 |
|||||||||||||
 |
|
 |
|||||||||||
 |
 |
||||||||||||
The shovel tip bit into the earth sending a shiver through his foot, up his shin and into his kneecap like a tiny cataclysm, a mini thunder clap. When the hole was dug, into it he drug the last bits of a checkered past, remains that had been carefully dissected, drained of blood in an old dirty bath tub and arranged to economically take up the least bit of space. He unceremoniously buried it this way, without last rites, somber words or eulogy. When he was done he unzipped his pants and consecrated the mound with his piss for his past amounted to nothing more than this, at least to him; those he’d wronged would likely see fit to think differently, making no distinction between his new self and the shell he’d given to the loam. They’d never see that it was for them that he did now what he did, never realize that as he tamped down the freshly wetted soil it was like placing a lid on a jar of flies to let them slowly suffocate, and the flies; the iniquity he’d excised from himself. Regardless, he still walked off into the world wearing the new apparel of an empty slate, ready to be written again, ready to write himself, ready to prove that the grave was not yet his fate Post a comment in response: |
| © 2002-2008. Blurty Journal. All rights reserved. |