Ash

The human’s motions were repetitious and self infatuated. First he would cradle the pile of dirt in his arms, grovel before its soft touch, and then carefully allow it to sprinkle on the ground in a little heap; from there he smoothed out the pointed top of his miniature mountain, looked at it again, lovingly, and repeated the process with equal zeal.

The room was small. The human sat in the center performing his cycle. All around him stood compressed and gloomy walls, shaded a dirty black and supervised on all corners by a ceiling dripping with some sort of dark, burning wax. Often the wax would fall and burn through the human’s clothes, but he would only slightly wince, if that, and continue to caress the dirt. The room was eventually going to burn to the ground and smother the human within its own ashes; the wax was a testament of this brutality. But there was an incredible setup, almost like a play, if you will, where a station of captivation entertained the human until his hellish demise was reached. The dirt was the human’s life. He never tired of feeling its softness on his fingers or watching it curl to the ground as a cloud. He considered the waxy rain as a senseless distraction and condemned its interference. He did not even notice the increased precipitation of the liquid heat, or that the black walls were already beginning to sag from weakness.

The sounds from outside the walls were also despised, but in an entirely different measure as the constant drip of wax. They would come when the drops of wax momentarily ceased, and would roll like thunder into the human’s ears. He did not understand the voice, but only interpreted it as a foolish din. If the dirt was in its neat mountain, the voice would cause it to vibrate and smooth over the floor, making it difficult to retrieve. But sooner or later the wax would start dripping again and the piles of dirt would again accumulate, no matter how daunting the situation seemed. And then the human regained his smile, though at times his lips distorted into a sudden influx of hatred, and he continued his lifeless cycle. He was in love with soil, which refused the taste of water or anything pure. It fumed putrid smells, filling the human’s inviting nostrils, and the more he inhaled, the more the dust gathered his passion.

“It is my dirt, is it not?” the human told himself after a fine portrayal of cradling the muck. “I found it and I love it. It entertains me. It is mine to be entertained by.” His conversation bore no friend to reply, so therefore he continued in a monotone, half expecting the dirt to speak instead. But it only unfurled in dusty spirals and intoxicated his open lungs. The voice echoed from outside the walls once more. The human recoiled and grasped his hair.

“Go away!” he hissed. “It burns, that voice! It burns worse than the wax.” The voice did subside for a short while, and for the moment the human was satisfied. His grip lessened and his hands returned to the pile of dirt. He scooped it up once more and softly punctured his finger into its midst. He smiled, but this was immediately interrupted by a thunderous boom that made the dirt tumble from the human’s hands and scatter over the floor. The human, terrified and enraged, leapt to his feet and screamed, “What do you want from me?” The voice did not recede as previously. This time the words formed and found their way into the human’s blocked ears.

“There is a way!” the voice rumbled. “I shall fight through the walls and bear the shame of your crumbling household.”

No other words could be processed in the human’s brain except, “What of my dirt?”

“It will be destroyed along with the household, and its poison will never again taint your soul.” The human gnashed his teeth.

“It is my dirt!” he seethed.

“If you do not come, you will die,” the voice said sternly. The human began to search the house over, and after a full investigation retorted, “It will never fall, this house of mine!”

The human appeared to be on strict guard of himself; one second he would look at his pile of dirt, and then jump around to check if the walls were still contained. For some time, the air was strangely silent, and the wax stopped dripping altogether. The dirt lay scattered at the human’s feet. And the voice returned softly, like a pungent sword gently weaving through the flesh. “My dear human, how I wish to see you free. How I yearn for your life. Understand my words. I love you.”

The human’s cold eyes softened. His heart felt like it was being untied of its knots. “Love,” he repeated in wonder. He glanced back down at the dirt and was appalled that his desire to handle the stuff was receding like a flashing wave. Light, which had not been present in the room before, was illuminating the room to a golden tint. But the room was still weak, and it swayed.

“Come now, my son,” came the voice. The door that opened near the room’s corner allowed a shaft of blinding light to enter the human’s vision. He gave a cry and kneeled ashamed to the floor.

“I will come!” he declared, and fled out the door. He passed someone on the way out, and as he did so, the building groaned and crashed heavily to the ground. Green grass was under the human’s feet. The household was in a smoldering heap, and buried somewhere within it, the dirt resided, burning under its own curse. The human’s breath came quickly. He looked around him to sight lush green woods and a sidling stream alight with the sun’s gleam. But he saw no one besides himself.

“Where have you gone?” he shouted. “Return to me, O voice of honey!”

A man arose from the ashes. And yet, at first glance, the human knew he was much more than a man.

The End