| "Fresh Dirt" (the twenty-first ACW monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Fresh Dirt" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (DST), May 15, 2003 |
| Fresh Dirt by Becky Matthews arethronok@yahoo.com (Entry #9) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| The rosebush gleamed in the
midmorning summer sun. Its leaves, a rich waxy green, had unrolled themselves
fully to soak up the warm sunlight. Its blooms were wide and open, their petals
a deep and unblemished scarlet. That morning’s dew was just beginning to
evaporate with the onset of the day’s heat, and a few drops remained in
the clusters of petals, decorating the roses’ yellow pistils with beads of
water that shone like delicate jewels in the warm white light of the nine
o’ clock sun overhead. Andy took another picture. His shutter clicked and whined, underlying the faint sound of birdsong that floated up from the treeline down the hill. He was no gardener, but looking at this rosebush, he was impressed. He snapped another frame from a different angle, walking around the side of the bush closest to the house. He’d found with the first shots that he had to step back a little to get the entire plant into the frame of his camera - the thing was as tall as he was, if not taller, and Andy stood at six feet two inches. "Mrs. Devine," he said as he peered through the viewfinder in his camera, "What’s your secret?" The woman behind him kept quiet, her tanned hands clasped together and hanging down over the gentle swell of her stomach. She was still dressed in her housecoat, though she had been up for at least an hour. The hem of her terrycloth robe nearly dragged the dewy ground and almost hid the toes of her fuzzy pink slippers. She watched the young photographer bend and lean and walk around her rosebush, taking picture after picture of it. She tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear and shifted from foot to foot, the slick, worn soles of her slippers whispering on the short brown summer grass. Andy brought the camera down from his eye and stood back from the bush, looking at the huge, fragrant blooms and smiling. He hadn’t expected this when his editor had handed him this job - as the newest employee of the Bulton Star, he’d thought it would be something along the lines of covering the ladies’ auxiliary bake sale or the Jaycees’ car wash. Something perfectly ordinary, perfectly boring. Just like the rest of the assignments he’d been handed. "Aw, Berta," he said as he looked over the paper she handed him, "A rosebush?" Roberta Sim, a tough old Southern woman that pulled double duty as the town’s librarian and the editor of its weekly paper (fourteen pages, black and white, free to townsfolk and fifty cents to those who lived outside of Bulton but still wanted to keep up on the town’s ‘current events’) squinted up at him through the cigarette smoke curling up from the ashtray on her desk. "Andrew," she said, "I can take pictures with John’s old 35 millimeter just as handy as you can with that thing." She gestured towards Andy’s camera, which was hung around his neck like a baby in a sling. He looked down, a blush creeping up his cheeks. "Yes, ma’am." He was working at the paper over the summer between his freshman and sophomore years of journalism study at Jackson University, and he knew Berta had given him a job more because of his mom than anything else. His mother was the biology teacher at Lee High School (of which he was a recent alumni). She and Berta had grown up together. She’d asked Berta when Andy came home if there was anything he could do to help out at the paper. Berta had told her that she could probably find some odds and ends for him to do. Not that it would pay much, you understand. ‘Odds and ends’ had amounted to filing, answering the phone, taking pictures, typesetting articles, and taking dictation on Tuesdays. All things Berta could do herself. Andy didn’t have to be here. No, sir. He could be out taking orders at the Clock just like his classmates from high school, the grease from the fry pit turning his complexion into a pitted and poxy nightmare. The meaning of Berta’s comment about his camera was not lost on him for a moment. He swallowed. "Meg Devine’s rosebush has won a South Carolina Horticulture and Botanical Society blue ribbon," said Berta. "That’s news in Bulton." He nodded, resigned. "What’s Mrs. Devine like?" "Mousy. Has been for as long as I can remember. She went to school with me and your mom." "Really?" he said, feigning interest. Those grease pits were still on his mind. "Sure. She was smart, but she never had much to say. She married Jimmy Devine right out of high school. We all figured she was pregnant, but she never had a baby." Andy knew ‘we all’ consisted of Berta, his mom, and a few other friends that would come over to the house from time to time for dinner or lunch or just to talk. His "aunts" had been around for as long as he could remember. Aunt Joan, Aunt Liz, Aunt Marg. It seemed sometimes that every memory of his childhood had them somewhere in the background, sitting on the back porch drinking iced tea or playing hand after hand of rummy while the steady June rain beat down on the plastic covered windows of his mother’s kitchen. He could remember making towers out of his blocks in the living room, the television on with the volume low so he could hear the constant and somehow comforting sound of their chatter in the next room. He fiddled with the clasp on the strap of his camera, idly wondering if he should go out to the Devines’ this morning or if it could wait until after lunch. "Jimmy Devine," Berta said after a moment. Andy looked up from the camera strap, hearing a note of what he thought might be nostalgia in Berta’s voice. She was looking out the window at the post office across the street, but Andy had an idea that she was really looking into her memory. Her voice had a musing, thoughtful cast. "What about him?" he asked. "Who is he?" "Was," she corrected absently. "Who was he. He’s not around anymore." "Did he disappear or something?" "Disappeared from Bulton," she said. She was still looking out the window of her office at the dusty sidewalk that lined Main Street. "Do you think he’s…" he stopped, not wanting to speculate about the death of someone Berta may have liked. "…still around?" he finished lamely. "Lord, I hope not." "Beg pardon?" Berta sighed. "Jimmy was one of those guys who thought he was God’s gift just because he could block a tackle and run the ball." "He played football?" "Yeah, he did. And he was good. But not that good." Andy nodded. He knew the type. He suddenly hated Jimmy Devine, just on general principles. On more than one occasion he’d had a run-in with a football jock, and it had never turned in his favor. "We were all surprised when he married Meg," Berta said. "She wasn’t his type. But they did get married. We all wondered how long it would last. Of course, he pretty much ruled her from the start. They settled down at her granddad’s old place on the edge of town, you know, the old Merrick place. "Sometimes Meg would come in to Joanie’s dad’s for groceries and Joanie would see bruises on her arms. Never on her face, though. I guess he was too careful for that." "He beat on her?" "Yup. As far as we could tell, anyway. We all wondered if she would get tired of it, but it seemed like she never would. They stayed married and she stayed bruised and nobody did anything about it." "Why?" Berta raised an eyebrow at him and didn’t reply. He knew why. That wasn’t the way things were done in Bulton. "I wonder why she never left him." "I guess she loved him, Andy." He said nothing. Talking about love with Berta made him want to squirm. "Then one day she came down to the station in her old raincoat, the black one, even though it was a sunny day. We heard about it from Jack Taylor, who was dating Liz back then. Meg told him that her husband was missing and had been for a month or so." "A month! Damn, why didn’t she say something sooner?" She gave him a reproachful look. "Don’t swear, Andy." "Yes, ma’am. Sorry." "You’re excused. Meg said he would sometimes go off like that, drinking or hunting out on their land in the woods. But the longest he’d ever been gone was three weeks and she was starting to get worried. She filed a report with Jack and the police looked for him, but they never found him." "When was all this?" Berta looked at the ceiling, thinking. "How old are you, Andy? Eighteen?" "Yes ma’am. For another three weeks, anyway." He smiled. "You were about eight I think. So, nine, ten years ago. Something like that." "Why don’t I remember it?" Berta smiled. "Andy, it wasn’t really a big deal. He just never came back, that’s all. It was no big loss. Meg went back to her life in that big old house and she stopped sporting bruises and she started fooling around with rosebushes." She leaned forward and picked up her smoldering cigarette from the ashtray, took a long drag from it, and stubbed it out among the other dead butts. She looked back out the window. "Do you think she…" he swallowed. Berta looked over at him, eyebrows raised, a grin on her face. "Offed him?" He nodded. Berta laughed and shook her head. "You’ll see. She’s a mouse, Andy. A sweet, kind lady, but a mouse. He may have deserved it, but I don’t think she was responsible. He probably got too drunk and ran his truck into the Saluda. "Or maybe he finally pissed off the wrong person," she said, looking out the window. It was quiet for a minute. Andy let the silence settle, and then cleared his throat. "Can I go after lunch?" Berta rolled up to her desk and started looking through the partials she’d been sorting before he came in. "Best do it now and get it over with. After lunch we’ve got some filing to do." He sighed. "Yes, ma’am." Now he stood back and grinned at the rosebush, glad he’d come out this morning. It was too bad that the Star was printed in black and white. The pictures would never do the flowers justice. He turned to Mrs. Devine. Berta was right, he thought, about her being a mouse, though something about her struck him as odd. She had answered the door in her housecoat, and though she had been almost painfully polite to him, he still felt a little uncomfortable around her. "What’s your secret?" he asked her again. Mrs. Devine brushed a few strands of hair back from her forehead and shifted from her left foot to her right. "Nothing really," she said in a whispery voice that could barely be heard above the cries of the jays and songs of the finches in the trees down below them. Instead of looking at Andy, her eyes crawled over the rosebush. Her expression was full of almost greedy adoration, and it made Andy nervous. "I just water it a lot." "Just water?" Andy said, turning back to look at the monstrous bush. He felt a little relieved when he turned away from her. "You put anything in the water to help it grow? Fertilizer, or anything?" He was suddenly struck by the urge to make nervous chatter. Mrs. Devine didn’t reply. Andy waited for her to speak. In every moment that passed he seemed to feel the silence beating into his ears, curling up in his throat, pressing on his eyeballs. His scalp began to sweat in the growing heat of the morning. He felt his heart speed up a little. His fingers began to tingle. Berta was wrong, he thought. He remembered her words: Maybe he finally pissed off the wrong person. The sun on his the top of his head was growing much too hot. He felt a bead of sweat form at his right temple and roll down his cheek, tracing a cool tickle on his skin. He blinked and saw a negative of the rosebush etched on the insides of his eyelids, a huge white mass with blooms of green flowers. Pruning shears, he thought wildly. His fingers were frozen on the plastic housing of his camera. He tried to swallow and heard a dry click - his throat felt like it was lined with old flannel. Turn around, he told himself. His feet wouldn’t comply. It seemed as if his entire body from the waist down was locked in one position. His heart gave another hitch and began to gallop. A wave of dizziness washed over him. His eyelids fluttered. Turn around, you dumbass! he thought, and to his own surprise he did. She flinched a little at his sudden movement and moved a step back from him. Her earlier expression was gone. She looked up at him, shy and meek. A mouse, he thought as relief flooded through his body. Suddenly he felt like an idiot. "I s’pose I just planted it in the right spot," she said. After the boy had taken the last of his pictures, thanked her, and driven back towards town, after she watched his car until it disappeared over the rise of a long hill on SR 124, Meg Devine walked back around to her rosebush, situated in a pocket of yard that edged its way out of the house’s long shadow, even in the late afternoon. She squatted next to the bush and ran her hand through the peat that had grown thick and wiry underneath the plant, remembering it had been an infant, resting on top of a small, nondescript mound in her backyard. She remembered the feel of the fresh dirt under her hands as she planted it. The soil had slipped and moved around under her palms like silk, caressing her skin like the gentle lover she had never had. Now she stood and dusted her hands off on the sides of her terrycloth bathrobe. The noon sun beat down on her head and shoulders, and she unzipped the front of the robe a few inches, fanning her chest. It was hot. "Won another ribbon, Jim," she said. She smoothed her brown hands over and down the soft curve of her belly and sighed. It was a small, contented sound. She looked at her roses for few more minutes, and then headed on up to the house to make lunch - a bacon sandwich and a glass of sweet iced tea. |
| Fresh Dirt by schulia2002@yahoo.com (Entry #14) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| "What’s the dirt, Jordan?"
Caroline asked. "Fresh?" I asked. "Yup." "I haven’t heard anything fresh. Just about Chris and Clyde." I loaded the dishwasher before looking at my longtime friend. "There’s some leftover lasagna in the fridge." "Hmmmm, yummy," she said. "Anyway, Chris and Clyde’s old dirt." "Yeah," I said. "Manure." "People can be so catty." She rolled her eyes remembering the reaction a gay couple had sparked within our group. She helped herself to some lasagna." I heard something interesting about our roommate today." "Oh?" She asked me if I wanted to know the scoop as she opened the microwave. I shook my head no, and went into the living room to watch television. She followed with her dinner and a Diet Coke. "She’s our roommate." "So?" I asked. "How do you like the lasagna?" "Don’t change the subject," she said. "Don’t you wanna know what she’s doing?" "Nope." "Our little Angelica’s sleeping with our English professor." "Chomsky?" I was paying attention now. "No she’s not." "How do you know?" "'Cause that’s disgusting. Chomsky’s 100 years old." I shuddered. "Oh, he’s in his forties," she said. "Whatever," I said. "Anyway, it’s still none of our business." "Yes it is. How do you think I know?" "Don’t care," I said. The theme song for Frasier began. "Can we talk about this later?" "No." She snatched the remote. "I heard them last night when you were at the library. I was curious about whom our spoiled li’l roommate was getting funky with, so I peeked. There he was, in his li’l tightie whities!" I felt like a hundred spiders had unexpectedly fallen on me. "Still none of our business." "It’s our house," she said. "So what?" I said. "It’s not like you don’t do it here. She doesn’t spy on you." "That’s because the little sneak makes them breakfast." "She’s Greek," I said. "She loves feeding people." "What’s wrong with you?" "Nothing, as far as I know," I said. "Why? What’s the dirt on me?" She laughed, "Look, do you want that dowdy man in our home?" "Don’t care." "Oh, you never care," she said. Her red ringlets bounced as she stormed from the room. I clicked the television on for my comedy dose. Angelica came in and dropped her backpack by the door. She slumped onto the couch and said, "Go ahead. Lecture away." "Hmmmm," I said, pointing my finger at her. "Leaving out dirty dishes attracts ants." "Do we have an ant problem?" Her hazel eyes widened. "No, I’m joking, you goon," I said and she relaxed. "What’re you talking about?" "So, I guess you haven’t heard?" "Nope, I haven’t heard nothing." Her body tensed again. "I know about you and your double negatives," she said. "You should forget about becoming a teacher and try law instead." "I can’t believe you caught me," I said. "So, how’s our professor?" Flashing a gummy smile she said, "So you’ve heard. I don’t understand how people know." "You know how fresh dirt is in our group," I paused. "Isn’t he married?’ "No!" she exclaimed. "Remember his manure? His wife left him for another man." "Oh no, I don’t pay attention to manure. Smells too bad," I said, wishing for once I had paid more attention. "So do you like him?" "Yes, he’s a sweet man. You know how much I adore older men." "You do?" I asked. "Since when?" "Since always," she said. "Older men are so distinguished." "Oh," I said. Chomsky? Distinguished? With his rumpled hair and wrinkled clothes? Nutty professor is more like it. She settled onto the couch, staring into space. I tried not to think anymore about what the daydream entailed. "What’s the fresh dirt? Spill it." Caroline came in and sat on the beanbag. "How does it feel to do it with someone who has old balls?" "That’s disgusting," Angelica said. Picking up her bag, she muttered something about homework. "What’s up her butt?" Caroline glared at her as she left the room. I shrugged, because trying to speak rationally would be futile. "Let’s blackmail her," she said. "What?" "Yeah, let’s do it." "Why?" I said. "Besides everyone already knows." "Not the board of directors. He’d be fired in an instant. You know she’s loaded," she said. "I bet they’d be disappointed if they found out their darling was screwing a teacher." "I’m not gonna blackmail Angelica," I said. "She’s our roommate." "The professor then." "Professors don’t have any money," I said. "Don’t you know who his family is?" "Chomsky?" I asked. "As in Chomsky chicken." "Really?" "Yup, remember? He inherited the family fortune when his parents died in a plane crash last fall." "No," I said. "You never pay attention to important stuff. So? You wanna do it?" "No." "Oh, you always have to be a goody two shoes." "What?" "Remember when Chrissie cheated?" she asked. "I wanted to rat the brat out, but you said it was none of our business?" "Yeah," I said. "Doesn’t that make you the goody two shoes?" "You’re incorrigible!" "Ooh, big word," I said. "I need to look that up." "OK, let me make it clearer. Stubborn brat." "Hey." She stomped back to her room. Limp Bizkit blared, but I pounded until she opened the door. I put my fingers over my ears. She got the hint and turned the radio off. With a surly look she asked what I wanted. "Come on," I said. "You can’t be mad at me for not wanting to blackmail our teacher." She lingered a moment and then pulled a letter out of her nightstand drawer. She stared at it a moment and then shoved it into my hands. "Oh," I said. "You lost your scholarship." Caroline looked destroyed and hot tears gushed down her freckled face. We had talked about her plans for becoming a doctor since we were nine years old. "How can I help?" I asked. "Blackmail." "No." I shook my head. "There must be another way. We could rob a bank. How about the Dunkin’ Donuts on Central? We could get a whopping hundred or so." A tiny laugh escaped her petite body. "Don’t make me laugh." I gave her a hug and told her not to worry, everything would be OK. She smiled and said that maybe some sleep would help. I turned off her light and went into the hallway confident she would be OK. Angelica glowered at me. "What’s wrong?" I asked. "Who do you think you are?" she asked. Hands on hips, she looked me up and down. "Huh?" "Don’t even think about blackmailing Chomsky," she said. "You and your little trailer trash friend would be ruined. Do you know who my dad is?" "I forget," I said. "Only the richest man in this pathetic little city of ours." She shoved me against the wall and whispered, "Screw with me and you’re dead." Relaxing her grip, she sauntered into her room. I stared at the white wall. My heart raced. I had never seen her act that way before. With unsteady hands I pushed away from the wall. I stared at Caroline’s door. The two had always been different. Caroline’s father had abandoned them years ago. Her mother struggled with the bills. Angelica’s family had been born with money. She often joked about us working long hours; never missing an opportunity to point out that our jobs as waitresses were beneath her. A wave of resentment washed over me. I entered Caroline’s room. The light was on and she sat upright in bed. "I heard a noise," she said. "Are you OK?" "Angelica just threatened me," I said. After explaining, I sat in a daze on her bed. "We can’t let her treat us that way." Caroline shook with anger. "Well, I can see why she’s upset," I said. "Oh no you don’t." "What?" I asked. "Don’t you dare go making excuses for her." "Well, she’s our friend." "Are you naive? She is not," Caroline said. "She makes us food," I said, "Good enough friend for me." "I thought you didn’t like two-faced people?" "Who does?" "She’s called you white trash before." "I know, but that’s no reason to blackmail her boyfriend," I said. "Sometimes you worry me." I got up to leave. Caroline grabbed my arm. "Come on, you’re my blood sister. We’ve been through thick and thin together. Please do this for me." Angelica’s cold eyes flashed in my mind. Caroline’s wide eyes begged for help. Going against my better instincts, I finally gave in. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Professor Chomsky’s office smelt like moldy cheese. We came under the guise of help for an English assignment. I grabbed Caroline’s arm and whispered, "This is not a good idea, let’s go." "No," she said. "You gave your word. You never go back on your word." She knew my credo well. I sighed and followed her. Chomsky welcomed us into the room. The wooden chairs creaked as we burdened them with our weight. He took off his glasses and asked, "What can I help you ladies with?" "More like who’re you helping yourself with?" Caroline asked. Wrinkling his brow he asked, "Pardon?" "We know," I said. "Know what?" "About the affair," Caroline said. "Nonsense," he said. "I’m not having an affair with Angelica." "We didn’t say with Angelica," I said. He scanned our faces and leaned back in his swivel chair. "What do you want?" "Money," Caroline said. I looked at the floor and tried to remember why I agreed to this. Letting out a peal of laughter he said, "That’s absurd." "You’d lose your job," Caroline said. "Hmmm." He looked out the window. I wished he would open it to alleviate some of the smell. "Who do you think the board of directors are going to believe? A tenured English professor without a blemish on his record or some freshman kids?" "We’re willing to find out," Caroline said. "How do you think it’ll look? Even an accusation of impropriety can ruin a career," I said. "Let alone the publicity." He rubbed his eyes and looked at us again. "Jordan, can I speak to you privately?" "No way," Caroline said. "I’ll call security, Caroline, if you don’t leave." Caroline looked frightened. She looked at me and I nodded. The chair creaked as she left. "So, Jordan, how’s college?" "Great," I said, rubbing my damp palms together. He came around from his desk and I felt his hot bourbon breath as he stood behind me. Before I could turn he put his hands on my shoulders. "You’re here on the Robertson scholarship aren’t you?" "Why?" I began to worry. "Are you or aren’t you?" he asked. "Yes." "That’s what I thought. Don’t you need a 3.8?" I nodded. "How’re your classes? Do you have all A’s?" "What’s your point?" I asked. "Answer the question." "All but one," I said. I could feel my skin hairs rise as he inched his hands closer to my breasts. "I see. So a C would put you below a 3.8?" "I suppose," I said and tried getting up. He pushed me down hard and clamped a hand over my mouth. "A D in English would hurt, wouldn’t it?" I nodded. "Now, here’s the plan. You and I are going to have a fling or I’ll flunk you. Understand?" "Don’t be absurd," I gasped. "I’ll go to the papers. Sexual harassment is worse than having an affair." "You’re willing to risk your scholarship?" he asked. "Remember your own words? Accusations can ruin lives." "So I lose some time from school. Big deal. Your career’ll be finished." "I don’t think so." He held up a microcassette recorder. "I have the blackmail on tape." "So?" I snorted. "Blackmail’s a felony." "Tapes aren’t admissible in court." "It ruins your credibility," he said. "No one will care," I said. "Your life would be ruined." "You’ll care when you spend time in prison." Prison? I caught my breath. Who would want to hire a teacher who has done hard time? No one would ever trust me. "They’d never convict me," I said. "Willing to risk it?" He relaxed his grip but I could not move. "You know what I want darling," he said. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ I staggered into our bathroom, and took a hot shower. I tried to wash the shame away, but only emerged with raw skin. I laid down on the couch to ease my nausea. Caroline burst into the room. "Guess what?" "What?" I managed to squeak. "I got my loan back! There was a mistake at the financial aid office. Now we don’t have to blackmail the creep. Isn’t that great?" she asked. "Hey, you look like crap. What’d that geek want with you? Any fresh dirt?" The world spun around me. I could not speak. Angelica came in and stood by the couch. "Are you OK?" she asked. "Sure," I mumbled. "What’s up?" Caroline asked. "I’m off the hook." "What hook?" "Chomsky. I guess I can tell you now," she said, "That old fart was blackmailing me. But it turns out he found someone else for his sick, little game." Caroline gasped and turned to me. I leaned my head over the edge of the couch and puked on Angelica’s Gucci shoes. |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Fresh Dirt by trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com |
#1 of 16 |
| 521 words | |
| If you go down Main Street in Plainville and turn right
on Maple, you'll see a big yellow house and gardens surrounded by a white
picket fence. That's where I live, me, Hattie McFarland. Oh, I've got tulips,
daffodils, gladiolas, irises, a wall of morning glories climbing the
trellisses, and a few dozen other kinds of flowers I fool with, but the
centerpiece is my rose garden. Won the blue ribbon at the county fair eight
years running. That is until Agnes Crump moved in across the street. I admit Agnes can be as sweet as gooseberry pie when we're just chatting over the fence but she does get a tad smug when it comes to her flowers or talking about her husband, who sells some newfangled typewriter. To her gardening is just a hobby, she says, but to me it's been my life since Bill, that's my husband God rest his soul, passed away nine years back. I've always had a bit of the green thumb. People would give me droopy old houseplants and I'd have 'em perked up in no time 'tall. Just takes the right sunlight, the right water, and some love - 'taint nothing to it. My roses have always been prizewinners, fourteen varieties of 'em. When Agnes Crump moved in in the spring, she put up some roses and nothing else. Claimed she didn't have time for no more than that. I'd see her out there every weekend watering and pruning a little but she didn't pay them no more nevermind than that. They came along and bloomed just fine, though. Me, I'm out there evey day looking after my babies. I read up on 'em in books and learned a few tricks from Elmer down at the feed store. I was sure I had another crop of dandies but Agnes's looked a smidge bigger and brighter. I don't know how she does it. I've spied on her through the drapes in my parlor window and I never seen her do anything special. The Fourth of July rolled around with all the usual hoopla as well as the county flower show. I recked I'd win again because I've known all those people for years, friendly with every cottonpickin' one of them. When the results were being announced, I patted my hair, straightened my skirt, and prepared to go up and give my little speech. Imagine my surprise when it was old Agnes Crump what was declared the winner. Folks was real nice to me, came up and said my roses was awful purty and better luck next year. I was polite and all but I still looked like a dog what's been spanked. Then Agnes comes over all smiling and I just have to ask her what her secret was, why hers turned out better than mine. She tells me it twarn't no big secret, it's just that my roses have been growing in that same garden so many years they done used up the soil. Land sakes, I never thought of that. That was the only difference, the only little advantage she had. Fresh dirt! |
|
| Fresh Dirt by blaby@parish-council.fsbusiness.co.uk |
#2 of 16 |
| 745 words | |
| The cat fled up the garden path when Derek banged the
window. Wet splashes and flecks of soap were left across the glass for me to
clean up. "Bloody cat," he shouted. "Do you see it? Digging in my seed bed." He banged the window again to make sure it wouldn’t think about coming back. "I’ll kill the little bugger when I get my hands on it." I kept my thoughts to myself and put the dinner plates under the grill to warm. We’d been through all this so many times before. I let him rant while he washed his hands in the kitchen sink. He didn’t need my input. In fact, it usually made things worse. Probably because I couldn’t get as angry as him. He picked the last grain of soil from under his fingernails. "Pass the towel." I did so. The sooner he was out from under my feet the better. I’d cooked a good Sunday dinner as usual, but it did nothing to improve Derek’s mood. As we ate he continually looked through the French windows that gave a good view down the garden from the dining room. It was a lovely garden, I’ll give him that. He was a bully indoors, but was so gentle with growing things. He could coax life and brilliance from the most reluctant of plants. Lupins and delphiniums, all raised from seed by Derek, grew tall towards the rear of the flowerbeds. A red-hot poker burst through the centre of a patch of Golden Rod as though the border was on fire and orange Montbretia and red Gladioli jostled for prominence. In the front, blue and yellow pansies, framed by soft-pink Aquilegia, danced in the breeze. A sturdy shed stood at the end of the garden. In front of it was Derek’s seedbed, where there were always rows of plantlings that had just been pricked out after being brought on in the green house. Everything green and growing was sacred to my husband. Anything furry was anathema. I love walking and would have enjoyed the company of a dog as I explored the countryside around our village. Derek wouldn’t hear of it. "Dirty things, dogs!" he preached. "Bitches ruin the lawn and dogs pee everywhere. Can’t abide dogs." The skirmishes always started in spring when Derek dug over his seedbed to make it ready for the first seedlings, once the frosts of winter had finished. By early summer, there was all out war. Derek was convinced that every cat in the neighbourhood came to our garden out of spite, specifically to shit on his seedbed. Truth be told, he was probably right. The soil was fine and rich and very soft from his ministrations and the constant addition of compost. It was just the sort of place cats love for their ablutions. The cats didn’t have everything their own way though. Derek kept a small pile of stones by the back door. He’d quite a good aim and sent many a moggie howling back to its owners. Derek died in his garden, as he would have wished if he’d ever bothered to express a preference. It was a heart attack that finished him off, caused by chasing away one cat too many. ******* I walk to the cemetery to chat to Derek quite often. It’s an attractive spot, beautifully tended and full of bird song. Many of the graves have gardens in front of the headstones. These gardens are lovingly tended and all year round, Derek is surrounded by his beloved flowers. I don’t garden Derek’s grave any more. I soon let the fresh dirt grass over, because rabbits would come and scratch holes in the soil. They dug up my freshly planted geraniums and bit the heads off my carnations. Some of the bereaved are quite incensed and install all sorts of gadgets to keep furry wildlife away. I can’t be bothered. Live and let live is my motto. Derek might be alive today if he’d been as pragmatic. I usually return home by the longer route and let my dog, Trudy, have a good run across the fields. I enjoy the calm of the countryside and my dog's undemanding love. At home the flowers don't grow as well in my clumsy care and the lawn is patchy where the pooch piddles and like Derek, Trudy hates cats, but she does a damned sight better job of keeping them away than he ever did. |
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| Fresh Dirt by Lester F. McGlurk lestermcglurk@hotmail.com |
#3 of 16 |
| 1529 words | |
| The lawn needed mowing, weeding, and trimming-all
chores that require effort. I’d just as soon take a freaking blowtorch and
burn it to stubble, order a couple yards worth of gravel and bury it all. Doing
that would certainly deter the neighborhood dogs and cats from using our front
lawn as a toilet. But despite my best efforts to feign having the Bubonic
Plague, my wife insisted I get my lazy butt outside and make our grass look
presentable before some representative from Better Homes and Gardens came by to
put a "condemned" sign in our front yard. As I blew the dust off the lawn mower and pressed the little rubber button thingy that’s supposed to prime the engine, my neighbor (a nauseating perfectionist when it comes to maintaining his own yard) peered over the fence and asked what I thought was a blatant rhetorical question: "So neighbor, planning on giving the lawn the ol’ once over to start the spring season off right?" Never having really liked the guy since I moved here, my first impulse was to come up with some extremely witty, dry, and very barbed retort, but my mouth reacted simply, "Yup!" He took it upon himself to give his usual (unwelcome) neighborly advice by saying, "After such a harsh winter, it might be a good idea if you got yourself from fresh top soil and sprinkle it over the lawn, and then do some reseeding. It really helps bring the lawn back to life." Again, the primordial part of my brain that would prompt me to leap over the fence, jump at his jugular and devour his carcass, so wanted to respond with, What’s it to ya buddy? actually took a more diplomatic turn and returned, "Well, that’s good advice. I’ll think about it." He added by counseling, "You might want to do that before you actually mow it…." He might have added to that sentence, but the first part actually had merit, "…do that before you mow…." I needed no additional excuse to procrastinate. I simply offered a curt, "Thanks," and went back into the house and informed my wife that I was going to the House & Yard store to pick up some dirt, seed, and weed killer. She was, of course, stunned that I would even contemplate going to the House & Yard store-let alone to purchase anything that would be beneficial for our yard (or house, for that matter). I realized that not only was it a really (bordering on absolutely heavenly wonderful) great way to avoid my having to mow the lawn and weed the yard for at least 4 hours or more, but it proffered me sufficient time to peruse the aisles; day dream about that brick barbecue I’ve always wanted to build, and fantasize about having that garden gazebo Jacuzzi. The House & Yard store is a cavernous place-vast and expansive. The aisles are lined up so precisely that you’d think Einstein himself engineered the floor plan. It gave one pause for thought…. I paused for a thought; what’s the problem? Keep reading. What I was thinking was how amazing it is that there can be so many different brands of essentially the same garden shovel-and that they differ so much in price. Of course, if one were to ask the helpful floor staff which of the various shovels was the best, they’ll always say the one that’s the most expensive. Then if you inquire as to what the difference between the $8.95 shovel and the $33.95 shovel-noting that both seem to have a treated, ash-wood handle, and a carbon-graphite-steel blade, they’ll obsequiously point out the craftsmanship of each one. Me being a complete ignoramus and far too obtuse to notice any significant difference between them-even after such an eloquent presentation-I am still frugal to the point of ransacking my entire house looking for a few cents of spare change to avoid having to break a dollar to cover sales tax. That being said, I would opt to purchase the cheaper shovel. But today, I wasn’t here to purchase a shovel. Truthfully, I had no intention of purchasing anything. However, I knew that if I didn’t come home with something-specifically fresh dirt-my wife would make me sleep outside in the back yard in a tent. That, in itself, wouldn’t be so bad were it not for the fact that we did not own a tent. It seemed logical that I at least procure two or three bags of fresh dirt (which was more economical than taking a trip to the sporting goods store to buy a tent) as proof that I actually did come to the House & Yard store. I find it shameful that a man of my age and overwhelming physical stature is paranoid of a woman practically 58% smaller…. But you’ve never seen my wife ticked-off…. Ever heard of the Incredible Hulk? Well, she may not spontaneously grow huge muscles that bugle out of her clothing, but her entire attitude becomes so overwhelmingly malicious, you wouldn’t want to be in the same city let alone the same room with her. Heck, if I didn’t come home with fresh dirt, she’d bury me in something far less fresh-but disgustingly dirty nonetheless. I slowly meandered over to the outdoor gardening section. In the mid-afternoon air, the aroma of that place reminded of my uncle’s barn. Apparently, they just received a new shipment of manure compost. Oh boy: fresh poop to go with the fresh dirt! I managed to locate a gangly youth who sported the telltale green apron of the House & Yard store to inquire of the differing qualities of bags of dirt. That was a huge mistake. This kid came straight from the mid-West; dirt was his specialty. He expounded on the spectrum of chemical compositions of dirt and how those chemicals were beneficial or detrimental to whatever you were trying to grow. He elaborated on dirt for lawn, dirt for flower beds, dirt for vegetable gardens, dirt for trees-deciduous and coniferous-dirt for making the best mud pies, and the kind of dirt animals like to roll around in. Despite his vast knowledge of dirt, I began nodding off very much like I used to in High School when I was uninvolved in the lecture. I got a little testy with him, and raised my voice, "It’s all dirt to me, Trevor! I just want some fresh dirt! Is that too much to ask? I don’t need the freaking history or chemistry of dirt… I just need dirt. Oh, and don’t forget; it has to be fresh-the freshest fresh dirt you have." Trevor looked like he was about to cry. "And," I persisted, "about how much fresh dirt would I need to topsoil a lawn?" "How wide and long?" he asked. I was dumbfounded. I hadn’t expected to do math. All I wanted was fresh dirt. This was proving to be far more of an effort than it would have been for me to just mow the lawn. I didn’t know; but I didn’t want Trevor to know I didn’t know, so I came up with an ambiguous size. "It’s considerably smaller than a football field, but much larger than a door mat. And it takes me slightly less than an hour to mow it-when I’m motivated to do so." I’ve seen the look of enlightenment before, but that was on a Buddhist Monk-in-training after much prayer and meditation. I did not expect to see that same gleam in the eye of a dirt specialist. But there it was. I guess growing up in the mid-West; he’d heard many indistinct descriptions of spatial relations when it came to yards. He smiled and said triumphantly, "You’ll need about 1fifteen, twenty-five-pound bags." I was shocked. "Fifteen, twenty-five-pound bags?" I said with as much disbelief as an Atheist would at a Baptist revival. "Look, Trevor, I just want to sprinkle it over the lawn, I don’t want to bury it." I tried to explain, feebly. Trevor looked like a poker player who knew he had a couple extra aces up his sleeve. The advantage was his-or so he thought. He embellished, "I realize that sir; and for a light sprinkling, you’ll need at least 6 bags. But I am going on the premise that you’ll be seeding your lawn as well, and for that you’ll need another layer of soil." He had me. Fresh dirt; fifteen, twenty-five-pound bags of it! Total cost: $148.67. And then I had to purchase the seed. Two bags, total cost: $38.23. And then I remembered the weed killer…two bottles…$15.86. Avoiding mowing the lawn for three-and-half hours cost me $202.76! Was it worth it? Well, considering that it rained for the next six straight days, I think I got my money’s worth; that is until the following Saturday when the skies were clear, I was healthy, my wife was still perturbed with the condition of our lawn, and I had no other back-up plan for further procrastination. In the fresh morning air, I stood out in my yard grumbling, and applied a liberal layer of fresh dirt to my pathetic lawn. |
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| Fresh Dirt by mrsdew4@adelphia.net |
#4 of 16 |
| 1780 words | |
| We were heading north today, through my home state of
New Hampshire, in our red Dodge Caravan. The car as always packed with sports
gear and empty containers of past fast food meals and drinks. My Mom is with us
as we head toward a lacrosse game up north. My children, Danny and Michelle,
sit in back with me as we begin the journey getting comfortable for what we
know is a long ride. As the time passes with conversation, we have gone through
towns I have never heard of before, even though I have been a long time
resident of this state. The further north we went, the colder it got naturally,
as it was still early spring, and the mornings and nights are still brisk. We
are still having snowstorms! My Mom sat up front with my husband, Dewey, – that respect gene kicking in – and though I was seated diagonally from her, we seemed to talk the whole way up even though she had to look back often which strained her neck. She was seated comfortably in her recliner style seat, drinking her extra large Diet Coke with ice from Wendy’s, as I drank my coffee in the back. No matter where my Mom went, she had to have her Diet Coke. This day’s event was my son’s lacrosse game at a private school in Conant, but where we were going really didn’t matter. My Mom would have been with us anyway to anywhere. She absolutely loved seeing the kids play in their sports, and she toughed out some brutal weather oftentimes to do so. She was truly their "number one fan." I don’t think the kids realized how fortunate it was to have a "number one fan." But I did and I was glad she was there. So once we arrived at the field, we pulled out the necessary gear for survival – the chairs, blankets, umbrellas, hats, coats, mittens, and sunscreen – yes sunscreen. It was freezing with light snow slapping you in the face as you tried to see through it. My Mom didn’t talk much during the game, perhaps she was frozen right from the start. But I chattered on like Chatty Kathy, as she just listened making a few comments from time to time about what was going on. She always had something to say about the refs though. Thinking back to those special times brings deep feelings of happiness. But also now of loss and even despair. It brings to my mind the memory of my Mom’s death, six years ago. I think of her continually every day, and though the ache of loss has lessened, the cavity in my world is not. She is no longer with us physically; the first one waiting in the car to head off to our next voyage. No extra large Diet Coke with ice, no front seat seniority, no constant conversation; she is gone. My mother was ironically not a huge part of my life as a child and teen. I think it was a generational thing of the 50’s. Kids just have such different relationships with their parents now, who are probably too involved with their kids’ lives – including myself. It was when I became a mother myself that our relationship flourished. That scenario historically plays out a lot in our culture doesn’t it? She absolutely adored my children, above all my daughter, Michelle, who was her first grandchild. And Michelle absolutely adored her Grammy, and would grow later to be a clone of my mother. They were so much alike and remarkably close. As a toddler, I can remember Michelle calling her Grammy on the phone everyday, even though my mother lived just down a set of stairs from us in the two-family home we shared. It was so adorable to watch Michelle making those all important phone calls everyday throughout the day. I have many pictures of her doing this; climbing up on the footstool to reach the phone. "Hi Grammy ….it’s Michelle." The end of her sentence sinking like Grammy should know who it is. "Where is Bapa?" Bapa was my father – a nickname given to him by Michelle who couldn’t say Grandpa. What is he doing?" "Is he watching his horse races?" "Are you and Bapa coming over for dinner today?" So many questions – every day the same. The funniest telephone conversation I saw Michelle having with her grandmother was when she was talking to my Mom on the phone while wearing her father’s cowboy boots (size 12) and his huge flannel shirt. Michelle had the phone attached to her ear, snug under her naturally curly brown hair, head tilted hard to her left shoulder. She leaned her elbow against the paneled wall in the kitchen as she filled my mother in on her morning. All two hours of it already. Michelle could absolutely do no wrong in my mother’s eyes. And vice versa. When I went to work, my Mom babysat Michelle. It was so wonderfully convenient. I would drop her off, and she would immediately say: "Hi Grammy;" hugs and kisses exchanged. Then she would race to the parlor, jump on my Dad’s lap, and take over control of the remote. I was so fortunate to have that benefit of peace of mind that my baby was safe – so safe with her grandparents. Michelle was a handful, and I would often come home and find my poor Mom pooped from chasing her around all day. As the kids, Danny and Michelle, got bigger they had so many activities they participated in – softball, lacrosse, basketball, baseball, football, field hockey. My mother wanted to go to all of them. She loved it, even through those really tough weather conditions I mentioned, being able to watch them have fun. Just being in the car with them on our way to their games would make her happy. She didn’t care where we were going, just happy that we were going. She and I got to talk during these trips as well - she was a great listener, though I noticed we never got into the heated conversations like I did with my Dad. It was like she had taken a vow not to interfere with my life, hard to explain. This routine with my Mom would continue for years even as Michelle entered high school. She was so excited about seeing Michelle go to her first semi formal. That smile never left her face. You would have thought she was going. Click, click, click – pictures for every breath taken –don’t want to miss or forget a moment. My Mom was so happy that day I wanted to cry. Suddenly, health problems developed and she began having a difficult time walking now; she was now about 55 years old. My mother was very petite – not even 5 feet tall, those short legs having to do double duty to keep up with us horses. She would not let it stop her from coming along with us, but it was harder for her. I kept trying to get her to ask her doctor, who she saw every month, but she never said a word to him. Eventually, she needed medical treatment which required surgery on her legs. You could see it had taken a toll on her, but she still kept going, and I kept waiting for her as long as it took. But, she "left" us in a way, as she became very quiet and introverted; her health problems taking more and more of a toll. I could almost see her age before my eyes. As the next few years passed, she became quieter - though still tagging along! She would now sit in the car and watch rather than brave the elements. No problem for me – I didn’t like the cold either! Diet Coke in hand, we would talk continually about Michelle and Danny tucked away in our Caravan, pretending to watch the game. Unexpectedly, I got a call one morning in September from my Dad that my Mom had suffered congestive heart failure during the early morning. Immediately I left work and headed down to their home in Lowell, Massachusetts. She was at Lowell General Hospital just minutes from where they lived. The doctors had already done an angioplasty and found she was 100% blocked in the arteries to her heart. They would have to perform emergency triple heart bypass surgery. Her doctor wanted the surgery performed at Mt. Auburn Hospital in Cambridge, Massachusetts. So, now on autopilot and in shock, my father and I set out to find the hospital with a panic in our heart that we would soon find out what we feared most. Without going through the devastating six weeks of ICU details, I will tell you that my Mom passed away on September 20th. Thankfully, my sister, brother, Dad and I were all there to say goodbye and be with her, though she had been in a drug-induced coma for weeks and was unconscious for all of those six weeks. My father completely fell apart after my Mom’s death – after all they had been married for over 40 years. He was drugged to get through the funeral services. At my Mom’s burial site, we sobbed, holding onto my Dad’s arm on each side, as the priest prayed over her grave and then threw fresh dirt onto her casket symbolizing her return to God. Funerals are ghastly events. The fresh dirt marking this as real; our journey now over. After her death, I thought I was going to lose my father at the same time – he became suicidal after losing my Mom. I had to tend to him while putting my grief on hold. I also was not there to help my kids, especially Michelle, though of course my husband was. I was trying to juggle taking care of my Dad, working and home. Needless to say, Michelle had an extremely difficult time which we didn’t truly realize at the time. She required hospitalizations for unknown illnesses which were finally later attributed to severe grief and trauma. She still has not recovered from my Mom’s death – it’s as if they were clones in life and death as a part of Michelle died with my Mom. I can only hope to continue to be here for Michelle to keep her grandmother’s memory alive in order to cope. I have kept trying to find ways for Michelle to remember her by – so she can always talk to her Grammy, in her flannel shirt, boots and all. |
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| Fresh Dirt by Mort Ginsberg mginsberg1@comcast.net |
#5 of 16 |
| 653 words | |
| It happened recently as I was digging in my garden -
loosening up the old dirt, topping it with fresh, .new dirt I’d just
bought from my local garden shop. What happened was what I’ve come to
refer to as an "FBI"or, Flash of Brilliant Insight. As I knelt over the dirt, letting it sift through my fingers as I sought out and tossed away small stones and debris, I thought of the word itself: "dirt". When I was a small child, dirt was something my mom didn’t want in the house or on me. "Go wash off all that dirt before you sit down to dinner," she’d tell me. "Be sure you throw those dirty clothes into the laundry hamper," was another thing I remember being told so many times. As I grew older, it was a sign of maturity to tell what were referred to as "dirty" jokes. A new meaning for that four-letter word. And later on in life "dirt" came to mean gossip, as in "dishing dirt". I think it’s safe to say that this simple word will be given more diverse meanings with each passing year and generation. But no matter how many meanings people give to dirt, I strongly believe its most common meaning will be the stuff that we walk on and grow things in. And, it’s in that so-important role - being something we grow things in - that I found a truth as basic as dirt itself. Dirt is also known as "Mother Earth" because it tops this world of our. Dirt is what enables seeds to germinate and sprout, giving all of us protection from the sun, wind, rain and lightening. Dirt is what enables us to sustain ourselves with the precious food which results from those seeds and sprouts. And when the old dirt blows away and we add fresh dirt, when we plant seeds and nurture them until they sprout and care for them until they bear what nature intends them to bear - flowers, fruits, vegetables - we human beings become a part of - one with - creation. Sort of an extension of G-d! I believe only those of us who garden - even only a little - can truly appreciate what wonder there is in what so many others believe is of little value. Dirt. Even the word is simple. No pretense to it. Only four letters. Quickly said, easily forgotten, unless. The unless is - well, unless you loose your thinking processes and really think on dirt. Its wonder. Its true simplicity that’s not quite so simple when you think of the vital ingredients it contains and what would happen to all of us without it. Sure, we clean it out of our homes and off of ourselves. But even more surely, we must always be aware - and wondrous - of the grandness of simple dirt - fresh dirt. Part of that FBI that came to me as my hands were filled with fresh dirt was that, no matter how many wonderful inventions man creates - no matter how much we learn - or accumulate in this world, we will never ever duplicate dirt. And as I let that fresh dirt move around and through my fingers - as I sniffed in its freshness - I was suffused with a renewed awe and wonder at the true glory in such a familiar - basic and, yes, awesome thing. And, any time I feel the heaviness of the world weighing me down - if something doesn’t go exactly as I’d like, rather than getting irritated or weary, I let my mind take me back to that little garden of mine. And I feel an instant calm come over me. The kind of calm that I know is always available to me, any time I want to even think about it - in that wonderful - fresh dirt." |
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| Fresh Dirt by eaayers@hotmail.com |
#6 of 16 |
| 1612 words | |
| Arianna Sutton always was a struggler. She worked hard
to overcome her dyslexia and speech impediment to be successful in school. She
worked even harder to become the top graduate of her journalism class at the
University of Montana in Missoula. Arianna even worked her way through college
by demonstrating her aggressive nature as a cub reporter on the Missoulian
staff. She even did a few a pieces as a field reporter on the Channel 2
News just prior to her graduation. But what was happening now would begin the
struggle, not only for her life, but to all her personal beliefs and dignity.
It was a star-filled, cool evening in the valley. Arianna and her friends had just finished their Saturday routine of rafting down the Clark Fork of the Yellowstone, a river known for its beauty, but bathed in controversy as commercial mining and timber interests threatened its existence. Arianna’s journalistic senses knew there was a story here; she just didn’t want to upset her friends with her relentless work ethic. She’d get a story soon enough. It just was not the one she wanted. While May, John, and Miles, Arianna’s current beau, set up camp at the Copper Creek Campground, Arianna went to fill their canteens from the campground’s potable water source. As she neared the spigot she heard a twig snap in the trees to her right. She directed her flashlight in the direction of the noise and caught a shape moving away. She couldn’t make out the outline, but suspected it was a bear cub that had been frequenting the area. The Forest Service rangers had been broadcasting warnings about several bear cub sightings on the Clark Fork, so she wasn’t too worried. She stepped forward toward the water tap. Just then she was flattened by something that struck from her left. She was on the ground, with the wind knocked out of her, and something was now on top of her ripping at her. Her flashlight was gone and canteens littered the ground. In her mind, she screamed, ‘My God! The mama bear is going to kill me!’ She tried to scream, but there was something over her mouth. When she started to get control of both her breathing and her panic, she realized this was not a bear. Instead of feeling scratches and bone-crushing bites, she realized it was her clothes that were being attacked. Well, removed rather clumsily. Then, she smelled the rancid breath of a drunken man. She was being raped. The man whispered a slurred warning about not fighting or making noise. She thought she could overpower a drunk if she could catch him off-balance. As if he read her mind, he drew a knife and sliced her cheek. It was his only a scratch but served as a final warning. He was actually pretty quick to finish his violation of Arianna. Afterwards, he pulled up the pants he only loosened, whispered a final warning to keep quiet and stumbled off. Arianna lay back and sobbed quietly, her life changed forever. Arianna’s next thought was to run to the showers and get the vileness of the rape washed off. It was part of the shame reaction at being raped. It would also help her deny the act occurred. However, she remembered what a police detective told her in an interview, "If raped, don’t shower off the evidence. Let the police and medical authorities collect as much against the rapist as possible." Did she even want to tell them? She’d seen victims get tortured again on the witness stand. And she still couldn’t believe it had happened. It wasn’t until May came looking for her almost another fifteen minutes later, that someone else would know what had happened. May gasped when she found Arianna, and she started to call the boys, but Arianna stopped her. "No! Don’t let them know! I don’t want Miles to see me like this!" Again she was feeling a combination of shame and denial. She wanted to deny others the knowledge of what happened, and by doing that, deny it to herself. May helped Arianna get dressed. As they found her shorts and halter-top, May gasped and called Arianna over. Next to Arianna’s flashlight was a square item. When Arianna picked it up she realized it was the rapist’s wallet. Arianna picked up the wallet and opened it. There was $131. ‘He could have picked up a pro on Orange Street if he wanted, but no. He had to rape me.’ The next stage - anger - was starting. She flipped open the credit card holder. It was his driver’s license. The name and the picture were both familiar to her. The man that raped her was Mayor John Kacich! Kacich had been upset by Arianna’s published allegations of his taking kickbacks for city contracts. He’d even filed suit against the paper, but when the suit was ready for trial, he dropped the case. A tape of his taking a kickback had surfaced and he blamed Arianna for the tape. He assailed the tape, calling it fabrication. It didn’t matter now. He was a lame duck mayor, having lost the election and the rest of his political career to a cub reporter who had sources, backups and then the tape to prove her allegations. May saw the look in Arianna’s eyes. She’d seen that look when an earlier boyfriend had cheated on Arianna. It was the look of revenge. "No, Arianna, you won’t go after him yourself. His identification will help the police get him off the street, not help you to get into worse trouble! For Christ’s sake! You’re a reporter! Read your own newspaper! How many people seek their own form of justice just to kill themselves when they realized it didn’t solve anything? Arianna decided May was right. They headed back to camp. Arianna and May told the boys what happened and they cleared camp and headed to town. Arianna spent some four hours in the police station and hospital. The police waited patiently while Arianna was examined and evidence was collected. Pictures were taken of bruises, while a detective team took May back to the campsite to see if there was more evidence. The wallet was turned in, its presence at the site described. Within minutes, however, a detective returned to tell her that Kacich had reported the wallet stolen from his car at around 8pm. The rape occurred at 9:30. He was trying to cover his tracks. Kacich was brought in and a search warrant obtained for his DNA. In a few days, Arianna was told he was definitely the man responsible for the attack. He would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. "Thank God!" Arianna sighed. "Soon this would all be over." In dealing with her own emotions, she momentarily forgot what profession she was in. She knew what kind of press the public liked to read. When she came back to work, she was brought to the editor’s office, where she was provided the treatment awarded the newest hot lead story…coffee, roll and the trimmings. "Arianna, I like you." James McElroy, the Missoulian’s editor said. "Always have. You have a chance to take a very terrible event, and turn it into a Pulitzer Prize! Arianna, I know the events are still raw and the trial hasn’t started yet. However, I want this story to be fresh dirt. I want you to write it. This will be unedited, raw copy straight to front page stuff!" "But Mr. McEl---" Arianna tried to interrupt. "Call me Jim. You are going to be a star! I see you replacing Couric on Today, taking over for Barbara Walters on 20/20! But we’ve got to get this piece on paper before it becomes stale…both in terms of the time from event and the fading of the feelings you had during the events." "Jim! These ‘events’ as you call them will never fade! I am a reporter, and I know all about currency of events! I can’t put down on paper what happened. Your asking me to rip myself wide open and use my blood for your ink! Besides, with the recent gag order in place, if I reveal the details of the case prior to trial, Kacich could walk and I could end up in jail!" McElroy paused and looked at his coffee cup. "Okay, you’re right. But we need to use what you’ve experienced to make others who’ve lived this hell understand why it has to be reported. We need to do something to make this a way to get others to-" "-Read your paper." Arianna finished indignantly. "You are such an ass! I was violated! My body was assaulted and I will have to deal with this for the rest of my life! You are trying to make my rape front page news so you can sell papers!" "It is front page, and already has been front page news, Arianna. The mayor is involved. I’m just trying to do what you were taught in school…scoop the competition. We’re losing circulation because of TV news, CNN, the Internet. Now we’ve got fresh dirt and the mind of the hardest working, most talented young journalist I’ve seen in a decade to put the words into a story. The AP and Reuters are already offering over five-figures for your story. But it’s got to be an exclusive. And it’s got to be done soon." "I’ll write your goddamn story. It’ll be ready for next Sunday. The last page will be my resignation." As she left the office, she wondered what kind of teacher she’d be. |
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| Fresh Dirt by L.L. Rucker ruck9085@bellsouth.net |
#7 of 16 |
| 1763 words | |
| The old house was at the end of a long gravel driveway,
about a quarter of a mile off the paved road. It sat on a slight rise, surrounded by flowering Dogwoods and giant Oaks. Though overgrown with weeds and grass, the heads of bright red and yellow tulips could be seen waving on the soft spring breeze. Jim parked the car and Macy jumped out, exclaiming over the house and the knee-high grass grown yard. After thirteen years in the city, this was sheer heaven to her. "Oh Jim, isn’t this just heaven?" She spun in a circle, her arms outstretched. "It’s a money sucking entity, if you ask me." Jim was not at all sure this was a smart move. But he was absolutely certain it was an expensive one. As he followed Macy around the yard, his calculator mind was adding up the costs of repairs for this shutter or that rotted board. Although secretly he was as in love with the hundred-year-old house as Macy was, it was his job as the levelheaded one in their marriage to have reservations. "You’re so silly," Macy laughed, heading for the barn. Jim grinned after her. She was really happy for the first time since their three month old baby had died from S.I.D.S. "Wait up," he called. "Just you try to keep up," she said and began to run through the pasture toward the old barn. "Better be careful Mace, you’ll fall in a gopher hole and break your neck." Jim’s warning fell on deaf ears as Macy ran ahead. Entering the barn, it took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. When they finally did, Macy began to look into the six stalls that lined both sides of the hallway. In the last one on the right, she found a mound of fresh dirt, and stopped. "Well now that’s odd," she said. "What is?" Jim had finally caught up to her and stood just inside the stall. "Look at that." Macy pointed to the mound of fresh dirt. "What do you suppose that is?" "A pile of dirt," Jim offered. She shook her head, "No. I mean yes, it’s dirt, but it’s fresh dirt, Jim. Like somebody has buried something." "Probably a dead cat or dog someone buried," Jim offered by way of an explanation. Macy shook her head. "Why would anyone bury a dead cat or dog in a horse stall in a barn? Why not out there under that oak tree?" Macy gestured out the rear door of the barn and Jim turned to see a huge oak tree, standing majestically alongside a small pond. "Good question. Still it’s probably just an animal’s grave. Look how small it is." Jim pointed out the dimensions of the dirt mound. "I suppose you’re right," Macy said. "Still it is curious. This place has been abandoned for several months, remember?" "Probably just some kid. I wouldn’t worry too much about it." Jim said. "Yeah, I guess. Okay, well lets go look over the house. Our house." Macy grabbed his hand and began to tug. **** They had moved into the house nearly two weeks ago. Macy worked like a mad woman getting everything just the way she wanted it, which required long afternoons plundering through the many antique shops in the area. She had to find precise pieces to match the picture of a sitting room she had found in her Southern Living magazine. Finally things were as she wanted and she set out to find a horse. No sense in having a farm if you had no farm animals and a horse was as far as Macy was willing to go in that direction. The day the horse was to be delivered, Macy walked out to the barn to make sure the feed room door was secure and there were no rusty nails or barbed wire laying around to cripple her new acquisition. As she diligently searched each stall, she removed any offending material. When she reached the last stall, the mound of dirt drew her attention. She stood for several seconds, her head cocked to one side. Finally curiosity overcame her and she hurried to the tack room. Armed with a shovel and a muck rake, she hurried back to the stall and began digging in the mound. The tines of the muck rake struck something metal, the sound echoing through the empty barn, and Macy threw it aside. Digging in the earth with her hands, she freed a metal box. Pulling it from it’s grave, she moved out into the sunlight and stood looking at it. The box was about two feet wide and half again as long. It had a smooth surface and the edges were rounded. A shiny new padlock was proof that this was recently buried. Macy sat the box on the ground and circled it, like a prizefighter sizing up an opponent. She nudged it with her foot, then bent down and picked it up again. She shook it vigorously and could hear a soft rustle from inside. Putting it back on the ground, she walked around the box again. It looked like a small coffin. She stopped dead in her tracks. A coffin? A coffin that small could only hold the remains of an infant. Macy sucked in her breath, as the tiny coffin of her own dead baby rushed into her mind. She dropped to her knees and grabbed the padlock, giving it a yank. It held. It was locked. Rocking back on her heels, Macy felt her heart thud. Could this be the remains of a child? "Oh God," she moaned. "What if it is?" Getting to her feet, Macy circled the box once again, and then hurried back into the barn. In the tack room she found a hammer and a chisel. She held them in her hand, her mind racing. Should she try to open the box? Should she call the police? "And tell them what," she chided herself. "That you found a metal box that reminds you of the coffin you buried your baby in?" Still, she reasoned, what if it was a dead child? Making a decision, Macy hurried back out to the box. Dropping to her knees once again, she placed the chisel against the lock and drew the hammer back in preparation of striking. She hesitated, "Do I really want to do this? Alone?" The hammer, poised over her head, began to weigh heavily and she lowered her arm, shaking her head. "I can’t do this," she moaned. "What if it…" She let her voice trail off. "What if it is a baby? The police will have to be notified." She argued with herself. "But, shouldn’t I know for sure before I call them out here? What if it’s nothing?" What if, what if what if? Echoed through Macy’s mind. Finally with a cry, she drew back the hammer and hit the lock with a resounding blow that echoed across the pasture. The lock held. Sighing, she began to hammer on the lock, once, twice three times and on the fourth strike, the lock opened. It dangled in the hasp, daring her. With trembling fingers, Macy reached out and touched the lock, then jerked her fingers back as if a jolt of electricity had struck her. She rocked back on her heels and wiped her sweating hands on her jeans. "I can’t do this," she said. Images of her baby’s funeral flashed in her mind. Images she thought she had buried forever. The tiny coffin, the flowers, the crowd of mourners and well wishers offering her hope and sympathy when all she really wanted was to crawl inside that coffin and hold her baby once more, forever. Her baby had died of natural causes she was told, but what of this baby? This couldn’t have been natural causes or this coffin would be in a marked grave in a cemetery; not buried in a mound of fresh dirt, in a horse stall, in an abandoned barn. She felt tears sliding down her face and strengthening her resolve, Macy reached out and touched the lock once again. There was no jolt, no shock, just the metal of the lock heated by the sun. With trembling fingers, she removed the lock and before she could lose her nerve, she raised the lid, screamed and fainted. **** She came to as a hand patted her cheek. "Mrs. Paine, are you okay?" Groggy, Macy sat up and looked around her. A pickup truck with a horse trailer attached to it was parked a couple of yards away. Two men stood over her; a woman was kneeling before her, a concerned half smile on her face. "What happened?" Macy asked, sitting up. "Don’t rightly know. When we got here, you was passed out here in the grass," the woman told her. Macy shook her head to clear the cobwebs, and then gasped as memory returned. "The box," she said, looking wildly around. The woman nodded her head and pointed, "It’s over there." "There’s a dead baby in that box. We have to call the sheriff." Macy struggled to her feet. "A dead baby?" The woman looked at her anxiously. "Mam are you all right?" "Didn’t you hear me?" Macy raised her voice and the woman nodded again. "Yessum, I heard you, but there ain’t no baby in that box, Mam." "There is! I saw it!" Macy stamped her foot. "I saw the bones. Someone killed their baby and buried it in a horse stall." The woman scratched her head and looked to the two men for help. "Miz Preston? That ain’t no baby in that box." One of the men stepped forward and Macy shook her head. "You’re wrong. I saw it! I saw the skeleton." "No mam," the man replied. "You didn’t." He walked over and picked up the box. "See here Mam." He held the box toward Macy, who shrank back. "It’s okay," the woman told her, softly patting Macy’s arm. "Really. Look." Macy swallowed hard and taking a deep breath, walked over to the man. She peered in the box and gasped. Inside the box was a small skeleton, the bones still white, gleaming in the sunlight. Macy shook her head. Lying around the neck of the skeleton was a leather band about an inch wide, with a small metal tag attached to it. As she bent down for a closer inspection, Macy could see the word, "Champ" stamped into the metal tag. |
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| Fresh Dirt by tom_set@yahoo.com |
#8 of 16 |
| 784 words | |
| The evening sun was just disappearing over the
Jefferson Memorial, outlining the rounded dome and portico in a hazy pink wash,
as Mike Hamman headed for the bridge to his home in Arlington. He thought of
the famous quote, so apt, that was written there: "I have sworn upon the altar
of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man."
It was a nostalgic look in a way, for this Friday was his last day of work on the Hill, where he had been slaving away for the Yankee government for the past three years. By Sunday night he would be out of the country and on to Mexico with his new papers. Before all that happened, he had to execute the plan. He reviewed the details in his mind for the thousandth time. Get the rented truck and pose as a tree pruner along A Avenue. Then fasten the bombs, disguised as a large branch, on the tree he had specifically chosen. On Sunday morning when the President's motorcade went by, he would be half a kilometre away to activate it with his remote device which was even now in his trunk in a false bottomed thermos. Enough explosive force and incendiary devices would rain down on the limo to take out half a block. He should be hailed as a hero to millions but of course only two men back home would know it was he who had shaken the world to its very foundations. As he drove over the polluted Potomac and past Arlington National Cemetery, so green and orderly, he was elated by the thought there would soon be fresh dirt there to bury the American infidels. If they insisted in meddling in world politics, invading countries without cause, and killing thousands of innocent civilians, then it was just what the President and his corrupt country deserved. It was still another twenty minutes to his rented house on the outskirts of town, traffic was slow but orderly, so he allowed his mind to wander on the job and the city he was leaving. His duties as a minor clerk were mostly mundane but it did leave him some scope to investigate many of the members of Congress and other powerful people. Whenever he came up on any fresh dirt on the evildoers, it would be carefully leaked to the Washington Post, and then the fur would fly. He was gratified that he had made things sticky for several important people and even forced two resignations, but that was nothing compared to what he was about to do. With the President gone, the Vice President would take over. He was a reclusive, unpopular man in poor health so the country would suffer greatly. The big boys wouldn't dare choose another of their puppets from Congress for the new Vice President, so it would be someone bland and bumbling - a Gerald Ford type. With such weak leadership, America would undoubtedly sink into further recession and chaos. Too excited to think any further, he turned on his radio. He had no stomach for the droning Washington pundits this day, so finally settled on an entertainment news and gossip station. They were dishing out some fresh dirt on the latest Hollywood scandal. It was just like the illogical, decadent Americans to build up their politicians and movie stars into heroes, then spend the rest of the time trying to unearth some indiscretions to take them down. His familiar green exit sign loomed up, so he left the highway to meander the last two miles full of orderly identical looking homes to his neighborhood. As he passed the community garden, ready for springtime planting, he was almost tempted to visit his own little rented plot. You couldn't find any decent tomatoes, beets, fava beans, or cabbage at the supermarkets here. He was used to gardening as a means just to stay alive, so he had grown his own. The fresh dirt here was far superior to the rocky dusty soil he was used to and his vegetables flourished. Ungrateful Yankees never appreciated how good they had it here. As he pulled into his street he noticed fire trucks, police cars and a lot of clamor. Probably those bratty kids across the street playing with matches. As he drew closer, he gawked in horror at the empty lot where his house used to be. He instinctively got out of his car and took a few steps toward the scene. The bombs and firestarters must have detonated somehow. All that was left was smoldering rubble among the fresh dirt. Then he heard a voice behind him say: "Freeze! Hit the dirt!" |
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| Fresh Dirt by Becky Matthews arethronok@yahoo.com |
#9 of 16 Winning Entry |
| 2499 words | |
| The rosebush gleamed in the midmorning summer sun. Its
leaves, a rich waxy green, had unrolled themselves fully to soak up the warm
sunlight. Its blooms were wide and open, their petals a deep and unblemished
scarlet. That morning’s dew was just beginning to evaporate with the onset
of the day’s heat, and a few drops remained in the clusters of petals,
decorating the roses’ yellow pistils with beads of water that shone like
delicate jewels in the warm white light of the nine o’ clock sun overhead.
Andy took another picture. His shutter clicked and whined, underlying the faint sound of birdsong that floated up from the treeline down the hill. He was no gardener, but looking at this rosebush, he was impressed. He snapped another frame from a different angle, walking around the side of the bush closest to the house. He’d found with the first shots that he had to step back a little to get the entire plant into the frame of his camera - the thing was as tall as he was, if not taller, and Andy stood at six feet two inches. "Mrs. Devine," he said as he peered through the viewfinder in his camera, "What’s your secret?" The woman behind him kept quiet, her tanned hands clasped together and hanging down over the gentle swell of her stomach. She was still dressed in her housecoat, though she had been up for at least an hour. The hem of her terrycloth robe nearly dragged the dewy ground and almost hid the toes of her fuzzy pink slippers. She watched the young photographer bend and lean and walk around her rosebush, taking picture after picture of it. She tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear and shifted from foot to foot, the slick, worn soles of her slippers whispering on the short brown summer grass. Andy brought the camera down from his eye and stood back from the bush, looking at the huge, fragrant blooms and smiling. He hadn’t expected this when his editor had handed him this job - as the newest employee of the Bulton Star, he’d thought it would be something along the lines of covering the ladies’ auxiliary bake sale or the Jaycees’ car wash. Something perfectly ordinary, perfectly boring. Just like the rest of the assignments he’d been handed. "Aw, Berta," he said as he looked over the paper she handed him, "A rosebush?" Roberta Sim, a tough old Southern woman that pulled double duty as the town’s librarian and the editor of its weekly paper (fourteen pages, black and white, free to townsfolk and fifty cents to those who lived outside of Bulton but still wanted to keep up on the town’s ‘current events’) squinted up at him through the cigarette smoke curling up from the ashtray on her desk. "Andrew," she said, "I can take pictures with John’s old 35 millimeter just as handy as you can with that thing." She gestured towards Andy’s camera, which was hung around his neck like a baby in a sling. He looked down, a blush creeping up his cheeks. "Yes, ma’am." He was working at the paper over the summer between his freshman and sophomore years of journalism study at Jackson University, and he knew Berta had given him a job more because of his mom than anything else. His mother was the biology teacher at Lee High School (of which he was a recent alumni). She and Berta had grown up together. She’d asked Berta when Andy came home if there was anything he could do to help out at the paper. Berta had told her that she could probably find some odds and ends for him to do. Not that it would pay much, you understand. ‘Odds and ends’ had amounted to filing, answering the phone, taking pictures, typesetting articles, and taking dictation on Tuesdays. All things Berta could do herself. Andy didn’t have to be here. No, sir. He could be out taking orders at the Clock just like his classmates from high school, the grease from the fry pit turning his complexion into a pitted and poxy nightmare. The meaning of Berta’s comment about his camera was not lost on him for a moment. He swallowed. "Meg Devine’s rosebush has won a South Carolina Horticulture and Botanical Society blue ribbon," said Berta. "That’s news in Bulton." He nodded, resigned. "What’s Mrs. Devine like?" "Mousy. Has been for as long as I can remember. She went to school with me and your mom." "Really?" he said, feigning interest. Those grease pits were still on his mind. "Sure. She was smart, but she never had much to say. She married Jimmy Devine right out of high school. We all figured she was pregnant, but she never had a baby." Andy knew ‘we all’ consisted of Berta, his mom, and a few other friends that would come over to the house from time to time for dinner or lunch or just to talk. His "aunts" had been around for as long as he could remember. Aunt Joan, Aunt Liz, Aunt Marg. It seemed sometimes that every memory of his childhood had them somewhere in the background, sitting on the back porch drinking iced tea or playing hand after hand of rummy while the steady June rain beat down on the plastic covered windows of his mother’s kitchen. He could remember making towers out of his blocks in the living room, the television on with the volume low so he could hear the constant and somehow comforting sound of their chatter in the next room. He fiddled with the clasp on the strap of his camera, idly wondering if he should go out to the Devines’ this morning or if it could wait until after lunch. "Jimmy Devine," Berta said after a moment. Andy looked up from the camera strap, hearing a note of what he thought might be nostalgia in Berta’s voice. She was looking out the window at the post office across the street, but Andy had an idea that she was really looking into her memory. Her voice had a musing, thoughtful cast. "What about him?" he asked. "Who is he?" "Was," she corrected absently. "Who was he. He’s not around anymore." "Did he disappear or something?" "Disappeared from Bulton," she said. She was still looking out the window of her office at the dusty sidewalk that lined Main Street. "Do you think he’s…" he stopped, not wanting to speculate about the death of someone Berta may have liked. "…still around?" he finished lamely. "Lord, I hope not." "Beg pardon?" Berta sighed. "Jimmy was one of those guys who thought he was God’s gift just because he could block a tackle and run the ball." "He played football?" "Yeah, he did. And he was good. But not that good." Andy nodded. He knew the type. He suddenly hated Jimmy Devine, just on general principles. On more than one occasion he’d had a run-in with a football jock, and it had never turned in his favor. "We were all surprised when he married Meg," Berta said. "She wasn’t his type. But they did get married. We all wondered how long it would last. Of course, he pretty much ruled her from the start. They settled down at her granddad’s old place on the edge of town, you know, the old Merrick place. "Sometimes Meg would come in to Joanie’s dad’s for groceries and Joanie would see bruises on her arms. Never on her face, though. I guess he was too careful for that." "He beat on her?" "Yup. As far as we could tell, anyway. We all wondered if she would get tired of it, but it seemed like she never would. They stayed married and she stayed bruised and nobody did anything about it." "Why?" Berta raised an eyebrow at him and didn’t reply. He knew why. That wasn’t the way things were done in Bulton. "I wonder why she never left him." "I guess she loved him, Andy." He said nothing. Talking about love with Berta made him want to squirm. "Then one day she came down to the station in her old raincoat, the black one, even though it was a sunny day. We heard about it from Jack Taylor, who was dating Liz back then. Meg told him that her husband was missing and had been for a month or so." "A month! Damn, why didn’t she say something sooner?" She gave him a reproachful look. "Don’t swear, Andy." "Yes, ma’am. Sorry." "You’re excused. Meg said he would sometimes go off like that, drinking or hunting out on their land in the woods. But the longest he’d ever been gone was three weeks and she was starting to get worried. She filed a report with Jack and the police looked for him, but they never found him." "When was all this?" Berta looked at the ceiling, thinking. "How old are you, Andy? Eighteen?" "Yes ma’am. For another three weeks, anyway." He smiled. "You were about eight I think. So, nine, ten years ago. Something like that." "Why don’t I remember it?" Berta smiled. "Andy, it wasn’t really a big deal. He just never came back, that’s all. It was no big loss. Meg went back to her life in that big old house and she stopped sporting bruises and she started fooling around with rosebushes." She leaned forward and picked up her smoldering cigarette from the ashtray, took a long drag from it, and stubbed it out among the other dead butts. She looked back out the window. "Do you think she…" he swallowed. Berta looked over at him, eyebrows raised, a grin on her face. "Offed him?" He nodded. Berta laughed and shook her head. "You’ll see. She’s a mouse, Andy. A sweet, kind lady, but a mouse. He may have deserved it, but I don’t think she was responsible. He probably got too drunk and ran his truck into the Saluda. "Or maybe he finally pissed off the wrong person," she said, looking out the window. It was quiet for a minute. Andy let the silence settle, and then cleared his throat. "Can I go after lunch?" Berta rolled up to her desk and started looking through the partials she’d been sorting before he came in. "Best do it now and get it over with. After lunch we’ve got some filing to do." He sighed. "Yes, ma’am." Now he stood back and grinned at the rosebush, glad he’d come out this morning. It was too bad that the Star was printed in black and white. The pictures would never do the flowers justice. He turned to Mrs. Devine. Berta was right, he thought, about her being a mouse, though something about her struck him as odd. She had answered the door in her housecoat, and though she had been almost painfully polite to him, he still felt a little uncomfortable around her. "What’s your secret?" he asked her again. Mrs. Devine brushed a few strands of hair back from her forehead and shifted from her left foot to her right. "Nothing really," she said in a whispery voice that could barely be heard above the cries of the jays and songs of the finches in the trees down below them. Instead of looking at Andy, her eyes crawled over the rosebush. Her expression was full of almost greedy adoration, and it made Andy nervous. "I just water it a lot." "Just water?" Andy said, turning back to look at the monstrous bush. He felt a little relieved when he turned away from her. "You put anything in the water to help it grow? Fertilizer, or anything?" He was suddenly struck by the urge to make nervous chatter. Mrs. Devine didn’t reply. Andy waited for her to speak. In every moment that passed he seemed to feel the silence beating into his ears, curling up in his throat, pressing on his eyeballs. His scalp began to sweat in the growing heat of the morning. He felt his heart speed up a little. His fingers began to tingle. Berta was wrong, he thought. He remembered her words: Maybe he finally pissed off the wrong person. The sun on his the top of his head was growing much too hot. He felt a bead of sweat form at his right temple and roll down his cheek, tracing a cool tickle on his skin. He blinked and saw a negative of the rosebush etched on the insides of his eyelids, a huge white mass with blooms of green flowers. Pruning shears, he thought wildly. His fingers were frozen on the plastic housing of his camera. He tried to swallow and heard a dry click - his throat felt like it was lined with old flannel. Turn around, he told himself. His feet wouldn’t comply. It seemed as if his entire body from the waist down was locked in one position. His heart gave another hitch and began to gallop. A wave of dizziness washed over him. His eyelids fluttered. Turn around, you dumbass! he thought, and to his own surprise he did. She flinched a little at his sudden movement and moved a step back from him. Her earlier expression was gone. She looked up at him, shy and meek. A mouse, he thought as relief flooded through his body. Suddenly he felt like an idiot. "I s’pose I just planted it in the right spot," she said. After the boy had taken the last of his pictures, thanked her, and driven back towards town, after she watched his car until it disappeared over the rise of a long hill on SR 124, Meg Devine walked back around to her rosebush, situated in a pocket of yard that edged its way out of the house’s long shadow, even in the late afternoon. She squatted next to the bush and ran her hand through the peat that had grown thick and wiry underneath the plant, remembering it had been an infant, resting on top of a small, nondescript mound in her backyard. She remembered the feel of the fresh dirt under her hands as she planted it. The soil had slipped and moved around under her palms like silk, caressing her skin like the gentle lover she had never had. Now she stood and dusted her hands off on the sides of her terrycloth bathrobe. The noon sun beat down on her head and shoulders, and she unzipped the front of the robe a few inches, fanning her chest. It was hot. "Won another ribbon, Jim," she said. She smoothed her brown hands over and down the soft curve of her belly and sighed. It was a small, contented sound. She looked at her roses for few more minutes, and then headed on up to the house to make lunch - a bacon sandwich and a glass of sweet iced tea. |
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| Fresh Dirt by gpain97046@aol.com |
#10 of 16 |
| 669 words | |
| "I made the right decision," Connor Flanders said out
loud. He wanted Barbary Jordan and he would have her. He allowed few
certainties in life and this certainty had taken him six months to decide.
The fresh dirt felt good in his hands and he inhaled the earth's scent. Occasionally when he had a personal problem, he would go in the garden and work it out, like now. He took the roses from the pots and planted them in the fresh dirt. Connor viewed the world with cynicism and wanted solid proof in every area of his life. He applied a logical approach to business and was financially sucessful. He wore dark suits, matching ties, white dress shirts and black shoes. Barbary, on the other hand, lived life spontaneously. Intelligence filled her eyes but she viewed life with fun and joy. She owned a catering business and now she wanted to expand it. She wore reds, yellows, greens and other bright colored clothes along with excessive jewelry. Connor took his garden gloves off and put the tools away. After a shower, he changed into a black pair of pants and a white shirt. The doorbell rang and he answered it, letting Barbary in the door. Her bracelets jangled when she walked in. The large yellow hoop earrings she wore matched the color of her mini dress. "Where's Charlie?" she asked. "I gave the butler the night off," he said and smiled. She had red hair, brown eyes, slender build an aura of happines. Barbary made him feel alive. "His birthday or somethiing?" she asked, pushing her long hair behind her ears. "I wanted us to be alone." "Charlie doesn't approve of me." She slipped her yellow sandals off. "You're different. A blooming rose in rough fresh dirt." he said and kissed her on the forehead. "I gues that's a compliment." She frowned. "I made an important decision today," Connor said. He had questioned the widom of getting involved with her but not now. He was starting to enjoy life. "I knew it," she said, her eyes sparkling. "We must be telepathic." "About time." "I've given it a lot of thought," Connor said, glad the problem was resolved. "Mr Serious, I know." She got up and danced around him. "A good decicion." A smug smile lit up his face. "I know." "Good, then it's settled. I'm cooking us steaks." He started towards the kitchen. "Wait. How much will it cost me?" her voice carried across the room. "Whatever you want to contribute." "I'm talking about Morris. What figure did he give you?" "Morris? He's a scam." Why did she bring him up? He raked his hands through his dark brown hair. "You just said you made the decision." "About us," he said and stood beside her. "What us? I want to know about Morris?" "He's a failure and broke." Connor had investigated the man. "He needs another chance. Make the deal," she said. Her temper started to boil. "No! Lets get back to us." What was wrong with her? "There is no us." She enunciated each word. "We have a relationship." "A business relationship. Nothing else." "You want me, I want you." He took her in his arms but she pushed him away. Barbary broke out in laughter. "You're kidding, right?" "We've been together for six months." "Working on my business and I've been trying to loosen you up." Connor walked over to his desk and took a cigar out of his humidor. "Really," he said, his dark eyes pierced hers. "You know I hate smoking." "Tough. We're finished. GET OUT!" He pointed to the door. "Let's talk." she pleaded. "I made a big misake but never again. Out." His voice cold as steel. Slipping on her shoes, Barbary started towards him but changed her mind. "Good by then," she said and left. Connor went out to the garden, feeling like a fool. He tore up the roses and kicked the fresh soil out in the grass. IT WAS OVER! |
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| Fresh Dirt by Nate (knight4241) nightmare4241@comcast.net |
#11 of 16 |
| 1325 words | |
| Restful, peaceful. Sweet release from pain.
It’s 3:30 when the phone rings. Amanda knows who is calling; it’s Kevin checking up on her. "Hello." "I’ll be home at 4:30, Dinner ready?" "It will be by 4:30 honey, I promise." "OK, see ya." Dinner will be ready all right, but Amanda is certain he will not appreciate macaroni and cheese. Restful, peaceful. Sweet release from pain. Kevin hits the door with his usual bravado, adding to the growing dent in the drywall behind it, and puts his briefcase down. Strutting to Amanda, he turns her to him, and kisses her full and hard, forcing her to push back and make enough room between them for her to breathe. "Guess I’ll hurry and eat before I start working on that fish pond some more." "OK." Kevin washes up and sits down at the table, mouth watering for the big meal he is sure he’ll receive. What else would she do. He works hard, and Amanda knows what he expects, and what she’ll get if she fails to deliver. The steaming casserole bowl of macaroni and cheese, fresh from the oven wafts over the table and throughout the room. "What is this?" "I couldn’t get away from mother’s until 1:30, this is all I had time for." Amanda dips out a huge helping, and sets the plate in front of Kevin, a hint of helpless innocence in her face. "This is bullshit!" as he throws the plate against the wall, tiny fragments of cheese and fractured pasta clinging with painful rebellion. "I’m sorry, this is all I could do." Kevin stands, pride and anger mix in a psychotic frenzy. His hand, rock-hard against her cheek, now sports a new cut from her tooth across the knuckle.. "I’m going out for a beer, eat that shit yourself!" Kevin storms out the door, and Amanda, gently holding her newly bruised eye, breathes a sigh of relief. He’s gone, for now. Kevin slips into the "Something’s Fishy" lounge, and orders a draught. He plunks down the first three quickly, and sips at his fourth beer a little more uneasily. He knows once again he is wrong, and he knows deep inside he shouldn’t hit her, but then why does she provoke him? All around are men unwinding from their long, hard days, trading stories about how idiotic their bosses are, and how their stubborn wives and girlfriends nag and bitch. At one table, a girl, crying after screaming into a cell phone, sits alone and sobs while six or seven adult boys circle the pool table and glance her way, like a pack of shark sizing up a wounded fish. "Hey Kevin." Joe, his good buddy at work strolls over from the pack, nursing his own mug. "I didn’t see you come in. You and the old lady are at it again, eh?" "Yeah, I couldn’t take her tonight, so here I am. What’s with you?" "Same. I guess that’s the way women are, eh?" Funny thing about Joe, seems the only thing he can talk about is the arguments that he and his girlfriend have nightly. "Is it so much to ask not to be constantly nagged and bitched at just when you come in. You’d think she don’t have anything better to do all day but think of new ways to bitch us out. Oh well, that’s what I get for dating a woman from my office." "At least your gal has a job to go to. Amanda won’t work, stays out all day doing nothing, won’t clean or cook anything worth eating, and then acts like I’m the problem." "Women, sheesh!" "Yeah. Well, I’m going back home. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. See ya Monday Joe." "OK." Deep down inside, he knows he should feel bad, but between the alcohol, the still broiling anger at something, and having only pretzels to eat since lunch, Kevin could only feel sorry for himself. He didn’t really want to live without her, and he knows he needs to apologize, so off he goes. He picks up a bouquet of flowers for five dollars. Amanda will gladly accept them, and accept his apology, and probably fix him a plate of food to make him feel better, and they’ll kiss and make up, and then they’ll have sex. Truth is, she loves him too much to leave, no matter what. The alarm clock rings loud at eight a.m., seconds before Amanda reaches from under the covers to turn it off. Kevin rolls over, his manhood no longer stiffened from last night’s "making up." Feeling the chill in her nakedness, she slips out silently to shower off the corruption left behind. Truth be known, she feels elated that Kevin has calmed down, proud to be the wife of such a powerful lover, and disgusted that once again, she’s allowing herself to be taken by all his lies that he’s sorry, and it’ll never happen again. The more she scrubs, the better she feels, the last bits of Kevin washing off and falling down the drain. She can just relax when the curtain flies open, Kevin smiling and exposing his own nakedness even more. "Want more of what you got last night?" Amanda has had as much of "what she got last night" as she can stand, but she feels her head nodding yes, sees her hand leading his to her still soapy breast, and feels her mind will the nausea away. Kevin makes good money, and can probably afford to have this fish pond dug out by someone else, but he feels a certain satisfaction doing it himself and knowing Amanda appreciates the pond even more. At this point, it is more a fish lake than a pond. Only a large boulder, at the bottom remains, and then he can install the liner and fill it with water and fish. "You want to go out tonight?" Amanda walks up, sunglasses on to hide the bruised eye. "Dinner or club?" "Club mainly. We can grab a pizza at the ‘Fishy’." Kevin tosses the shovel up, and reaches to pull himself out of the now sizable hole. The slip on the edge takes Amanda by surprise, and she doesn’t really take notice until she. hears the sound of bone crunching against stone, and the growing red stain on the dirt surrounding it. "Aman...I...ne...help. Call...help." He looks pitiful, his weak cries echo in her mind. She rubs her cheek, the pain reminding her of his latest "cry for help." "Amanda?" "I’ll call for help." Kevin feels the wave of blackness wash over him, looks up at Amanda, images of her face bleeding, macaroni and cheese on the wall, tears rolling out of her eyes, Amanda picking the shovel up and circling about the hole, measuring him from all angles, the freshness of the dirt on his chest and face, the quiet of the night, the pressure on his chest, the stinging of the dirt in his eyes, the realization that... "AMANDA!" The blackness closes in more and more, restful, peaceful, sweet release from pain. Sweet release from a life filled with fear. Amanda comes in, her arms full of flowers and plants. She pulls up the gloves and takes the new trowel and bulb planter out of the bag, the name of the garden store emblazoned proudly across it in bright red. The large hole in the yard will take less time to plant than filling it last night. The bright blues and yellows and reds of the young plants reflects the new found love of gardening. The dirt was freshly turned now, probably the only good thing Kevin had ever done, and these plants will grow happy in the newly fertilized patch in the back yard. |
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| Fresh Dirt by mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#12 of 16 |
| 1943 words | |
| "You're a wuss!" The stranger had a very thick
unpleasant accent in Greek. His wide nostrils flared, his cold grey eyes expressed obtuse stubborn anger and his lips formed an ill-conceived grin above a degenerate chin. Although he was a tall man himself, Hercules nevertheless was a foot and a half shorter than the stranger. 'A giant.' he figured. The giant had broad shoulders, muscular extremities, a short neck and thick skin of a red brick just like the color of dirt in the deserted land Hercules was traveling. Squinting, Hercules could almost mistake him for part of the landscape. Heavy and clumsy, he looked as if nature couldn't find planned materials at the right time and therefore used whatever was at hand, compensating lack of proportion with excessive size. "Listen, pal, let's not start calling each other names, ok?" "If you're no wuss, fight me." The giant continued, beating himself on the chest. Hercules inhaled deeply, trying not to get mad. The least of what he needed now was to get sidetracked. This travel to get three silly apples from the garden of Hesperides already took him longer than any of his previous labors. Cousin Eurystheus knew where to send him this time. His way to the land of Hyperborean ran through the deserted canyon restricted on both sides by granite cliffs rising almost vertically. Hercules traveled for several days under blazing sun carrying his ammunition. And now this hulk - a totally unnecessary obstacle. Hercules, therefore, tried to be diplomatic. "Respectable warrior, why do we need to fight?" "This is my land and my rules. You fight or you leave." "I understand. But why? What compels you to fight? Is that a promise given to Gods? If so I could offer a sacrifice?" The giant didn't answer. "You see, I have nothing against you," Hercules continued, "I am not a scout. More people are not going to come and attempt to settle this land. All I need is to pass through one time." He appended his speech with raised index finger. Hercules tested the eyes of the giant. The expression of mistrust and animosity settled on it like patina on the copper etching. Hercules tried to approach him from a different angle. "If you'll let me pass, I can give you a valuable gift." Hercules pulled a copper mirror from his luggage and rotated it in the air letting its polished surface sparkle. Besides weapons, food and water, Hercules' bag contained set of trinkets and jewelry. He hoped that the later would help him to negotiate his deal with Hesperides sisters. "See, my friendship could be more valuable than my enmity." "You're stupid!" the giant smirked. "I kill you. All this," he pointed toward the ammunition, "be mine. And I add to my collection," he said with a smirk that grew until it occupied most of his face. He directed his index finger toward the mound of bones comprised of skeletons of travelers unable to compete with him in wrestling. After a couple more attempts to reason with the giant, Hercules concluded that diplomacy was futile. The man standing on his way was a primitive who had no concept of civilization and its rules of conduct. Hercules could easily eliminate the giant with either a sword or arrows. He survived battles where he killed many but the idea of slaying an unarmed man sickened him. For a moment Hercules entertained the thought of running past the giant without his permission, but tossed that idea. True, he could outrun the giant, but then he had to leave all his ammunition behind. Not hoping to find food and especially water in this canyon, Hercules also considered the fact that the stranger knew the terrain better and could attack him at night while Hercules was asleep. Lastly, Hercules felt disgusted by running away from anybody or anything. He would have to take the fight. Moving his ammunition further back so it wouldn't be on the way, Hercules returned to the giant and stood against him hands up defending his chin and stomach. He wasn't going to let himself be intimidated or angry. Neither of these feelings was helpful. The giant looked strong, but not quick and coordinated. Hercules noted with satisfaction the difference between giant' s awkward assemblage and his own powerful but elegant and proportional built. His gut hung out flabby and Hercules thought it was a good spot for a strike. He figured he could break the opponent down by punching him in the body, and then either to knock him out with the barrage of hard blows to the head or choke him out; either way incapacitating him so he could proceed with his journey. His estimate seemed to work. When Hercules quickly sprang close the opponent and delivered his first uppercut right in the giant's solar plexus, the giant's face distorted with pain as he collapsed on one knee. He recovered surprisingly quickly though and only swayed his head to show Hercules the punch had no effect. The opponents now circled each other in the narrow strip of land between the cliffs, throwing probing jabs. When Hercules attempted another uppercut, giant took it better. He ducked and grabbed Hercules' leg. Hercules was on guard, delivering a blow on the stranger's neck. The giant released the leg and collapsed on the ground loosing consciousness. Right after that, he sprang up again, carrying no trace of the blow. Then, he was able to surprised Hercules; he grabbed him around the waist and body slammed him. Hercules rolled over, preventing the stranger from mounting. He decided to avoid full body contact, preferring to nail the opponent with uppercuts and hooks to the body. This pretty much determined the pattern of the fight. The faster and more athletic Hercules imposed his pace and style. Landing most of his punches, he avoided direct contact with the giant who tried to catch the hero and pin him down. After an hour of engagement, even Hercules, capable of great endurance, started showing signs of fatigue. The giant, though, seemed fresh as if it were the first minutes of the | |