Short Fiction
He called Liz over, reached for her urgently, made love holding on until she pushed him back, pushed him off, said “What gives?” She turned him over, climbed on board, assumed control. A tease of days when Liz was late. Harshe bought the kit, studied the strip, took it hard when Liz got her period. He went back to the woods after dinner. The night was warm and clear. He set the stake for the chain ladder, dropped the free end into the hole, lowered the rope with the bucket attached. The bottom of the hole was hard with rock, the air inside warm as if already breathed. Harshe could taste the dirt, the clay and plant root. He filled the bucket, tugged the rope up through the pulley, let the bucket tip and empty, then lowered it again to remove still more. Bits of soil slid down the walls, tiny avalanches spilling around his feet. He shovelled out all that was there, did not think of reinforcing the walls until larger chunks of dirt peeled away from the middle. The moon came out. Harshe rolled his shoulders, pressed the point of his shovel into fresh earth. In the underground between Lakes Michigan and Huron, down some 700 feet, as the amount of space narrowed from fifty to two miles across, the pressure created forced the waters to shoot through the thinning gap at speeds approaching 300 miles an hour. Harshe imagined the whir and pull and pounding waters churning below while the lakes above disguised the rush and did what they could to appear calm. He bent his back, worked the hole, thought of Liz as he touched her, her skin soft, a mix of air and roses. He pictured himself at Ridgeman, in thick lead-lined gloves, the hot metal chains and steel made orange and steaming. His hands on both had to adjust each time. The light changed and his fingers ached. He thought about what J.T. asked, how if he ever got to the center what he’d do, and climbing from the hole he went over to the stake that kept his chain ladder in place and pulled it out of the ground. Piles of dirt and stone removed in the weeks before surrounded the edge of the hole. Harshe kept on digging, began shovelling the earth back in, refilling the hole completely. When he finished, he smoothed the dirt and stood on top, shuffled his feet across the middle before tossing his shovel into the bed of his truck and driving home. The next day Frank called from Connecticut and Harshe listened to his son’s voice through the line. He remembered teaching Frank to drive in the parking lot, how the lightposts served as beacons, and the way he showed him how to draw close and still make the turn without crashing.
Atticus Review│Get Lit: Round 1
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