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The Hand Under the Earth

  • Foto del escritor: Emilia C. Aguilar
    Emilia C. Aguilar
  • 8 abr 2021
  • 3 Min. de lectura

It was hot, especially if one lived in England. Under the warm sun, sweating through his clothes, a young man called Alan was digging a vegetable bed for his neighbors. He was not very keen on the job, but any money was good money, and he needed it urgently. The man that had hired him, Paul, was standing next to him constantly, talking about the current political situations around the globe, and observing how Alan stuck his shovel deep into the earth. Alan only listened to half of the things the old man said. He was so focused on the work that he forgot hunger, thirst, even breathing sometimes. The only existing things on the planet were the dirt he was digging up, and him. It was good exercise, both physical and mental. He had, for the first time in weeks, time to think about his life, which was leading nowhere. His dream of becoming a sculptor was more a fantasy than a reality. At least he could model the earth, he thought to himself. He dedicated all of his efforts to finish the job, so he could go home. At four in the afternoon, the wife, Margaret, came out of the house, which he had been forbidden to enter, with three cups of tea. It was milky, and sugary, maybe too sweet for the boy's taste, but he drank it with pleasure after two hours working under the sun. They had no conversation whatsoever. She kept smiling at him in an automatic way, while Paul talked about the hot weather and the consequences coronavirus would have on the economy. Alan could tell he was uncomfortable around him. After ten minutes of a soliloquy by Paul, Alan resumed his task. This time, he wondered why they had not let him come into the house, and the only thing he could think of is the social distancing taken to an extreme. They were an odd couple. They barely talked to each other, and yet they seemed to share many things. Every once in a while, Alan dug up some piece of wood as big as his head and tossed it aside in order to continue. It must be the old bed, he thought to himself, the wood is so strong. And off he went, until daylight turned to dusk, and still digging, Alan was. He was so focused on his work that he did not notice Paul asking him to stay for supper. Margaret was shouting from the kitchen that they had tasty soup and fish, and definitely should hang around for the evening. Alan kept digging after saying he would stay, and Paul disappeared through the door to tell his wife Alan's decision. Shoveling away, he nailed his tool on a hard thing. Damned wood, he thought. He ducked, even more, to tear the dirt apart, so he could easily access the piece of bed and remove it without much thought. When he brought up the object, he discovered, to his surprise, that it was not a piece of wood, not even a boulder that had made its way underground. It was a hand. A human limb, rotting and looking almost skeletal. He let out a scream and dropped the hand on the floor. He did not want to keep digging, in fear of unearthing more parts of the poor body that had been buried under the vegetable bed. The sky was dark now, and Alan decided to excuse himself and run away as soon as he could. He forgot about dinner, he forgot about the money, he just wanted to get as far away as possible from the damned house, as he was referring to it in his mind.


What Alan did not see, with the rush of the moment, was Paul creeping behind him not long after he found the hand. The last thing Alan saw from this world was a big rock on Paul's hand, hitting him on his head. And Margaret behind her husband, smiling timidly as he killed him.

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I am a writer who wants to be an author. I am a posgraduate student at the University of Winchester, MA in Creative Writing. I hope you enjoy my shorts stories and book reviews!

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