Over the years, he’s gotten pretty good at pushing up that boulder, every time a little easier until it becomes like air going up and relief when it goes back down. It’s predictable, a stroll, no longer a challenge. (not quite the torture the gods dreamed up for him) so Sisyphus takes up golf. He breaks apart that boulder into small round rocks and he uses the hill to practice his swing. Doesn’t have to worry about fetching them, because they always come right back down anyways. And there he goes, still swinging today, nothing but form on his mind. It’s now an elegant kind of torture: frustration of caring. Who knows, maybe one or many eternities later he’ll go insane. Either way, one must imagine Sisyphus in plaid shorts and a polka dot tie and an awful top your father would wear — and yes sure, happy. Maybe even happier.
Angie Kang is an artist and writer living in Providence, Rhode Island. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Narrative, Lunch Ticket, Hobart, 5×5, and others. Find more of her work at www.angiekang.net.
Flash Glass: A MONTHLY PUBLICATION OF FLASH FICTION, PROSE POETRY, & MICRO ESSAYS