She breathed in the hillside mist and the mist became myth and, as she exhaled, once-untrue stories became.
Sisyphus’s rock rolled down again. He cursed the thinkers. Each time a meaning was given to the rock – knowledge? love? – it fell.
“But it was only a myth, a story the old people told. Now sleep.” The children closed eyes. He smiled and licked his red teeth.
Jay sighed as he turned his phone off forever. Getting recognition or fame for writing competition stories in 140 characters? It was a myth.