First, a note. There is darkness inside. Sometimes it comes out. That’s what writing does. It lets darkness out so light can keep coming in.

I was listening to PJ Harvey’s “One Time Too Many” and Belly’s “Low Red Moon” when I wrote this quick piece. I’m not sure what it is about, who the man is and or what kind of farmer he might be.

Don’t let this ruin your mood. The moon is beautiful. Our appetites are cruel, but they keep up digging.

***

He digs the hole, deep enough to bury a man. Then he digs the hole deeper still. He works without thinking, pushing the shovel through the crust of ground, lifts each scrape of dirt and rock, builds a pile, a slowly escalating mound as the hole gets deeper and deeper, sinks farther and farther into shadow.

Sweat is running down his face. His shirt and pants are heavy with it. They cling to his arms and legs, weak and trembling from exertion still working and working with the steady, relentless rhythm of an automaton.

The hole is deep enough already. Still, he continues to dig.

He glances over his shoulder once, twice while he works. He wants to be certain this is really happening. He wants to be sure the body is still there.

It lies behind him, nearly hidden in darkness. Only the open curve of the face silvered with moonlight, the eyes staring up at him expressionless.

There is no guilt in those eyes. No accusation.

He is a kind of farmer. Just as his father was a kind of farmer before him and his father before him and so on back too many generations to count. It is what he is. It is what he does.

Farmers dig. They turn over the soil.

He looks down into the vast, empty space between his boots. There are secrets down there if you know where to look. Wriggling, writhing things that move silently through the soil. Unspeaking, voiceless things that wait with the terrifying patience of stone.

The earth is our mother, he tells himself. The earth is our father.

We are made for the earth, from the earth.

The moon is high in the sky, watching with its cold, appraising stare.

The work of a farmer is merciless. The earth gives us to life. We give life to the earth.

Best not to dwell too long with the philosophy of things. There are always ways to cast questions. Philosophy is useless. Best just to dig, hands grip the shovel handle tight. Best not dwell too long with thinking. Thoughts have strong fingers, they can find a niche of doubt, a single moment of uncertainty and pull everything apart.

He has worked too hard to give room for doubt. His father before him had worked too hard. And his father and his father.

The hole is deep. Certainly deep enough to bury a man. And yet, still he works, making the hole deeper, darker. He digs, tries not to notice how the grave yawns, a hungry mouth without teeth that pulls a man to dig deeper and deeper still.

Best not to think, he reminds himself. That is the catechism. Best not think. Keep your eyes at the edge of the hole. Keep the shovel moving. Do not look up. Do not look down.

Try not to notice the way the moon peers over your shoulder, an eager, greedy face.

The ground is hungry. The moon is merciless. There is no respite.

He digs because he is a kind of farmer. He digs because it is the nature of shovels to dig. He moves the dirt with a singleness of attention. He pays no mind to the body on the ground behind him. The corpse is inconsequential. There is no life. There is no death. There is only the work. The soft, steady sound of dirt accumulating. The happy sighs of things that live in dirt.

The shovel moves. Best not to dwell. There is just the work. Nothing but the work. Only the work.

The work fills the world.

The ground is hungry.

The moon is merciless.

Night has its appetite. It swallows and swallows and never is it satisfied.

I like to play around with words sometimes. Just put on a song and improvise a quick story to capture the sense of the music. It is a lot of fun to write this way. I can’t promise what it will be like to read. It is what it is.

Tonight’s song: Ear Parcel by Lamb.

******

Prompt: Ear Parcel by Lamb

He turned the paper over in his hands, his mind grasping for the unknowable numbers on the lost fragment. He had found the paper under the front seat of his girlfriend’s car. Torn, the paper only showed four numerals written in pencil. Four numbers. Three more numbers on the missing piece made it a phone number. Of course, nine made it an ISBN. One made it a zip code.

He wanted a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked in months but right now he wanted to smoke an entire pack. He wanted to light up and feel each disappear into the hot, bright light of his anger.

He wanted to burn the note. If it was a note. Maybe it was just a random scribble. Maybe it meant nothing. He should throw it away. Or put it back under the front seat of her car where he found it. Neither option worked for him.

So he stood outside her car, waiting. Any minute now she would walk out the front door of the office building with a dozen other people. She would see him waiting for her. She would smile. Then she would recognize that impatient, hurt look on his face. She would see the piece of paper in his hand and her smile would slip. In that moment, he would know everything. If he watched her carefully, in that one unguarded moment, he would know.

People were leaving the office building now. Tired faced men and women chatting as they fanned out into the parking lot to gather their cars and drive off to rejoin the parts of their lives they leave waiting for them while they are working.

And that was the worst part of it all, for him. There were parts of her life which he knew nothing about. There were entire stretches of her day which did not include him. There wasn’t even a boyfriend-shaped hole in that space for her. When she was working, he had might as well not even exist. When he tried to call, she was always in a meeting. When he sent a text, the message went unanswered or, worse, the curt reply: can’t talk now.

People were leaving the building. Some of them were smiling. Some were serious and sad-faced. They all knew his girlfriend, all of them. Knew her in a way he could never know her. She was a colleague. A coworker. A manager.

The way these people knew her. The lightness with which they carried that knowledge with them. The smug air they had.

A dark haired man in a nice suit smiled as he went past. Nodded. “Nice day,” he said in a way that made it impossible to tell if he meant it as an observation or an invocation. Either way, the man broke eye contact quickly and shuffled off to his car.

Guilty. That man had looked guilty. The smile was covering his guilt but the boyfriend could see through it. Suddenly, the boyfriend knew with absolute surety that the man had put his hands all over his girlfriend, had rubbed and smoothed and fondled her. Maybe only just moments ago. Maybe she was still inside, smoothing her dress, straightening her jacket, tucking in her blouse.

Maybe, if he could grab the man’s phone and see the last four numbers he would find that they matched the four numbers in his hand. That would seal it. He would know and she would be caught. There would be no escape. There would be no denial.

Except the man was already gone, leaving the parking lot in his sporty gray BMW. The boyfriend felt angry to be standing beside his girlfriend’s navy blue Camry. This was not the life she wanted. This was not the car she wanted to be driving. He was not the man she wanted to be taking home.

He crumpled the paper and held it in his fist. Somedays it was hard not to want to hit something. Everything was so unfair.

He opened his hand, smoothed the note out on his leg. She needed to see the note. He needed her to see the note in his hand.

The doors opened. There she was, leaving alone, smiling. Content with herself for a day’s work well done. Then she saw him and smiled wider. She actually skipped a step or two as she came to meet him. And then she was standing before him, the note unseen. She kissed his cheek.

“Thanks for picking me up,” she said, still smiling and went to the other side of the car.

“Sure,” the boyfriend said, unsure how this was supposed to go next.

“What’s for dinner?” she asked as he opened his door. “I was hoping for Thai carryout. There’s a new place we need to try. I’ve got the number written somewhere in this car.”

All at once, the air in the car was lighter. He felt his fists relaxed. He remembered the face of each person who had left the building and then, one by one, forgot them. They were strangers. They were inconsequential.

“Sure. Thai carryout sounds great.”