I’m going to admit right now, I’m straight outta ideas for hope at the moment. I opened my computer, saw the prompt and thought Well shit.
Then as I was scrolling through my computer I found a document just labelled “classic writings”. Hmmmm. It turned out to be a file that I had hastily pasted several older writings of mine into.
So I’m going to break my rule and rather than try to produce something original on the spot (that’s the idea of challenging myself right?). I’m going to use this piece. I wrote this about nine years ago.
Sometimes I hear the ticking, loud as can be in my head. The incessant ticking. A time bomb that waits years to release its poison, but when it does it is my time. I know then, when I hear, that I must go to work. My work is dirty, faithless, but it is my work . . . it is beauty, by my definition. Yes, it is loveless, taking the souls of the few good men who are mixed with the souls of the hated. It is safe to say that he has his hands in good here, he knows what he has done and lately the ticking does not stop. I sweep away one after another, whisking them to the hidden realms. I sometimes pass War, he is at his best these days. The creation of atomic bombs and nuclear weapons have set him astride a metal cannon of a horse. Faster than lightning he descends and he does not leave until his work is utterly done . . . and mine is just beginning. Occasionally I hear Kindness and Hope crying, locked away in our masters dungeon. They are my sisters yet I feel no love or despair; I feel no emotion. Mercy is the only one left, she alone has not been caught. Everyday he draws closer to her, everyday she saves one more soul that should have been his. Her work is small, but greatly aggravating for our master.
Still I hear the ticking, the clock telling me that someone else has run out of time, that someone worse has survived. I glide in on the darkness, the deafness of those last few moments. I laugh out of fear; the fear pasted across their faces as they feel my cold breath on their skin. I give them one second, just one, to decide; then they are swept away with me. Down we go, through the realms, down to the very bottom where the underworld lies. Where one shall be judged and await the future of their soul. They will all go back, they will all be deposited once again. Only a few, a select few, stay. These are the good men, the wise men . . . the enemies. Indeed our master has his hands soaked in the blood, just the way he prefers it. I rest until I hear the ticking, but these days it is constant. Yes, indeed, the ticking never stops.