Kelvin M. Knight
What was life without a shovel, without a hole to dig: not a bottomless pit of a hole, just a hole, one to dig with friends. Shoulder to shoulder, waist deep in our impending labours, we shared a camaraderie that traversed transcendentalism. At least, I thought so. My friends’ grunts and groans as they bent their backs made me wonder. Was this the right job for me? Was this really where my gifts were best placed? Amidst this soil or solitude, within this clay of contentment, this rubble of rumination, all that happened was this.
‘This.’ I spread my arms wide, only to have my knuckles rapped.
The pain jolted me back to school. That history teacher was towering over me, glaring at my artistic doodles. He roared something but I wasn’t listening.
‘Carlos!’ Someone rapped my forehead. ’It’s time to dig!’
‘Look,’ I mumbled, pointing. ‘History is watching us.’
This story was written in response to this weeks WhatPegmanSaw prompt which found our intrepid stickman explorer in
To read other authors stories based on this prompt, or to join in with the writerly fun, please click the blue frog below.