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When he sat down at the computer on that beautiful June morning he had every intention of getting straight to writing. Writing is how he began his Saturday mornings each and every weekend. During the week it was difficult for him to find the time for anything that was just for him. But each Saturday he made sure he set aside some time for himself, to do one of the few things that brought him peace. Write.

Unfortunately, when he awakened his computer from its feigned dormancy he found his work email open, having been left so the previous day. Normally he was quite careful to close his work email on his home computer. He had always tried to establish firm boundaries between what time was “theirs” and what time was his own. But, alas, he had allowed that boundary to be crossed by his own carelessness and now his thoughts were filling with the hobgoblins created by the mounting laundry list of maybes and what ifs and never wills that naturally and self-destructively blossom within him to worry his mind, fray his nerves, and sour an otherwise beautiful June morning.

It occurred to him that all official emails have a passive-aggressive tone specifically designed to instill discomfort in the recipient. They all are making a demand, regardless of how nicely worded. That demand is never presented as an option but as a condition of your maintaining your standing with, and thus your usefulness to those who wrote and/or might be CCd or BCCd to the communication.

Within his mind, the image of the Stygian Witches sparks to life. Those fearsomely powerful figures, together sharing their single eye, this electric screen, and the single email to which they all expect a response. Through that magical lens, they will weigh the value of his past and the utility of his present versus the potential of his future. 

He clicks “Reply All” and his fingers twitch above the keys of his keyboard. Like Perseus he must find a delicate way to acquire that which he seeks and escape their exigencies. His hand flexes above the mouse and he places it gently down upon it as if taking up a sword against the forces that would seek to claim him. He knows that whatever victory might be won here will be short-lived. But, the weekend is only forty-eight hours long and surely he can find a way to sate their hunger for that small amount of time.

He needed bait, something on which they could chew. Something which would not be seen as a willful avoidance of their request, and at the same time provide them an excuse not to demand further. What could it be? His mind danced through the landscape of obstacles that stood between him and peace. That was all he wanted, peace.

Each turn of his mind led him to a dead end. There is a danger to this kind of exchange. If he is not careful he will create greater torments for himself and be forced to traverse even more perilous terrain. His fingers danced over the keys. 

“Good morning.” He typed. 

That was safe enough. He left it with a period. All who knew him would see that for what it was. To those he respected and who returned that respect he would always end that greeting with an enthusiastic exclamation point, subtlety at its most transparent.

After “Good Morning” he laid out several ill-conceived routes to safety, typing strings of text and promptly deleting them. These would never do. He stopped again and weighed his options. So many paths to take, so many traps along each one. He wanted a shorter path knowing that at least some of his adversaries would also prefer and might even appreciate brevity. After all, the request was only urgent to one of them. The other names were attached as a show of force, providing just the right level of danger if he should not meet the challenge.

“Regarding your request for a schedule of future projects,” He began. 

“I am currently in the process of collecting the necessary data to address your concerns.” Also safe, one of their overarching demands is that his decisions be grounded in data. And true, he had been in the process of doing just that as a matter of practice. He carefully moved forward along the path they’d set before him. He noted the traps arrayed strategically to ensnare him.

“That collection will be completed on Tuesday.” He continued.

“Nice,” He thought to himself. “That is the accurate truth.” It did not behoove him to create an elaborate lie and be caught in a snare of his own design.

“Once analyzed,” His reply continued. “We will determine the best course of action based on our findings.”

He sat back in his chair, reading and rereading the brief response. Did it contain everything it needed?

Salutation? Check.

Response to a direct request? Check.

Timeline for completion? Check.

Polite closing? Not yet.

Chewing on all the ways he usually closed his communications he decided to keep it simple.

“Thank you,” He began. He found that one of the simplest ways to mollify the demands of others was to thank them for making them.

“Have a great weekend!” He tapped the exclamation point enthusiastically. He truly did hope they had a great weekend. He deserved one. They likely deserved one too. After all, there was likely someone doing to them what they were doing to him.

Every word was the truth. There was not a single misrepresentation in the entire communication and hopefully not a single point to be argued. Not that he could anticipate at any rate. If they intended to cause pain and suffering they would find a way. But, at the earliest, he could not see that being achieved before Wednesday. That would provide him with plenty of time, three days, to hurdle the obstacles placed in his path to peace for next weekend.

With deliberate precision, he guided the mouse to “Send” and clicked.

As with Perseus making his escape, the Stygian Witches would grasp at his intentions, trying to find fault with the response, weighing it for appropriateness. Could there be repercussions? Of course. But that was a concern for the future. He had escaped for the moment. He desperately needed that moment, that moment of peace.

Switching windows, he created a new document. Thumbing the screen of his phone into life he scrolled through this week’s prompts. He weighed each in turn and settled on:

Set your story over the course of a few minutes; no flashbacks, no flashforwards

He began to type,

“When he sat down at the computer on that beautiful June morning he had every intention of getting straight to writing. Writing is how he began his Saturday mornings each and every weekend. During the week it was difficult for him to find the time for anything that was just for him. But each Saturday he made sure he set aside some time for himself, to do one of the few things that brought him peace. Write.”