By MDS Chill
The sand is still moving. Just a few minutes more. It’s been under there, clawing and pawing to come up and I poured a steady stream of sand from the corner of the bucket, trying to keep just ahead of it and the more sand got in there the faster it was clawing up, trying to get out, and I had to adjust the pour rate to keep its back feet bogged down and eventually it gave up trying to keep the sand out of its eyes and just clawed blind and as its nostrils filled it opened its mouth wider and I could pour the sand right in, just a little at a time because I didn’t want to finish too soon. So now at the point where only the front paws are sticking up, just a bit, Mother calls me from across the yard, warningly, telling me to come in this instant. But she would be so insistent. I pour the last of the sand out and stand up. The sun is in my eyes when I come out from under the tree and Mother is a dark shadow and so tall, but with a deep enough pit she will be small enough.
MDS Chill was born in Ohio in 1967 and grew up in various places in various ways, currently living, reading, and writing in Philadelphia. His work has appeared in Thieves’ Jargon and Gone Lawn. (Updated September 2015)
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