Download story of the dig8/29/2023 ![]() ![]() I grip the tool’s paint-chipped ends and attack the healthy plants until they bleed. I’m not sure why, but I feel guilt weighing upon my chest like a marble statue.īefore I know it, the shovel is out of my hands it’s been replaced with a small weed cutter. Everywhere I look, I see the dried husks of long, stringy grasses and brown daisies. My backyard is filled with weeds and wildflowers that compete for sunlight and water. I head over to my rotting woodshed and grab a rusty shovel. I bite down hard, defiantly, because It doesn’t care that my stomach is empty. I choose this particular fruit because I like the way my teeth bite through its tough, red skin. My breakfast consists of a large, juicy apple. I roll out of bed and dress quickly: khaki shorts, black t-shirt, baseball hat. It attaches itself to my skull like a giant leech and feasts upon my brain, sucking my common sense dry. ![]() Not if I want my head to be clear, to belong to me once again. It seems I have no choice - none at all - but to listen to It. Yet, the Voice never changes its calm, serious tone. I try to tell It to stop, but It won’t listen.Īs each minute passes, Its pleas are more frequent. The words creep in between my waking thoughts, insisting that I dig. It speaks to me through shadows and sunbeams, reflections and dreams. The Dig - illustration by Miko - click to enlarge ![]()
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