Your four lines of prose this Friday shall be about: the taskmaster.
On a (somewhat) unrelated note, that was one long week at work. I'm happy to see the weekend walking through the door as I type this.
His footsteps in the hall resounded like the drumbeats that galley slaves used to row ancient ships to - maybe that's what he did in a previous life. Beat massive drums to make convicts and prisoners of war propel his master's ship faster and faster until they died of exhaustion.
It wouldn't have surprised me if that was the truth of it.
I began typing away at my keyboard again as he neared my cubicle, the heavy iron chains attaching my wrists to my desk rattling in time with each keystroke.