Dirt has always been part of me. From when I was a child, letting it spill through my fingers. Plucking struggling worms from the dirt and hiding them under rocks, where the sailing birds couldn't find them.
A teenager planting a garden so I could eat what was grown by my hands. But the vines always sprang up from the dirt, too. Weeds with needle-sharp barbs that stung my fingers and killed the vegetables.
The skeleton books in my grandma's library, covered in dirt because she didn't understand what was inside and what was out. I liked the smell of dirt. It belonged there, scattered on the thin leaf pages full of the unexpected.
They tossed dirt on Theo's shiny mahogany casket. She hid inside, covered in a thick layer of makeup to cover the blood, sealed in the cracks. They stuffed her in a dress she would never wear, brushed her hair into an unnatural wig. She liked her hair curly. They made it straight.
Curly scared them.
YOU ARE READING
Entropy
Short StoryA story about love, despair, and chaos, told in fragments. Her screams echoed inside the glass coffin. I heard them. She scratched her fingernails bloody on the hard case that kept her inside. I felt the blood trickle down my own hands. She pounded...
