shovel, dirt

Raw Burial

“It’s a dumb idea.”
“It’s a great idea. You’re dumb.”
The brothers bickered four more minutes over the dead body. When the oldest sibling reluctantly agreed, they stuffed their late boss into the plastic pallet wrap, and dragged him through the empty warehouse. Heaving, they lifted him into their ‘72 Ford Pickup and drove back to their family property, to bury him in their mother’s garden compost hill.
The stench assaulted them, pulling the corpse from the vehicle.
“No one will find him here, ever. And if they do, they won’t recognize him. He’ll be worm food.”
“They could still identify him, dumb-ass. Don’t you watch CSI?”
“Right. Take his clothes.”
Crickets chirped as sweat poured down their faces breathing in the humid July air. They dug deep through the putrid, rotting mound in slow motion.
“Why does it smell so bad?”
“It’s compost idiot. It’s supposed to smell bad.”
“Still, how many apple cores and plant cuttings does mom have?”
Raw Burial con’t
The shovel connected with something solid. It released a chink as the shovel connected with the white mass again.
“Is that-?”
“Skulls?”
They tapped the shovel against the smaller of the two ribcages.
The two brothers stared down at the old bones mixed with organic matter.
“They never did find dad and that secretary.”
“10 years ago. You don’t think; mom wouldn’t-”
“Nah.”


By Catherine Saykaly-Stevens

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