Wednesday October 12th, 2011

The exercise:

Write about: digging.

We had a quick but profitable pick this morning for the restaurant before sorting out our squash in the afternoon. I'll have to get some pictures of the haul tomorrow - it's quite impressive, if I may say so.

Mine:

I watch Dad though the kitchen window as he works. The shovel in his hands is as worn and tired as his body, but still the pile of dirt grows steadily higher. Soon he will be knee-deep in to the earth and still be no closer to what he's really digging for.

But who am I to say that? Maybe he will be. Maybe this hole will accomplish what the five before it could not.

I could go out there and help him but that would defeat the purpose. At least I think it would. This assumes, of course, that I understand what's going on in my backyard. I would not be shocked to learn otherwise.

I pick up the phone, begin to dial Mom's number, then hang up. Instead I grab a couple of beers out of the fridge and head for the back door.

I leave my other shovel to collect dust in the garage.

6 Comments:

Greg said...

That's a curious little vignette. I've read it three times now, and I still can't choose between the possible options for what's going on! I like the mystery though, it makes the story.
The squash haul definitely sounds worth a picture!

Digging
"Digging," said Charles Asciugimetno, Head of Building Security, "has been found in the kudzu sector."
"Is kudzu a colour or a type of deer?" whispered a new recruit to one of the longer-serving security staff.
"I suspect that someone was digging a tunnel," continued Charles, as he walked along the rows of attentive security officers, his ears twitching for more whispering so he could locate the culprit. "An escape tunnel."
"There is no escape!" whispered the new recruit, thinking herself clever.
"You are absolutely right," purred Charles in her ear, stood behind her. She stiffened so much that for a few moments she received short-wave radio on her fillings, and a faintly haunting strand of music seemed to come from her head.
"Digging," continued Charles, his voice like death by chocolate, "is what you shall be doing for the next three weeks. I want that tunnel excavated properly."

world of experience said...

Objects were flying out everywhere, being tossed unceremoniously like unappetizing salad greens. "It must be here somewhere!" she exclaimed, as she dug further and deeper into the archive box she dragged down from the attic.
It was the first anniversary of her Mother's death. She remembered the cameo brooch given to her by her sisters, the last remnant of her Mother's jewelry collection. It was worth little in material terms but worth much in her heart. She hadn't had the heart to wear it yet, let alone give it the pride of place it deserved, but today, on the anniversary of the death, it was worth digging for.
"Found it!" she said, breathing a sigh of relief. She pinned it to her chest, wiping away the tears that welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over into an avalanche onto her
cheeks. Mother might have had Alzemiers and not remembered her youngest daughter, but she would always remember her mother when she wore the cameo. It had been worth digging for this treasure.

Marc said...

Greg - when I originally wrote the final line I paused, trying to decide how I wanted to end it. Then it occurred to me that I could just stop there, so I did :P

"She stiffened so much that for a few moments she received short-wave radio on her fillings, and a faintly haunting strand of music seemed to come from her head."

Man, I love that :D

World of Exp. - that's a great take on the prompt! You managed to pack a lot of meaning and emotion into a fairly small space, without it being overwhelming.

Very nicely done :)

world of experience said...

Cheers Marc, younger inspiring me. I luv this snapshot concept of writing!

Drake Davenport said...

You may very well despise me after this, and I do apologize. I've been so busy. But I still wanna catch up on some writing. So here I go.

(Was Dad digging for China, by chance?)

---
Scoop. Throw. Scoop. Throw. Scoop. Slip. Fall. Yelling. More yelling. Get up. Scoop. Throw.

Jonathan felt like he had been digging for hours. He was exhausted. It felt as though someone had replaced his muscles with lead, and his blood with mercury. He felt like he could just curl up and die.

Which was pretty convenient, considering that's what he had to do pretty soon, anyway. All this went threw his head as he hefted himself out of the mud and picked up his shovel.

"Back to work!" the man above him yelled, pointing his gun at him threateningly.

Jonathan had heard of digging your own grave, but he never thought he would have to literally do it one day.

Marc said...

Drake - despise? Hardly. Happy to see you back and enjoying your contributions is more like it.

That's a really excellent second paragraph - loved the descriptions.