Sentence 1: This boy’s power has potential, untapped by…
Sentence 2: The Spectre of Tasmania lives, the stories say, in the middle of the island, in a desolate
region surrounded by mountains.
region surrounded by mountains.
Sentence 3: So, that being said, we can therefore conclude that something belongs to someone if that
person holds it to be of high enough value.
person holds it to be of high enough value.
“I’m telling you, she’s real. She. Is. Real!” Slam. She hits the book she was holding rather hard on
the surface of my desk, Ghost stories of the Australian Outback. Hm. Perhaps she is serious; it’s not
every day that Hecate is willing to risk damaging one of her precious books, certainly not when she’s
trying to prove yet another conspiracy theory of her’s. Even still…
I sigh and look up at my colleague with weary eyes, eyes that I hope look the part.
How this woman somehow managed to become an actual, honest to God professor is beyond
me; and not just any type of professor, but a history professor? I just don’t get it.
She’s staring at me expectantly. Crap, I tuned out didn’t I?
I blink. “What was that again?” I ask. Hecate sighs, rubbing her eyes, I guess she’s tired too.
She looks up at me and calmly states what I’ve been trying not to think about,
“You can’t leave him locked away forever.”
“Who?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Your son, Prometheus. You can’t keep him away from everyone, it’s not good for him, it’s not
healthy.” Ah yes, this again. Doesn’t she realize that I have to do it? He’s too large a risk to the public.
I tell her as much.
“You’re wasting him away!” she says in apparent frustration, “that boy has potential, untapped by the
likes of you.” Her response, though predictable, still provokes anger in me.
“What the Hell do you mean ‘the likes of me?’ What, do you want him to go after your ‘Spectre of
Tasmania’ or something?” The look on her face answers my question: that’s a yes.
In all fairness, she honestly wouldn’t want to use my son for her own gain; this must be something
truly serious. I find myself concerned.
“Okay I’ll bite. Who is this ‘Spectre of Tasmania?’”
She gives a small smile, and turns to a page in her book
“she is is a very powerful ghost-like entity that lives in, well, Tasmania. The stories in this book say
that she lives in the middle of the island, in an extremely hot and desolate region surrounded by
mountains.”
“What makes you so certain that she’s real?” I ask. Hecate looks at me with an intensity in her eyes.
“Dreams,” she answers, “but not any normal dreams, I wouldn’t be freaking out so much over
that. No, I had visions, just like your son Prometheus.” She shifts uncomfortably.
“You know that we talk to each other every once in a while, right? We’ve exchanged phone
numbers and emails.”
“Of course,” I reply, “what of it?”
“Well, I had dreams about this Spectre of Tasmania, and I was thinking about emailing
Prometheus to tell him about it, but he called me before I had the chance. As it would turn out, he had
some surprisingly similar dreams, but his was more...deep,
more philosophical. I distinctly recall him talking about how people define value, saying how money is
an abstract representation of how much we value things, and that by putting a
price tag on something one says how much they value that thing; ‘ something belongs to
someone if that person holds it to be of high enough value,’ I remember him stating.”
“He got all that from a dream?” I interject.
“Apparently,” she shrugs. “I think what he was trying to put into words was how the Spectre
values her land dearly, and someone, or something, is intruding upon it.”
I nod. “Yup, sounds like Prometheus alright. Let’s go get him,” I say, putting on my jacket.
“Right,” says she, mirroring my movements. As we exit into the rainy winter day, I ponder what the
future could hold. Prometheus will know.
the surface of my desk, Ghost stories of the Australian Outback. Hm. Perhaps she is serious; it’s not
every day that Hecate is willing to risk damaging one of her precious books, certainly not when she’s
trying to prove yet another conspiracy theory of her’s. Even still…
I sigh and look up at my colleague with weary eyes, eyes that I hope look the part.
How this woman somehow managed to become an actual, honest to God professor is beyond
me; and not just any type of professor, but a history professor? I just don’t get it.
She’s staring at me expectantly. Crap, I tuned out didn’t I?
I blink. “What was that again?” I ask. Hecate sighs, rubbing her eyes, I guess she’s tired too.
She looks up at me and calmly states what I’ve been trying not to think about,
“You can’t leave him locked away forever.”
“Who?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Your son, Prometheus. You can’t keep him away from everyone, it’s not good for him, it’s not
healthy.” Ah yes, this again. Doesn’t she realize that I have to do it? He’s too large a risk to the public.
I tell her as much.
“You’re wasting him away!” she says in apparent frustration, “that boy has potential, untapped by the
likes of you.” Her response, though predictable, still provokes anger in me.
“What the Hell do you mean ‘the likes of me?’ What, do you want him to go after your ‘Spectre of
Tasmania’ or something?” The look on her face answers my question: that’s a yes.
In all fairness, she honestly wouldn’t want to use my son for her own gain; this must be something
truly serious. I find myself concerned.
“Okay I’ll bite. Who is this ‘Spectre of Tasmania?’”
She gives a small smile, and turns to a page in her book
“she is is a very powerful ghost-like entity that lives in, well, Tasmania. The stories in this book say
that she lives in the middle of the island, in an extremely hot and desolate region surrounded by
mountains.”
“What makes you so certain that she’s real?” I ask. Hecate looks at me with an intensity in her eyes.
“Dreams,” she answers, “but not any normal dreams, I wouldn’t be freaking out so much over
that. No, I had visions, just like your son Prometheus.” She shifts uncomfortably.
“You know that we talk to each other every once in a while, right? We’ve exchanged phone
numbers and emails.”
“Of course,” I reply, “what of it?”
“Well, I had dreams about this Spectre of Tasmania, and I was thinking about emailing
Prometheus to tell him about it, but he called me before I had the chance. As it would turn out, he had
some surprisingly similar dreams, but his was more...deep,
more philosophical. I distinctly recall him talking about how people define value, saying how money is
an abstract representation of how much we value things, and that by putting a
price tag on something one says how much they value that thing; ‘ something belongs to
someone if that person holds it to be of high enough value,’ I remember him stating.”
“He got all that from a dream?” I interject.
“Apparently,” she shrugs. “I think what he was trying to put into words was how the Spectre
values her land dearly, and someone, or something, is intruding upon it.”
I nod. “Yup, sounds like Prometheus alright. Let’s go get him,” I say, putting on my jacket.
“Right,” says she, mirroring my movements. As we exit into the rainy winter day, I ponder what the
future could hold. Prometheus will know.
He always knows.
Word Count: 634
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