Here's the short story I wrote a few weeks back. 1,000ish words.
Three steps
3/26/17
The lever rose with a weighted slowness as he took three steps forwards, his arms above his head, pushing the lever upwards. And stopped.
He took three steps back. The lever descended, smoothly, his hands arresting its fall.
No one knew its weight; it was heavy, like a fallen tree; too thick for a grown man to wrap his arms around, and two leverworkers operated it at all times.
Three steps forward. He exhaled.
No one knew what was on the other side of the wall the lever entered, its fulcrum the only break in its smooth surface. Neither wood nor stone, the wall disappeared in the sky and on either horizon.
Three steps back. The sun dropped out of sight to his right, and the lever stopped, locking in its lowest position, where it would remain until sunrise. He lowered his arms, grunting from the stiffness.
“Let’s go then,” he said to the older man in front of him. The old man’s gray hair stuck wetly to his head, and he didn’t speak as they walked back to their homes.
The morning would come soon enough.
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He took his place as a leverworker when he turned 12, his shoulders just beginning to broaden. His place was closest to the wall, where the lever fell low enough for him to reach. The older leverworker stood three steps behind him, able to reach higher as the lever rose.
He tried to ask questions when he first took his place as a lever worker, like everyone before him had done as well.
“What does the lever do?”
Three steps back. “What it has always done.”
Forward. “It goes up.”
Back. “It comes down.”
“But why do we do this?”
Three steps forward. “Because we have to.”
“How come?”
But no other questions were answered.
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He’d grown up hearing stories of the lever and the workers. Of how the sun would disappear if the lever didn’t rise. Of how the wall would fall. Of how the wars would return.
How no one knew what was on the other side of the wall.
How no one remembered where it or the lever came from, or how long ago.
How it was an honor for the homegroup to support the leverworkers. How it was an honor to work the lever.
It didn’t feel like an honor that first day, as he struggled to keep his arms above his head with each step. The worker behind him grunted louder that day from the extra effort needed to make up for his weakness.
He drank often from the cup held up to his mouth by another from his homegroup. By highest sun, he could barely eat the food held up for him, his mind numb; his arms even moreso.
He tried to lose track of the steps he’d taken, but it was always three.
At sunset, he was carried back to his home.
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Each day after became easier, but only just. He longed to look at something other than the gray wall in front of him. For a while, he’d tried to look around him during his steps, but his neck soon cramped.
Sometimes, groups of children from the homegroup school came and sang to them as they worked, matching the time of their songs to the cadence of the lever’s rise and fall. He wondered if just happened, or if the songs had been written to fit the lever’s tempo, but he knew better than to ask.
Not that he would waste his breath on talking.
He didn’t talk much anymore.
And he never asked questions.
--------------
Nine days into his 30th birth year, the leverworker behind him stumbled, and had to be helped back home at sundown.
The next morning, the older leverworker switched places with him to be closest to the wall. He could reach higher now than the older man, whose back was just beginning to bend, and whose gray hair he counted to pass the time.
That was 18 years ago.
--------------
At sunrise, the older man’s arms shook as he lifted them to their place on the underside of the lever.
Three steps forward. He watched the older man closely. He knew he supported much of the weight now, but couldn’t quite do it alone.
Three steps back. The older man shuffled his feet throughout the day, no longer strong enough to lift them from the dust.
Three steps. From the corner of his eye, he could see the sun slowly sinking. Rain began to fall.
The sun was just beginning to set when the man before him slipped on the muddy clay underfoot and went down.
The full weight of the lever hit his arms. He heard screams and calls from behind him, but didn’t dare turn his head.
Three steps forward with his eyes closed and his breath held, straining.
Three steps back; eyes open with gold and black spots now dancing in his vision, as hands pulled the old man to the side and the sun finally disappeared. The lever locked down.
He fell to his knees and allowed others he couldn’t see help him back to his home.
The older man died in the mud behind him.
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In the morning, he flexed his arms as he walked to the lever, stretching out the stiffness left over from his exertions the previous evening. The members of his homegroup lined the path, clapping as a boy with pale skin, much paler than his, joined his walk.
Somehow, the boy’s face looked scared and excited at the same time, as he took the place closest to the wall and raised his arms into position.
Three steps forward.
Three steps back. His arms twinged slightly, but he knew he’d be fine.
Three steps forward.
“What does the lever do?” the boy asked. The man smiled, twisted, before he replied, answering as he had been answered a lifetime ago.
Nine years later, his knees buckled in the fading light. The next morning, they switched places.
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Three steps back. She exhaled.
No one knew what was on the other side of the wall.
Three steps forward. The sun dropped out of sight to her left, and the lever stopped, locking in its highest position, where it would remain until sunrise.