Spectacular Short Stories: “Prometheus”
The Olympian is excited to share junior Ariadna Estebanez’s short story “Prometheus.” “This is a twist on the original Greek myth, Prometheus,” she said. “In this take, Prometheus is featured stealing back the voice of the Commonwealth, rather than the fire of the Greek Gods.”
Prometheus
The sharp prod of a spear sent Prometheus into a stumble over a rutted, worn trail—the trail a textured ribbon that meandered through a seamless tapestry of peaked mountains and an unstirred blue. A cacophony of voices, echoes of the strife that had enveloped the Commonwealth behind, accompanied Prometheus and the entourage of soldiers along the coiling trail.
He peeked over his shoulder at the glitter of the city, a crack of silver that sundered the horizon—the Commonwealth. The Commonwealth had constructed a dictatorship in which their population had been robbed of their voice, blanketing society in a deafening silence. The sliver of the population able to speak had, therefore, the power to govern.
A tame breeze curled Prometheus’s dark hair from his face, revealing the quirk of a grin.
Smug, Prometheus recalled the vial he had stolen from the Commonwealth, the blue and violet wisps that had pranced about, encased within a crystallized glass.
Their movements had, at first, been lazed, their murmurs hushed. Yet, as Prometheus escaped the Commonwealth and neared the Square, their dance had become crazed, their cries clamoring.
Prometheus lifted his head towards the sun, which lay fat on the sky’s horizon, and roared, relishing the sound of his own voice.
He had shattered the vial in the midst of the Square and had watched, mesmerized, as the tendrils had contorted towards those around.
A coil of cloud, tinted pink, had reached Prometheus. He had recoiled from its eerie, enchanted reach with a sharp inhale. Yet, the spirit had descended and settled over Prometheus, who had choked on its startling weight. And then, with a gasp, Prometheus had emitted a sound—a sound!
He gave a laugh now and tracked the tinkle of the sound in ignorance of the soldier’s clattering march.
Prometheus had stolen, and returned, their voice to the population.
Another soldier jabbed his spear into Prometheus’ back, and he flinched in recollection of the Commonwealth’s punishment—Prometheus was to be chained to a stone, atop a mountain, his immortalized liver to be eaten by an eagle.
His screams rang out across the Commonwealth, an eternal reminder to those that remained of obedience, and compliance.
…
Prometheus yanked at the shackles. Muscles contracted with tension, he ignored the resolute bite of the iron-grey manacles, the red rivulets that trickled down his olive-colored arms—similar to the smear of red that decorates a dying dusk.
A shrill call pierced the discordant silence that had enveloped Prometheus, and his steeled gaze snapped into the beaded eyes of a bird.
She cruised on a lofted breath of air, her feathers as dark as the encroaching night, her hood the iced white of powdered snow.
Her beak, a tint of yellow, parted to emit another strident cry as the eagle sailed over Prometheus’s shoulder and behind the boulder to which Prometheus lay, chained.
His breath shortened into a pant, Prometheus heaved at the chains, his frustration now interlaced with desperation as the bird wheeled around the boulder.
As her beaded glare found Prometheus’ once more, Prometheus gnashed his teeth at the bird, his stare burning in anger, his skin flamed in recognition of the futility of his attempts.
With another boasting cry, the bird leveled a wing at Prometheus and allowed the feathered tip to skim across his bare collar in a taunt.
As the bird circled the boulder a second time, Prometheus leaned his head back against the stone-cold boulder that lay beneath him in resolution. Fear gnawed at his stomach, his heart palpitated in his throat, and Prometheus felt light-headed bewilderment.
The eagle soared around the boulder, and Prometheus found his palms slick with sweat and blood, despite the brittle cold that had settled around his chained figure.
Prometheus stared into her eyes, submerged within two dark pools, as deep and frigid as the Arctic sea. Imperceptibly, he registered a belligerent, unattached amusement; a hysterical laughter that threatened to burst from his throat.
The bird cooed at Prometheus, and Prometheus lifted his chin; the amusement and laughter flitted from his reach like doves in an attempt to escape the bird’s calculating gaze.
The eagle cocked her head and, in a decisive motion, dove towards Prometheus. Her talons, the glittered black of obsidian, stretched toward him.
Prometheus heaved a splintering scream as the bird burrowed in.
…
The boulder cradled a man, its stone-grey stained red. A bundle of sinew and bones, the man lay, limp, from a pair of slate-colored manacles, the chains speckled with rusted blood.
A stern pair of brown eyes, framed with long darkened eyelashes, surveyed the scene, keenly. A defined nose, its bridge bearing a slight crook, flared; another man, roped with muscle, approached.
His tousled brown hair spilled across his forehead, and his bronzed skin flushed a healthy pink—a stark contrast to the sickled frame of the man Heracles towered over.
Heracles cleared his throat, his hands fisted with adrenaline.
The man stirred, and an uncomfortable Heracles flickered his stare between the boulder and the chains, flicking an occasional look at the man.
Then, resolved, Heracles set his shoulders back and assumed a full stance, two hands placed at his waistband. He peered down as the man lolled his head to face him.
Heracles cleared his throat, and stated, “I am Heracles, Son of Zeus.”
The collapsed frame of the man lay, unresponsive.
Heracles shifted in his stance, and continued, “I ask of you information on the Hesperidean Apples.”
At this, the man budged, and Heracles realized that the man had broken out into laughter. The man slumped forward and faced Heracles for the first time.
His hair, dark and greased, strung around his gaunt features. Darkened eyes peered at Heracles from sunken cheekbones, creased with the maniacal cackle that erupted from his frail frame.
“You ask of me,” Prometheus mocked.
Heracles’s mouth thinned. With a sharp inhale, he opened his mouth to speak.
Yet, Prometheus clanked his manacles against the stone before Heracles could mutter a word, the action sending the man into a hacking cough.
“Unless,” Prometheus rasped, “You have come to release me from my bounds, I do not have any information of interest to you.”
Heracles narrowed his eyes in consideration, studying Prometheus. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and marched from the boulder to which Prometheus lay, chained.
…
A screech fractured the silence that had descended upon a slumped Prometheus.
Prometheus whimpered and concealed his head in the crook of his elbow. He squeezed his eyes shut, and clenched his jaw; his body contorted in anticipation of the tear, the rip.
Prometheus heard the cadence of a broad pair of wings and felt the air billow around his exposed figure.
And then, a sharp whistle pierced the trepidation and concluded with a blunt thwack.
Prometheus heard a squeal and turned his head in time to see the bird plummet.
She struck the stone in an eruption of feathers, and Prometheus watched the monochrome feathers speckle the bloodied stone in disbelief.
A man crested the slope, his strapping build cloaked in the fur of a bear. A bow, fashioned of oiled wood and streaked with gilded veins hung, loosely, from his grip.
Prometheus heaved a sob, gaping as Heracles neared.
He grabbed at Prometheus’ manacles and yanked, and a liberated Prometheus staggered from the forsaken boulder in an awed stumble.
He rubbed at his raw wrists, incredulous.
And with a hysterical laugh, Prometheus gestured at Heracles and stated, “The Hesperidean Apples.”