Each piece of art will be paired with a short story of 200-1000 words. The art will be at the bottom of the chapter.
The prompt list I'm using can be found here: https://www.instagram.com/p/CUSzT18LbFp/?utm_medium=share_sheet
I should be dead. I shouldn't be able to feel anything, to see the dark earth surrounding me, to taste the grit of soil in my mouth. But here I am.
I've never believed in the afterlife. Even in the small moments when I considered it, I thought of it as being sort of intangible. Either existence without the weight of a body to hold me down, or existence of pure torture and pain. But right now I don't feel either. I'm uncomfortable, sure. I can feel the implication of me being alive drawing out a latent terror from behind my brain stem.
But I can breathe. And blink. I place my hand over my heart.
It's beating.
There's just enough space to lever myself slightly upward, but not enough to sit up straight. My head hits the roof and dirt crumbles into my hair. I place a hand on the ceiling, just to test it.
The earth is soft and wet. I feel around a little more, and can feel the small roots of plants growing above me. I don't want to think about how long I've been dead for that to happen.
I sit there for a second. For an hour at least. My breathing is muffled by the dirt, but my heart is hammering in my ears. Ever beat is like a voice. A call. Alive. Alive. Alive.
Unprompted, the face of my mother comes to mind. I so desperately want to see her. to hear her voice. It doesn't matter what she'll think. It doesn't matter what anyone will think. I'm alive.
I place my hands above me.
And I start to dig.
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