Feb. 10 - written by Christopher Rohan

Week 10

2-4-22 - Prompt: Watchman

The air was the sort of thin that only comes with the cold. Basias shifted to shake the shivers from his bones. The southern watch was stationed just outside his master’s quarters on a small balcony. Only the watchmen used it. It had no wall or parapet, just a slab of rock at the back wall of the house. It looked out and down Fairfield Bluff to the plains below, a straight drop of two hundred feet.

The sky was clear and the stars were bright. He loved the shape of them. Lifting his hood and helmet from his head he set it on the ground and looked up, the Great Boar looked back at him over the wall of the house. To the west The Runner nearly finished his race across the heavens as The Lovers danced on the western hills, it was almost midnight. Soon he’d start the rotations.

His eyes drew back to the lowlands before him. Nothing stirred. The light of the heavens illuminated the snow and ice and his trained eyes could see all the way passed the river to the edge of the forest in the dark. Not even a shadow to be seen.

He spied The Lovers once again as her graceful feet had just lept from the hill. Midnight. Basias shuffled and stretched weariness from his legs and back and made his way to the door. Gently, he moved the handle and with a clunk the door swung free in a tired creak. The dark interior welcomed him with a rush of warmth and he quickly shut and fastened bolt.

The balcony lay empty and quiet over a snow covered valley below as shadows rushed from the forest edge. 

2-7-22 - Prompt: Chile

Juan’s feet felt heavy as he trudged through thick mountain snow. His Mapuchean guide made light work of it and looked to make it to the pass before nightfall. He wondered at the thin frame of the man about fifty yards ahead. Saqui, as the elders called him, knew the mountains better than anyone else, but he must have been no more than twenty years old. Juan could never gain on him, even though Saqui had to scout ahead to find the safest path and return to assist him at the more treacherous scrambles and climbs. Juan was not an inexperienced climber, but Saqui put him to shame.

“It doesn’t matter,” Juan said aloud exasperatedly, looking to remind himself of the task at hand, “just get to the crash sight.”

It was a month ago when he recorded the anomaly from a nearby peak. A streak of light unlike any he’d seen obstructed his view of the night sky. It was there and gone in a second. Had he not been shooting video that night he would have missed it entirely. He’d followed its trajectory as best he could with the faint hope of seeing some other evidence but saw nothing at night and he began to shut down and pack up his equipment. He glanced again at the horizon in fascination and spied the faintest wisp of smoke exactly where he’d calculated the trajectory of the light.

He’d grabbed his map and quickly marked the peaks and plotted some loose coordinates and quickly made his plans. A train, a truck, and a donkey, bushwhacking and loose boulder scrambles had marked the journey behind him. He’d just have to make it through the pass and he’d be able to see some signs in the valley below of the crash, assuming his math was right.

He’d taken courage at the conversation with the Mapuche elders. They were the only other people that saw what he had, and they were just as curious to find out what it was. 

2-8-22 - Prompt: Hang

A gallows stood at the center of town as Luke rode in from the west, bleached in midday summer sun. The townsfolk had all gathered, young and old, to watch the hanging of one Russell Colins, convicted of shooting and killing the deputy the week before. An eye for an eye was the way of things here.

Luke led his horse to the hitching rail outside the hotel. Even the most travelled will tire of riding all day, and he had been riding the last three. He twisted and stretched before sliding off the saddle to the dusty road and then wrapped the reigns without a thought as he glanced back at the crowd and the grey haired man standing on the platform being fitted for the noose. He splashed a bit of water on his face and lifted his hat running a wet hand through his dusty hair and made his way back to his saddle and, grabbing his rifle, he marched to the crowd. 

A thin man heralded the last rights of the condemned as Luke made the last few steps toward the gallows. A silence fell on the crowd and the thin man at his approach.

“What business do you have here with that rifle drawn?” asked the thin man.

“I’m not known here, so I understand if you refuse,” began Luke, “but I need words with that man there before you go hangin’ him.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say that he’s condemned and we can’t afford him any rights,” the thin man said. “you see he killed a good man a week ago and the whole town saw him. It’s not right for us to let such a man go on and not pay for his crimes.”

“I understand, sir, but perhaps I might have a word with him. I can even speak with him up there, neck noosed. It should only take a moment.”

“I can afford you that, but you have to give your irons to Mr. Smith before you come up here.”

“I thank you, sir.”

Luke handed his rifle to a large man at the bottom of the stair, followed by the six on his hip. His heavy footfalls shook the dust from his boots as he climbed the steps to face his father, neck wrapped in rope.

2-9-22 - Prompt: Bathtub

Knock, knock, knock, went the rapping at the door.

“A letter just came,” said a low voice, “it’s addressed to your dad.”

Gene sat on the toilet seat wrapped in a dark green robe as water poured into the tub. It was how he finished most days at work, soaking to try to release some of the pain in his joints. He worked the first shift at the paper mill, and it had taken a while for his wife to convince him that even a rough miller like himself could enjoy a good bath. She was gone now, so it was just him and his sixteen year old stepson.

“It’s addressed to who?” Gene asked.

“Your dad, I think,” replied his stepson. “You said his name was Hershel, right? Hershel Thompson?”

“Yeah, but,” Gene began then trailed off in his own thought, “that doesn’t make sense, why would he get a letter here?”

“I don’t know,” returned the voice of his stepson, “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Oh, uh, could you slide it under the door for me?” and a second later a browned and and tattered envelope addressed in worn blue ink with two fresh stamps slid under the door and across the tiled floor.

“Thanks, Jimmy.” Gene said as he looked with a sort of shock at the letter on the floor. Slowly, he stood with a groan and took the step to where the letter lay. At first, he just looked down at it. It didn’t make any sense. The letter looked about thirty years old, but sure enough, there was his dad’s name, and the address for that very house, but Gene had only lived there for about ten years, and he’d never met the man.

2-10-22 - Prompt: Butcher

Butch’s Meat Carving and Delicatessen was established eighty years ago and currently run by the third Butch who kept the books and made the orders and scheduled the staff, his father, called Junior who kept the customer service flowing, and his second son, called Sam, while his first son, the fourth Butch, was studying at the International Culinary Institute. It was located on the corner of Main and Roberts in a little suburb whose population doubled during the butcher’s open hours. The ticket tape was replaced twice daily to keep up with demand.

Now, Sam loved his family, but he did not especially love the family business. He was a softer soul whose passions were in the the arts and who loved to tell stories. All day long he’d serve customers with his grandpa, a good and simple man, tough and demanding on his staff, but they all loved him for it. If you couldn’t handle it, you wouldn’t last long, but if you could, you were a lifer. 

Sam loved serving the customers, he was always a people person and very approachable. He’d work the register and in the few moments he’d have with each customer he’d always manage to learn about them and connect. They all knew his name, even the first-time customers knew of him. It was his love for stories that drove him. When he saw customers, he didn’t just see a consumer, or a money-making opportunity, or anything that was less than a whole life lived. He’d see beyond the outer appearance, and never assumed anything about anybody. He loved asking questions. All day, he’d hear and learn people’s stories and all night he’d dream of adventures.

One day, as he was helping a man who’d purchased only two filets and learning that he was about to ask his girlfriend to marry him, it struck him. He was tired, and all he wanted to do was write the adventures swirling around his head and filling his dreams, but he couldn’t do that on the scraps of energy he had left after work. Fear filled him at the thought of talking to his dad and grandpa.