Shorts4Dinos
Shorts4Dinos
Durland Santorini Was Under a Whole Lot of Dirt
wc: 1792 2022
It was soft and dry and cold and rose the tiny hairs behind his ears and on his neck. It seeped into his collar and past his belt, packing his fingernails and filling his boots. Sweat dribbled off his greying moustache and down his chin, dropping with the arhythmic scratch of his shovel and the grim satisfaction that he was the Georgia of an unstoppable will.
A rock was scraped, the jagged edge falling heavy at his feet, leaving a small glowing hole. He felt like a mole, or a worm with a dream, as it came from the soil for the first time, tearing at the final orchestra of roots with a new sense of anticipation, making the hole just large enough to squeeze through, then cut a ladder into the wall and rose from the tunnel. The night sky was poorly lit. Durland guessed it was near three in the morning.
The cottage was dark except for a candle burning in the bedroom. Something lacy seemed to seep down every window. A few dozen paces later he was at the back stoop, bringing the shovel with him. He opened the door and heard the tinkle of a small stone dislodge from his boot onto the floor. It would be foolish to leave a mess, any clue—fear, for the first time, wriggled its way into his senses. He knelt but could only do so much with his hands, in desperation he removed his shirt, which only sent whatever else was on it to the ground. Georgia appeared, chiding, teasing, at his back, hand over his, helping him kneel and wipe it up. Durland stepped into the yard and removed his boots, socks and pants as well. He jumped and shook and loosened the waistband. In the dim light he took stock of his clothing. Sweat and dirt had caked to every inch and would stay until it didn’t. He returned to the tunnel and tossed the shirt and jeans after his boots and socks. He’d return there, giddy, grab the clothes, fill up the hole that ended the tunnel and be back home by sunrise. The plan calmed him, and he wiped his hands in the damp grass.
The cottage was quiet, no grating snores or pacing footsteps of the troubled sinner. His bare foot stepped in a mound of dirt he hadn’t cleaned, hadn’t even seen. He flinched and suddenly, overwhelmingly, felt himself a failure, dirty, rotten, his banishment righteous, his suspicions uncalled for. Time was starting to roll away from him, he might wait until tomorrow. He couldn’t wait until tomorrow, he wouldn’t be, it would be and but then what or there was no choice but to sweep it up. The broom closet didn’t have cleaning supplies. No brooms, instead full of coats, too large to be Georgia’s, see yes trust the gut say a mound of girt wood bee a flad a greg a reg a flad red a red flag because it would be. Just like the dirt. They were all there, even the warn leather one, the one that was a little too big for him and stank of body odor and wet sand. His eyes wandered towards the guest room and stayed there, unfocused in the darkness. It wouldn’t hurt to check there first. He put the jacket back but the guest room was empty, bed made, silent. He’d have to, unless the jacket was for just in case he got cold while he worked, just easier not to carry something, Francisco’s lips always had a little purple in them. Either way the broom, and Durland found the broom in the coat closet down the hall. He cleaned the mess and tossed it out the back door.
He went to Georgia’s room, and paused to listen. Two sets of breaths, heavy and deep, came back. She may breathe strange, but he knew her breath, she breathed right alone. No echo in past door and quiet so no none of not more no not there. He took a breath. His impressions, the handleless slippery mass that couldn’t be grasped but instead seemed to fall faster through his hands, faster the more he fought it, the subtle movement of eyes, proximity of bodies, what needed who when, by where. The confusing masses that felt and beat and went blank when they shouldn’t when that was exactly what they didn’t want without any specific sense or intention just fear, nothing to keep the ground from shifting. He hoisted the shovel and opened the door.
They were slotted together like cutlery, Francisco curled in a ball, Georgia caressing him from behind. Ugly, disgusting things. Both liars, liars to them. Didn’t think didn’t feel didn’t care. He went to the side of the bed, above them, the lines on Georgia’s face were shadows of lace from the moonlit window rather than the wrinkles that set deep in the daytime. Francisco shifted his broad shoulders onto his back, revealing his face, peaceful and stubbled and unconcerned but something in his sleep must have sensed something because he murmured and his face grew a little tense and then his eyes were open and staring into Durland’s.
Durland imagined the shovel smashing and clanging, slicing as it had to, these faces that had brought him day and night into the woods behind to hack away at the land, to burrow and curse and sweat himself into exhaustion until he couldn’t think, just to get some rest. Rest that they made look so easy, flaunted and forgot him for. Never appreciated the presence he held. Even as the set of open eyes, “Durland” and blank again or semi-blank at the rush of options, first Francisco then Georgia, to leave the shovel in Francisco’s hands and runk back undgroun and fin in good per tomo-or maybe yesyes oh yayes no nono actually smash smashandsmash smashandsmash and smash and really wake them and they “oh please stop,” unsure if it’s a dream or their own Durland in front of them ending it like they always imagined or maybe the shovel goes under the bed and no one knows, he crawls in them and is gone by morning, something he could maybe do over and over and over and at once discovered they might just keep him there in his room after his room wouldn’t all he be the one when she left alone when all and Francisco got the alone got every a rand she would really give Francisco her if and when not him but him if she when she and only over as if be that could be not be home the be the be the be the she her have him. Let shove dro let shovel falldrop and see, just let drop and watch turn, watch fall and drop and turn out of hands, control, let fate, just drop the shovel and let see what, see what happens if the shovel just drops. It right. Just drop it and see. What’s right.
But Durland couldn’t drop the shovel just as he couldn’t swing it. Not at that face not at either but not he could kiss smooch both smooch kiss kiss now too urge of friendship, like ma a closeness, sure a kiss, sure a kiss but a kiss isn’t more unless it’s more and it hadn’t been, and the lips now dark in the night, but forming something, whispering something like “put me down” and how tricky, always so tricky and unwelcome and forced but no, not really, from somewhere within and why couldn’t he, why couldn’t they they could both be could both find comfort in could enjoy the intimacy no all of it could be that type, it was, it could be but what if it’s not but but but could it be, could it function without a word or could it be allowed to be when there was space between words and sometimes looking each other in the eyes made him feel like melted and now smashing a shovel down and down “Durland.”
Francisco seemed tense standing there on the far side of the bed, watching, lit by the window, a grotesque lacy shadow cast across his chest, a grotesque ugly lacy shadow, faint as it was ominous. “Durland.” Firm and not whispered, changing every time, no name ever appears the same way twice, sang almost, always singing even when she spoke, the type of voice with that kind of timber but not Francisco’s or kind of Francisco’s with certain names like his like his like Georgia’s whose breath still rose calm and slow and gave to Durland’s own, “Get out.” But Francisco didn’t and Durland said again “Get out.” But couldn’t bring the shovel higher so couldn’t stop Francisco from walking around the bed and so he smashed. The shovel twisted, slowed by an arm not the face just on the chest so it came again on the top of the head or hands with a scream, a yelling that formed something like two words that repeated as the shovel came down on wrist and hands and elbows as the stumbling young man who could think of nothing to do but oblige and geroutgeroutgerout and did, with the shovel still biting at the calves and feet now until he got to the coat closet and slipped inside and stayed there, the shovel banging against the door, banging banging and yelling and yelling to stop it, just stop, put the shovel down and smaller hands were grasping at his arms but still he whacked at the door, putting dents in it, chipping the finish, and where was Georgia swinging at it why was she in bed swinging and swinging why didn’t she dig when he asked her to even as the door slowly, just laughed tentatively opened she’d didn’t want, would rather see him, didn’t think he’d despite the shovel of steel and wood just sleeping soundly despite his smashing as a man made of coats holding his many arms above his heads emerged was that her yelling to stop to put it down and there was no good place to hit him except for maybe the ankles with real pain and worry and care and fear she was maybe weeping like him for him but he only got one good swing in before being smothered by the heaving jackets, was he now like her under blankets and dreaming, falling back to the floor and the shovel pulled from his hands she would understand why he’d done it and under it all, the panic and fluids and manic curdling, he smelled the earth and the blood and the floor boards sick and sweet and sour and clean.
A rock was scraped, the jagged edge falling heavy at his feet, leaving a small glowing hole. He felt like a mole, or a worm with a dream, as it came from the soil for the first time, tearing at the final orchestra of roots with a new sense of anticipation, making the hole just large enough to squeeze through, then cut a ladder into the wall and rose from the tunnel. The night sky was poorly lit. Durland guessed it was near three in the morning.
The cottage was dark except for a candle burning in the bedroom. Something lacy seemed to seep down every window. A few dozen paces later he was at the back stoop, bringing the shovel with him. He opened the door and heard the tinkle of a small stone dislodge from his boot onto the floor. It would be foolish to leave a mess, any clue—fear, for the first time, wriggled its way into his senses. He knelt but could only do so much with his hands, in desperation he removed his shirt, which only sent whatever else was on it to the ground. Georgia appeared, chiding, teasing, at his back, hand over his, helping him kneel and wipe it up. Durland stepped into the yard and removed his boots, socks and pants as well. He jumped and shook and loosened the waistband. In the dim light he took stock of his clothing. Sweat and dirt had caked to every inch and would stay until it didn’t. He returned to the tunnel and tossed the shirt and jeans after his boots and socks. He’d return there, giddy, grab the clothes, fill up the hole that ended the tunnel and be back home by sunrise. The plan calmed him, and he wiped his hands in the damp grass.
The cottage was quiet, no grating snores or pacing footsteps of the troubled sinner. His bare foot stepped in a mound of dirt he hadn’t cleaned, hadn’t even seen. He flinched and suddenly, overwhelmingly, felt himself a failure, dirty, rotten, his banishment righteous, his suspicions uncalled for. Time was starting to roll away from him, he might wait until tomorrow. He couldn’t wait until tomorrow, he wouldn’t be, it would be and but then what or there was no choice but to sweep it up. The broom closet didn’t have cleaning supplies. No brooms, instead full of coats, too large to be Georgia’s, see yes trust the gut say a mound of girt wood bee a flad a greg a reg a flad red a red flag because it would be. Just like the dirt. They were all there, even the warn leather one, the one that was a little too big for him and stank of body odor and wet sand. His eyes wandered towards the guest room and stayed there, unfocused in the darkness. It wouldn’t hurt to check there first. He put the jacket back but the guest room was empty, bed made, silent. He’d have to, unless the jacket was for just in case he got cold while he worked, just easier not to carry something, Francisco’s lips always had a little purple in them. Either way the broom, and Durland found the broom in the coat closet down the hall. He cleaned the mess and tossed it out the back door.
He went to Georgia’s room, and paused to listen. Two sets of breaths, heavy and deep, came back. She may breathe strange, but he knew her breath, she breathed right alone. No echo in past door and quiet so no none of not more no not there. He took a breath. His impressions, the handleless slippery mass that couldn’t be grasped but instead seemed to fall faster through his hands, faster the more he fought it, the subtle movement of eyes, proximity of bodies, what needed who when, by where. The confusing masses that felt and beat and went blank when they shouldn’t when that was exactly what they didn’t want without any specific sense or intention just fear, nothing to keep the ground from shifting. He hoisted the shovel and opened the door.
They were slotted together like cutlery, Francisco curled in a ball, Georgia caressing him from behind. Ugly, disgusting things. Both liars, liars to them. Didn’t think didn’t feel didn’t care. He went to the side of the bed, above them, the lines on Georgia’s face were shadows of lace from the moonlit window rather than the wrinkles that set deep in the daytime. Francisco shifted his broad shoulders onto his back, revealing his face, peaceful and stubbled and unconcerned but something in his sleep must have sensed something because he murmured and his face grew a little tense and then his eyes were open and staring into Durland’s.
Durland imagined the shovel smashing and clanging, slicing as it had to, these faces that had brought him day and night into the woods behind to hack away at the land, to burrow and curse and sweat himself into exhaustion until he couldn’t think, just to get some rest. Rest that they made look so easy, flaunted and forgot him for. Never appreciated the presence he held. Even as the set of open eyes, “Durland” and blank again or semi-blank at the rush of options, first Francisco then Georgia, to leave the shovel in Francisco’s hands and runk back undgroun and fin in good per tomo-or maybe yesyes oh yayes no nono actually smash smashandsmash smashandsmash and smash and really wake them and they “oh please stop,” unsure if it’s a dream or their own Durland in front of them ending it like they always imagined or maybe the shovel goes under the bed and no one knows, he crawls in them and is gone by morning, something he could maybe do over and over and over and at once discovered they might just keep him there in his room after his room wouldn’t all he be the one when she left alone when all and Francisco got the alone got every a rand she would really give Francisco her if and when not him but him if she when she and only over as if be that could be not be home the be the be the be the she her have him. Let shove dro let shovel falldrop and see, just let drop and watch turn, watch fall and drop and turn out of hands, control, let fate, just drop the shovel and let see what, see what happens if the shovel just drops. It right. Just drop it and see. What’s right.
But Durland couldn’t drop the shovel just as he couldn’t swing it. Not at that face not at either but not he could kiss smooch both smooch kiss kiss now too urge of friendship, like ma a closeness, sure a kiss, sure a kiss but a kiss isn’t more unless it’s more and it hadn’t been, and the lips now dark in the night, but forming something, whispering something like “put me down” and how tricky, always so tricky and unwelcome and forced but no, not really, from somewhere within and why couldn’t he, why couldn’t they they could both be could both find comfort in could enjoy the intimacy no all of it could be that type, it was, it could be but what if it’s not but but but could it be, could it function without a word or could it be allowed to be when there was space between words and sometimes looking each other in the eyes made him feel like melted and now smashing a shovel down and down “Durland.”
Francisco seemed tense standing there on the far side of the bed, watching, lit by the window, a grotesque lacy shadow cast across his chest, a grotesque ugly lacy shadow, faint as it was ominous. “Durland.” Firm and not whispered, changing every time, no name ever appears the same way twice, sang almost, always singing even when she spoke, the type of voice with that kind of timber but not Francisco’s or kind of Francisco’s with certain names like his like his like Georgia’s whose breath still rose calm and slow and gave to Durland’s own, “Get out.” But Francisco didn’t and Durland said again “Get out.” But couldn’t bring the shovel higher so couldn’t stop Francisco from walking around the bed and so he smashed. The shovel twisted, slowed by an arm not the face just on the chest so it came again on the top of the head or hands with a scream, a yelling that formed something like two words that repeated as the shovel came down on wrist and hands and elbows as the stumbling young man who could think of nothing to do but oblige and geroutgeroutgerout and did, with the shovel still biting at the calves and feet now until he got to the coat closet and slipped inside and stayed there, the shovel banging against the door, banging banging and yelling and yelling to stop it, just stop, put the shovel down and smaller hands were grasping at his arms but still he whacked at the door, putting dents in it, chipping the finish, and where was Georgia swinging at it why was she in bed swinging and swinging why didn’t she dig when he asked her to even as the door slowly, just laughed tentatively opened she’d didn’t want, would rather see him, didn’t think he’d despite the shovel of steel and wood just sleeping soundly despite his smashing as a man made of coats holding his many arms above his heads emerged was that her yelling to stop to put it down and there was no good place to hit him except for maybe the ankles with real pain and worry and care and fear she was maybe weeping like him for him but he only got one good swing in before being smothered by the heaving jackets, was he now like her under blankets and dreaming, falling back to the floor and the shovel pulled from his hands she would understand why he’d done it and under it all, the panic and fluids and manic curdling, he smelled the earth and the blood and the floor boards sick and sweet and sour and clean.