100 words
November 7, 2010
He dug a hole for no reason. He dug, throwing the dirt behind him, lifting the shovel, lowering it, lifting. The rhythm calmed him. His hand still hurt from punching the microwave forty minutes before. He grabbed on firmer to the handle. They had just called, they had just told him she had died, and the fridge became too loud and that pot pie in the microwave became infuriating and he heard them on the phone, heard them say “she fought hard” and “it was quick, she didn’t feel any pain” and then the microwave window was shattered. He digs.
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