Prometheus’s Inheritance

Alex Carrigan

I forgot when I was first chained to this rock. For the longest time, I just assumed that my back was wide, rough, and gray. I assumed I was born with such heaviness that my legs would atrophy and I would remain here until the rest of me would erode away. I assumed I would become a feast for a wayward vulture or for something to emerge from beyond my view of the sky. No one came to partake my flesh, and I assumed it was because they didn’t want to break their teeth upon my granite bones. I assumed the chains were heirloom jewelry passed on from mountains before me, before they crumbled and formed new piles of stones like me. I just assumed that I was always meant to lay here and wait until a nomad’s foot knocked me out of place and pushed me down the path or into the gorge. But travelers picked other paths up and down the mountain, so I was left here chained, stiffened, and inert, waiting for someone to show me that I could carry my rock out of here if I allowed myself to be overturned.