Pentober 2016 - Day 14: Scales

Ok so, what is Pentober? Promptober? It's a writing tradition that's been around the web for a while where you write up a short story every day in October based on prompts. Some go for pen and paper, some digital; everyone has their own style. I'll be posting here, and I'll be using the prompts from https://www.topinfiction.com/p/pentober-2026 

House rules are that I vomit-write the story; no planning, just taka taka taka on the keys. I get ONE edit at the end of the draft (if I even have time, lol), then we post it. House rules also say that I get to play catch up and do multiple days separately on one day or combined if work gets wild and I can't write. Get it? Got it? Good! Here we go.

Today, I'm doing something a bit different! I already have a piece about Towers that I've been shopping around to short fiction magazines. I just completed another edit of it. Here is an excerpt.

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My journey begins every day before dawn. I get up, wash, cover myself in perfumed oils, and put on my daily garb. Today is the day of the butterfly, so I don my pink and purple spotted shift of fabric. As always, I bring a small leather pouch with all that I need for my journey.

Then, before the sun breaks over the horizon, I leave my home on the edge of town and begin the journey up and towards the mountain. It's more of a large, craggy, hill really. I scale the steep faces and, before about Noon, have crested the summit. Here, I enter the small cavern. A stone house has been built in front of the entrance. I wash again here, I leave my clothes behind to be washed by the attendants that live atop the mountain, and eat a small meal before I descend into the center chamber of the mountain. All I bring is that small leather pouch.

Deep down, about an hour walk down a carved pathway, is the den. It's where the Oracle lives. I can't really describe the oracle to you, but it reminds me of something with six limbs, green and gold scales, and eyes somewhat like a octopus. It has no discernible mouth, but it speaks to me. It shifts in shape and size often, but I always leave foggy. All I remember is the ritual, the process, the words.

I enter the Den and it bids me to sit. I sit. It erects a series of weights and measures, scales, in front of me. I untie the pouch from my waist and extract the contents contained within. It's always different objects, always sourced the same way: I find them on my journey back into town, while I prowl around at night collecting discarded and drops bits of humanity, I write down what I hear in the bars and haunts and around the wells and streets on scraps of paper before laying down to rest around midnight.

I empty the contents onto one side of the scale. The Oracle puts a series of weights, different every time, against them. Sometimes the scale balances, sometimes the weight favors the oracle, sometimes the weight favors my collection. Regardless, after, the Oracle speaks.

It says something different every time. Sometimes I can understand it, sometimes I can't. Every time, I climb back up from the Den, redress, eat, and descend down the mountain watching the sun set the entire time.

I speak the prophecy to no one, but I watch them come true every time. Sometimes they take hours, sometimes they take years, but the Oracle never fails. The others in the town think my ritual odd, perhaps queer, but they know that as long as someone has been climbing and descending on the daily, no true misfortune has befallen us. I've been doing it for years.

Today, I write this down on paper and leave it to you, dear reader, to find. Yesterday, the prophecy was clear. I was told today would be the last time I climb up the mountain. I hope you find this before the sun rises again. I don't know what happens after if you don't.