As a general rule sleep was hard to come by on Death Row, but the prisoner known as Albert Spangler* was managing it. He sat slumped against the cell wall, hand grasping a worn sliver of pot-metal which vaguely resembled a spoon. A little pile of debris on the floor beside him seemed to have dropped from the mortar around a particularly large block in the wall, and a keen observer would notice a glint of metal filings mixed in with the stone dust.
The Tanty guards were keen observers, and had followed Spangler's efforts with great interest. They weren't worried about escape- every prisoner tried something, and as far as the attempts went this one was quiet and wouldn't be too difficult to repair. Besides, they had already set a new stone directly behind the one Spangler was so industriously freeing. The question now was whether or not he would finish before the hanging.
The prison was constantly bathed in semi-darkness, but there was a suggestion of dawn approaching. A lone guard passed the cell, noting the night's progress approvingly. He had money riding on the completion of the hole, and hoped Spangler would tidy up before daylight. It would be a pity to have to find him out. His footsteps faded away as he rounded the corner.
A breeze blew up, tipping off the summit of the pile of dust and ruffling Spangler's overgrown haircut. He flinched and sat bolt upright, looking around wildly**. Seeing only the empty cell, he relaxed and turned to observe the night's handiwork. He didn't remember falling asleep, but it was lucky he'd woken up before the guards saw the dust. It was quite a pile. A week more of this, maybe less, and he was free! He bent to sweep up the debris, and paused. The wind was getting very strong-almost approaching a roar. Wind of any kind was rare in the heart of the Tanty, and he'd certainly never felt anything this powerful.
He turned around and had to clap his hand to his mouth to prevent a shout. There was a shape in the middle of the cell. Big, rectangular, and solidifying every second. Spangler pressed himself against the cell wall. It was some sort of blue booth, tall enough to scrape against the cell roof. Lettering across the top-POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX- and little frosted windows cast beams of light which cut through the dust-filled gloom. Spangler stared. It was magic, obviously, but why? Who?
The wind stopped. Slowly, with an impressive sense for the dramatic, a door in the side facing Spangler swung open. Light spilled out, framing him against the wall.
This was too much. There was an entire room-
"What are you waiting for? Get a move on!" A hand darted out of the doorway, grabbed a surprised Spangler by the collar, and hoisted him through.
* At least, to the justice system. To various individuals across the Plains he was known by many names. Generally they gained a common suffix of 'that thieving bastard' once he was a disappearing dust cloud on the horizon.
**Years on the road had given him certain reflexes. If you didn't wake up and wake up fast at the first sign of a disturbance, it would be too late to evade the angry mob.
Just the beginning, sorry it's short. More to follow soon. Comments and especially constructive criticism much appreciated: I've never tried writing Pratchett before and, well, you be the judge.
