I’m digging a grave, son. My life’s work laid bare. A macabre undertaking, but I’ve excavated this plot with an archaeologist’s care, with fine brushes and twine lines. Every artifact was artfully placed.
But who will fill your grave, I ask.
The old man bends brittle and weeps.
Not I!
3 Things About This Micro-fiction
- Wrote this in under 5 minutes.
- Who will be the person in the grave? Who will heap the earth upon him?
- I allow myself one exclamation point each year.