Steve kicked the shovel into the hard, frosted ground and began turning aside loads of soil. The grave would be shallow, but still hard work for the night. Sometimes, Steve wondered if it was really worth it.
He reached into his pocket again to feel the cold black steel in his grip. He fingered the barrel and moved his hand down to the stiff trigger. He pulled the handgun out and slowly moved it from hand to hand. Steve was startled when the gun came to rest in his firm grip, prepared to be fired. Slowly, he pulled the trigger, aiming at the brittle ground. Dry fire. He had fired every round on the clip. Again surprised, he unsteadily returned the gun to rest in its warm home of his jacket, and returned to kicking the spade.
The shovel lost its mark with one of the blows to its head and went skittering across the dirt. Steve sighed and looked down to see what had caused the problem. Stooping down, he found a rock the size of his fist firmly planted among the hard clots of dirt he had broken from the ground. After brushing off some dirt, he picked up the cold mineral and tossed it aside. The rock scampered across the grave and landed in a low spot in the ground. It's halt was sudden, biting, deliberate. If for no other reason than the rock, Steve conceded to dig in a new spot, nearer the rock's new lying-place. Steve got up from his place on the frozen ground and picked up the shovel by its tearing head. He continued for some time, digging, throwing, turning.
Repeatedly, Steve questioned his own motives. Recurrently, he remembered his sterile actions. And again. Again he wondered, 'Was it really worth it?' The questions wouldn't stop coming. Like a repeating movie, the shots of his actions were replaying in his mind over and over. And over and over he fought about why he had done what he had done.
Before too long, Steve looked around himself, and noticed that the hole he was digging was engulfing him. He tried to stop, but his own arms wouldn't stop the the pounding motion of the shovel to the ground. His foot just kept striking the blade deeper into the ground. His consciousness was wanting to stop the digging, but underneath his own weights, his foot kept falling, his arms kept attacking. Steve looked away from his body and saw the sinking floors accelerating. The walls were rising higher as the dirt accumulated above him. Still, stopping was impossible.
~ Dustin Keate 1.24.04
He reached into his pocket again to feel the cold black steel in his grip. He fingered the barrel and moved his hand down to the stiff trigger. He pulled the handgun out and slowly moved it from hand to hand. Steve was startled when the gun came to rest in his firm grip, prepared to be fired. Slowly, he pulled the trigger, aiming at the brittle ground. Dry fire. He had fired every round on the clip. Again surprised, he unsteadily returned the gun to rest in its warm home of his jacket, and returned to kicking the spade.
The shovel lost its mark with one of the blows to its head and went skittering across the dirt. Steve sighed and looked down to see what had caused the problem. Stooping down, he found a rock the size of his fist firmly planted among the hard clots of dirt he had broken from the ground. After brushing off some dirt, he picked up the cold mineral and tossed it aside. The rock scampered across the grave and landed in a low spot in the ground. It's halt was sudden, biting, deliberate. If for no other reason than the rock, Steve conceded to dig in a new spot, nearer the rock's new lying-place. Steve got up from his place on the frozen ground and picked up the shovel by its tearing head. He continued for some time, digging, throwing, turning.
Repeatedly, Steve questioned his own motives. Recurrently, he remembered his sterile actions. And again. Again he wondered, 'Was it really worth it?' The questions wouldn't stop coming. Like a repeating movie, the shots of his actions were replaying in his mind over and over. And over and over he fought about why he had done what he had done.
Before too long, Steve looked around himself, and noticed that the hole he was digging was engulfing him. He tried to stop, but his own arms wouldn't stop the the pounding motion of the shovel to the ground. His foot just kept striking the blade deeper into the ground. His consciousness was wanting to stop the digging, but underneath his own weights, his foot kept falling, his arms kept attacking. Steve looked away from his body and saw the sinking floors accelerating. The walls were rising higher as the dirt accumulated above him. Still, stopping was impossible.
~ Dustin Keate 1.24.04
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