- Jun 7
By Jefferson Navicky

He began to dig the grave at the edge of the woods, and he knew he had to dig the hole deeper than he thought, but once he broke through the top layer of roots, he found the unexpected: brick after whole brick buried in the ground, and it was like the dirt stored the bricks suspended in amber, as if the earth planned to build a house one day below ground, a stately mansion for the dead to sleep in the great underground caverns inaccessible to the living, this future castle awaiting construction, but the question was when, and by whom – sweat caked on his skin, shovel in hand, standing knee deep in a hole of his own making, he wanted nothing more than to volunteer to build it.
Jefferson Navicky lives in rural midcoast Maine where he writes about barns and cats.
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