Legs pumping, heart pounding, Irgul thrust his way up the mountain path. He raced through the stone archway into the cloying fug of the memory chamber. Donba glared, strong arms corded as he stirred the thick vat.
Irgul bent, hands on thighs, gasping for breath. “Sorry, sorry, I’m late. Give me a minute.”
“It’s a solemn responsibility keeping the tribe’s remembrances mixed. Where were you?”
Irgul winked. ”Making memories.”
His friend had to laugh. “Yes, I saw them arrive. Crimson. Nice one, lad.”
He took the handle from Donba and ladled, lest the heavy elements separate out.
Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.