as close to a day marker as he may reach. He spits at eat one as they arrive, offended by the slight of being lower than them. His rage burns in his eyes, would melt the rock in front of him with its force, if only he were granted such powers on his descent. At the summit, as the rock rolls from him again, he screams, the anger so great that it must escape.

Today is the 900th day. It has been 2 years and 170 days. He does not know that. He does know morning though, as the time where he strikes a deal with his guard. 

“If I reach the summit twice today, you must loosen my chains”.

And for a while, it works. His chains have grown looser for the past year, so near unattached that today he will give one great pull, and they will snap away from his wrists. Sadly for him, the guards have a boss who is not so easily tricked. He is rebound, just as sure as the first time, with new guards who are commanded to not make deals. One does not make deals with cursed men.

Today is the 27,000th day. It has been 73 years, yet he has not changed. His skin is still as soft as the day he died, his joints just as pained. Every single trip hurts just as much as the previous, as will every future trip for the rest of eternity. The guards have changed, as spirits have paid their debts, but the new ones follow the same rules as those before. For the 100th day in a row, he weeps as he descends from the mountain top, the rock resting below him after its much shorter trip. He weeps for the life he lost. He weeps for his own twisted fate. He weeps for the cold feeling in his bones, the feeling that wraps him in its embrace at the bottom of every trip, leaving in its wake no emotion, and no rest.

Today is the 810,010th day. It has been over 2 millennia since he began his first trip, and he has learned some tricks. He knows that pushing with his back to the rock provides different pain than pushing with his arms. He can see all of the rivers from the top, his favorite glowing with the fires burning on its surface. He knows that the guards have food that can be won, food that doesn’t turn to ash when it touches his mouth, and wine that doesn’t disappear as it passes his lips. He knows that his work begins again when he reaches the bottom of the hill, but there is no reason to take his time. He has seen all the sights before, no matter how pretty they are. 

Today when he gets to the top of the hill, he takes the last step needed to reach the summit. The Underworld is vast, and from such a height, the different sections fit together in a beautiful tapestry of lives just as insignificant as his own. A small smile rests on his worn face, the same smile he has had for the past century. He smiles, because he knows himself, and he knows his life, and knows his fate.

“Il faut imaginer Sisyphe heureux.” - Albert Camus, Le Mythe de Sisyphe, 1942

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Just barely made it! Alright, this one went a little longer than the last one. It ended up at 1,183 words in about 2 ½ hours. ***WARNING*** This sketch contains strong language and implied violence. Thoughts and the prompt I used will be at the bottom, and feedback is welcome as always. Enjoy!

Twelve souls.

The man in the black hat ambled down the entryway of the Logan Correctional Facility, blood-stained glass crunching under his Oxfords. He hummed tunelessly to himself as he walked, his eyes focusing beyond the dull grey brick of the hallway into the facility beyond, flicking back and forth as he counted again.

One in the downstairs bathroom, probably in a shower stall. Two in the second-floor kitchen, one in the cafeteria.

Yesterday, this facility was home to eight hundred and fifty-seven inmates, seventy-two of those women, along with one hundred and twelve guards, twenty-two cooks, seven janitors, and one very human-looking monster.

Two in the northeast stairwell, one in a broom closet on the third floor, one in an office on the main floor–probably the warden.

“You better count ‘em twice,” said May’s voice in the back of his mind. “Count 'em twice, and then count 'em again. You can’t take any chances with this motherfucker.”

Three sitting in their cells, hiding under their cots. One in the exercise yard.

Twelve souls. Count 'em once, count 'em twice, count 'em three times. Only twelve left after the bloodbath this morning.

And the other, of course. No soul in that one, but the man in the black hat could smell it anyway, the lingering stench of corpse-rot and grave dirt. Something dead that just didn’t have the decency to lay down and quit.

He stopped walking and nodded to himself, then took off his hat with a black-gloved hand and set it on the welcome counter, careful to avoid the puddle of still-wet blood. Then, he pulled back the left side of his peacoat and lifted a set of headphones from his belt, settling them firmly over his ears. He glanced down at the Walkman on his hip–which button was it, again? The little triangle?–and pressed play. After a second of silence, distorted guitar flooded into his ears, and he couldn’t help a small smile crinkling the corners of his mouth. Music wherever you went. What a time to be alive.

Then he pulled back the right side of his coat and drew his Smith & Wesson 686. He flipped open the cylinder with a practiced flick of his wrist and slid a shell into each chamber as the music played.

We are the people who can find whatever you may need, If you got the money, honey, we got your disease.

He snapped the cylinder shut, then picked up his hat and settled it back over his silver hair, careful not to knock the headphones loose. Time to get to work.

***

“Take a seat, Charlie.”

The woman across the table ashed her cigarette into the little glass tray by her plate, flicking the end with a frail and wrinkled thumb. She raised an eyebrow from behind thick horn-rimmed glasses, and the man in the black hat sighed and took a seat.

“That’s better. Can I get you anything, Charlie? The coffee here’s God-awful, but it’s hot. Take your hat off, get comfortable.”

“I don’t really go by Charlie anymore, May,” the man said, tapping his fingers on the tabletop and glancing around the nearly-empty diner. “And I can’t stay long. I’ve got a business meeting.”

The old woman narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, the wrinkled black skin around her mouth tightening as she pursed her lips. “I’m your business meeting, dumbass. Now take off that fucking hat, and don’t make me repeat myself again.”

Charlie took off the hat. “I thought you were retired.”

“I thought so, too,” said May, waving the waitress over. “But it looks like I’ve got one more job to do.”

“You’ve got favors you could call in,” the man said, frowning. “More markers than any ten names on my books. I could have a dozen of my best wherever you want them in an hour.”

May shook her head, her thin white hair wafting around her head like a wispy cloud. “No good, Charlie. It’s got to be me.”

The man’s frown deepened. “What kind of job could–” He cut off abruptly, understanding settling in. “My God. You found him.”

“It,” May spat, glowering over her cigarette at him. “Not "him”. But yeah, I found it. Logan Correctional Facility. I don’t know what the hell it’s doing there, but I’ll never get another shot at it.“

The man nodded slowly. "Alright. What do you need from me?”

Wordlessly, the old woman slid a slip of paper across the table to him. He flipped it over, and his eyes went wide.

“Christ, May, what the hell is all this? C4, cyanide–in gallons?–”

“It’s had long enough to establish a link in there. I can’t take any chances. The inmates, the guards–I’ve got to get them all in one shot.”

The man hesitated, eyeing the list. “You’re talking about hundreds of people here.”

“Almost a thousand,” May said softly, and when he looked up at her again, she seemed even more frail than she was. “It’s not even maximum security, Charlie. Kids caught with a little dope, ladies who fought back when their boyfriend roughed them up. I can’t even tell myself I’m getting rid of some scum while I’m at it.”

She took a deep breath, lifted her cigarette to her lips, and seemed surprised to find it had gone out. She ground it out in the ashtray, then looked up at him, her eyes hard.

“It doesn’t matter. You know what this fucker can do. It has to be done.”

The man nodded slowly. “Alright. I can get you set up, but it’ll take a few days. Anything else?”

“Just one more thing. I want you on mop-up.”

The man sighed. “I don’t really do field work anymore.”

May shrugged, lighting another cigarette. “I’m calling in all my markers on this one, Charlie. Every single one. I need to be the one to hit first, and I can’t trust anyone but you to clean up after.”

“Every marker?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow. “I get to clear you off my books entirely? You’ve got a deal.”

“Don’t underestimate it, Charlie,” May said, her frown returning. “I know what you are, and I know what you can do, but don’t you think for one second that you’re a match for this thing. Get in as soon as the shooting stops, figure out how many I missed, and finish. You better count 'em twice. Count 'em twice, and then count 'em again. You can’t take any chances with this motherfucker.”

The man shot her an icy look, then stood, pocketed the list, and settled his hat back over his grey hair. “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just talk to me like I’m a damn kid, May. Consider it done. I’ll take the necessary precautions. I’ll send something nice for the funeral if you don’t make it out.”

The old woman opened her mouth as if to say more, but settled for a sigh and a wave. The man in the black hat nodded once, then turned and walked out of the little diner.

***

The random plot was generated here, and the elements for this sketch were as follows:

Main Character: A man in his 60s, who is mysterious.

Secondary Character: A woman in her 80s, who is easy-going

Setting: The story begins in a prison.

Situation: Someone is getting out of prison after 20 years.

Theme: Pride.

Character Action: The main character has to use underhanded methods to accomplish their goals.

Once again, I really don’t feel I did a great job sticking to the prompt, here. I had one more scene in mind that would have brought out the “Pride” theme more, but the sketch was already getting long. May (the woman in her 80s) came across more tough than easy-going, but I mostly like how she felt to me. I skipped “someone is getting out of prison after 20 years” almost entirely, and the only underhanded methods involved were the implied black-market dealings arranged in the diner.

There was a lot that went unexplained in this sketch. I’m actually very curious to see what elements just completely confused people in reading this, because I prefer to imply things rather than state them outright, and I’d love to know what came across here and what didn’t. 

I tried to focus a little more on unobtrusive character details in this one, since I hardly bothered with any in the last sketch. I really liked the part in the prison, but the more I think about the scene in the diner, the less coherent it seems. I was trying to get a lot of information across quickly there, and I’m not sure I did a great job.

Tomorrow’s sketch is going to be interesting, as I’ll be using the prompt from YeahWrite’s weekly writing challenge. The prompt that I’ll be working this is:

“I felt the heat on my face.”

How much of a failure I am,

Believe me, I already know.

I bully my mind into thinking like this

Every day,

Because I know no matter what I do,

I can’t change the fact that

I’m a failure.

I may have the few odd successes,

But nothing major.

Nothing to prove to everyone

That I’m worth something in this world,

That I have a purpose in this world.

I guess that’s what I’m looking for in my life,

My purpose to exist.

And if I can’t find it,

Then there’s no point in living a life

20/20 Hindsight | March – Aine

The dress I’m wearing is far too tight in all the wrong places. I’m short and broad, with very little waist. This does not do well in ladies’ high fashion these days. You would have thought that the earth colonies wouldn’t have reverted back to the clothing of the 1800’s yet here we are.

The hall has been fitted out to mirror that of an old earth period dance hall. The pale wallpaper stretches

Every day on the way to work, I walk the exact same route. I grab the subway, take it three stops, walk another 4 through the center of the city, a single speck in a dust storm. 

Every day I walk by this building with mirror finished windows. They reflect the street perfectly, and there is nearly always someone checking out their reflection, or maybe someone else’s. I’m no exception. I always glance over, smile, and move on.

Every day, my reflection turns, smiles, and moves on. 

Except when it doesn’t.

Last week when I looked at the building, she didn’t turn. Her head was down, hiding from the rain, just like mine. Half a second later she looks up.

The fear in her eyes matches mine, probably. We have the same face at least, and probably the same reaction to our reflections no longer reflecting. 

I jog off, still watching the wall, watching my reflection catch up and begin mirroring me again, even as I stop in place to try and catch her out.

“That’s a bank, nothing special about it.”

“Reflections aren’t ghosts.”

“Parallel worlds are not proven, and we have no way of connecting with them.”

No one believes me. I don’t believe me. She hasn’t done anything weird since last week, matching me exactly in every move. Any attempt at being different results in a perfect mirror, as always.

I go to libraries every day for a week. When the public library doesn’t give results, I go to the university. When that’s a bust, I take the subway all the way out of town to a bookstore that has a large collection labeled ‘Sprituality and Religion’ in the hopes of an answer. Still nothing.

So instead, I go to the source.

“What’s your name?” I write on the glass, hoping for an answer.

“Maria” I write, not knowing the letters before they are formed. 

“Why?” I write, my hand now trembling

She shrugs, and so do I, a perfect mirror as always. 

Our hands reach up and touch the glass. It’s warm, practically hot against the winter cold. Maybe she is warming it, maybe I am. 

We both turn, and walk away. As soon as I clear the building, I stumble, my body suddenly heavy. With the weight of the truth, or maybe with the weight of free will.

Every day, I walk by the mirror finished building, that reflects the street perfectly. I always glance over, smile and move on.

So does Maria.

My friend was such a friend that when we rode our bikes along Lake Michigan on very hot days we would stop, laughing and daring, then let our bikes fall in the sand and, even though we were grown-ups, run into the waves with all our clothes on.

fleeting, coming and going, arriving and departing, coming to life only to die out instantly, forever and ever stuck in a cycle to torture their mother

except for this one