Writer’s Journal – Day Three

Dayo-Sheva (Part I)

I cannot fucking believe that woman. The fucking nerve. Who the fuck–

I’m sprawled on the ground, face in the dirt.

I lift my head up gingerly, run my tongue across my teeth and taste blood. Blood and sand. That’s what I get for not paying attention while raging at her latest bullshit attempt to make amends.

I slowly push myself to a seated position and look for the culprit that brought me down.

I wipe my face off as best as I can and my eyes fall on a small flag flapping among the tall grass.

What the fuck is a flag doing there, in the middle of nowhere? Who did that? Why?

I approach on all fours, slowly. Carefully.

Is this one of those geocache things? Here? So random.

There is a circle of patted down dirt around the flag pole. Does it even deserve the name ‘pole’? It’s so tiny. Barely twenty centimeters sticking out of the ground.

I look around me to see if anyone is nearby, perhaps laughing at my expense. Nope, nobody but me, long grass, and this ridiculous little fuschia and navy flag proudly standing at attention.

I pull out the small flick knife I carry everywhere with me and start digging. It rained earlier today so the dirt loosens easily.

I pull the flag out, lay it carefully to the side, and continue digging.

After a few minutes, I put my knife away and use my hands. I need to know what buried here. Can’t be a treasure. It’s 2023. Who buries treasure in 2023? Are there any treasures left to find anymore?

My nails hit on a hard, unyielding surface. I take out my knife again and loosen the edges to expose a smooth, dull gray box. Barely twenty by twenty. It’s heavier than I expected.

I can’t make out the material. It’s not wood. It’s not plastic. Could be metal of some kind. I’m no metallurgical expert.

A seam runs all around the box, but I can’t see any lock. I try to pry it open with my knife, to no avail.

Well, this is annoying. I lean over and look inside the hole, hoping to catch the shine of a key. Nothing but more dirt and bugs.

Right. I sit back down, dejected. This is pointless.

I look down at the box in my hands and sigh. I slowly run my fingers across its smooth surface, enjoying the texture. It’s plain, but it’s oddly beautiful.

I place my right palm flat on what I think of as the lid. What secrets are you keeping safe?

A light appears, outlining my splayed fingers. The fuck. For some reason, I don’t take my hand away.

An inexplicable warmth spreads beneath it from the box. I can hear, actually hear, a vibrating sound in the middle of my head as the light shines brighter and brighter before fading away.

I hear a click, and the lid lifts. Now I take my hand away and pull the lid off.

In the middle of a soft-looking fabric as dark as the deepest space lies a figure.

I place the box–coffin?–down on the ground and stare down at the tiny humanoid. Is it alive? Is it a statue? What the hell is this?

I take one more look around in case this is someone’s version of candid camera, but I’m still alone out in the veld.

I bring my finger close to the prone shape and dare touch it. It’s soft. Soft and warm. Fuuuuuck.

Incredibly, I see its chest rising and falling in time with my rapidly beating heart.

No way. Absolutely not.

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