Thursday September 13th, 2012

The exercise:

Write about: the brute.

Harvested for a small bakery order this morning before delivering it in the afternoon and running some errands in town. Tomorrow we prepare for the farmers market; I suppose, at some point, we should figure out what we're bringing.

My neck has been bothering me all day. It's like I slept on it in an awkward position last night or something.

Mine:

"He grows hungry."

The words lumbered through the dungeon, leaving in their wake a tremulous silence. Prisoners, who only moments earlier were screaming threats and promising intimate encounters filled with violence, retreated to the darkest corners of their cells. Even the men charged with preventing those criminals from seeing the light of day licked suddenly dry lips as their hands sought the comfort of weapon handles.

Boots thudded against concrete as the speaker took the steps down from the courtyard, one at a time, in no apparent rush. As he neared the bottom of the stairs he began to rattle the loop of keys he held in his left hand, just loud enough for all of his subterranean listeners to hear.

He carried no torch to light his way, but he was in no danger of a misstep. He had come this way so many times before.

Reaching the dungeon level, he approached the nearest guard. The man stood at attention, though every ancestral instinct remaining in his blood screamed for him to flee. He was braver than most men who had held his position before him.

"The Brute grows hungry," the speaker said in an echoing whisper, proffering his keys to the guard. "Bring forth a sacrifice."