hole-III

He frantically dug at the earth that was squeezing his arm, but it was futile.  The mud he displaced was merely refreshed anew, its grip even tighter.

 

Again, he laughed at his fear.  The audacity of his fear…he chastised himself for giving into what he had long since declared to be unacceptable.  Memories of his belongings strewn throughout his front yard, those who would soon pay laughing at him as they drove or walked by.

 

Resting his face in the damp grass and leaves, he breathed in and out, slowly, over and over again.

 

He slowly wiggled his had back and forth in the unseen muck below, which seemed to be all that existed in this dark cavity in his yard’s underground.  He pushed into the hole, jarring his shoulder in by treading on the wet turf with his feet.  His hand merely sloshed, stirring bits of earth and root.

 

He had to find it.  He must.

 

Without it he would be useless.  He would remain under their collective thumb and attain no greater level in life than that of ‘ineffectual pissant.’

 

As he calmed himself, the murk below grew warm and then hot to the touch.  He tried to remove his hand, but the earth sucking on his arm would not relent.

 

Feeling returned to his arm as the water began to boil.