Wednesday, February 24, 2010


At last, a shape becomes evident in the muck. The hand. He pulls on it. It does not come loose. The flesh does not lend itself to a good grip, and he has to reposition himself several times before he gets a good hold on it. When he does, it is a while before there is any give. The hand is... attached to something... He has to dig around the hand... to clear the muck. The hand is gripping something. A handle. He struggles a while and, at last, the hand and what it is gripping comes loose. It is, in fact, a handle. But nothing comes with the handle. Instead, the ground beneath him begins to tremble. He hears a rushing sound, and then there is no ground... only a falling and the threat of being buried alive.

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