Battered Bones, the plight of a celestial desk worker

Past the grit and grime that clogged the ears of the Keeper of Time, the plea of Bruce broke though "My wish is to undo every wish that has ever been made!".

^{photo by Nita on pixabay}


No one likes turning five million and one. This is well evidenced by the show some women put on to celebrate their five millionth birthday for centuries. Bruce just didn't like to think he was in the "second half" of his life. What had he really achieved anyhow?

He was considered young in his department, the illustrious division of occurrence, but only because the desks there otherwise housed old timers. Some of these guys had been there at the beginning of every paradigm shift that built the current reality. Bruce refused to end his career here, as they certainly would. Bless them.

He had never fallen in love or taken any risks. He dutifully worked overtime, allowed his vacation days to pile up. He really liked a girl once, Rebecca. That too was swept away in the steady course of duty. A man is only as good as his word, but perhaps that is not enough to qualify a good existence. His life was as dry as the grating bones in his arthritic wrists, which ached from eons of paperwork typed and filed. Endlessly, he had trudged on.



It began almost as an itch, the fingers of annoyance against his skin like dozens of stray hairs. Once again some shmuck had successfully summoned enough mana to make a wish- a shooting star or broken wishbone carrying the whim into existence. Luckily, humans largely forgot they were magic long ago.

Still, every now and then a wish broke through. Except these new humans were greedy. Where a wish used to be for a mild winter, or a babe delivered safely, now the wishes were extravagant. This one threw Bruce right off kilter, sending thoughts that had long clogged his mindset into fateful motion.

A twitch in his temple offset his ability to stay calm at all, as he tried to focus on how to file this new monstrosity. Suddenly feeling far too hot, he fled the office in a wave of agitation, kicking a garbage can that was within the walkway. He was completely unaware of the looks of shock from his coworkers, who had never seen him be anything less than pleasant.



Bruce really tried to let it go. Isn't this how it had always been? The blunders of mankind were his bread and butter, why had they begun to fill him with rage? It was after all his sacred duty as a celestial to manage the affairs of the stinking miscreants. He was here to help.

But what of the duty of man? Man who had once asked for divine intervention to survive, now playing in its power for fun. Maybe Bruce had never been in love because this wasn't a universe to be in love in. The structure that formed reality was corrupted by the debased wishes of humankind.

^{Photo by KELLEPICS on pixabay}
Once the first rock fell from the precarious stack of Bruce's qualms, an unstoppable landslide was triggered. He had been there as these creatures changed, watched them turn from the path that was gifted to them. Somewhere in all their wishes, that original construction was lost.

Maybe, just maybe, it could all be right again. It dawned on Bruce that in millennia of filing, sorting, and qualifying the occurrences of humans, he had never considered using this knowledge for himself. Bruce did not find man to be instinctually good, instead finding value in the duty his own morals demanded, time had slipped by.

No more, Bruce had made his decision. He would use his experience to file his own request for once. He donned his best suit, a lovely blue herringbone weave that brought out the best in his eyes. As he opened his front door, Bruce looked down at the the bags he carried, stuffed with mana tokens. A lifetime of frugal savings accumulated in the endless march of duty would now break him free of it. The time had come to wipe the slate clean.



This is my submission for the weekly fiction writing prompt from The Ink Well community #82- wishbone, wish, bone. I hope my hook drew you in! Thanks for reading :)