Piercing Soil

Sometimes the everyday objects we use, pass through our hands without a second thought. They become just another tool to aid with the tasks of the day. Devices that ease our life, slip into the fabric of the days, getting lost in the warp and weft of time.

What happens when we enter into the life of one of these tools, and see the world and work through their eyes? I offer the story, Piercing Soil as an experiment to that end. Welcome to the life of an object that has seen generations pass, taken on tasks now forgotten, and silently makes itself available to feeble humans.

Below is a preview of Piercing Soil. You can gain full access to the story by joining the "One Plan". For only $12 you will receive 12 original short stories (it's quite the steal).

Members Click Here to Read "Piercing Soil"

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PIERCING SOIL

BY NATE BARKER

1912-1950

“Hello, my old friend,” she calls softly. “We have work to do, you and I.”

Words that again start a cycle.

She lifts me from the shed wall—long winter sleep broken—a light sharpening by the honing stone, handle firmly grasped in weathered hands; experience and expectation guiding the turning of a small plot, now brown, soon green, then a rainbow of color and flavor.

It feels good to pierce the soil. Green grass parting. Compact earth giving way. The coolness of the land against my face; inhaling the moist residue of centuries. Her boot firmly against my back, emerging full; a tight burden of brown lifted on my gleaming steel. Sunlight and fresh air kissing the hidden, like a newborn emerging from the womb. The freedom of the release as the air moves across my back—burden let loose—dark clumps turned and broken. Excavating the past and becoming filled with dreams of the future.

The spring never disappoints.

We work as one. Weathered hands and curved steel, carving the land. Sculptor, tool, and sculpture in unison of plan and purpose.

The work is not all labor, and from above the weathered hands comes a half-whispered tune; the melody, older than the lips that sing it.

We have planted,

in our garden,

lots of maize and mangelwurzels;

From the churchyard,

rats of all kinds,

came and ate them all up.

Get you home, you thieving rats,

or we’ll buy a dozen cats.

Get you home, you thieving rats,

or we’ll buy a dozen cats.

Shoo! Shoo! Shoo!

            With every other line we pierce and flip—the earth turned upside down. A sleeping giant prodded and poked, encouraged to reveal secrets. The worms wake and attempt their slow scurry. Ants, perturbed, scold and fuss. We slip past them, cutting, digging; there is joy in the undulation.

            Lifetimes ago, on the pegs of the mercantile, with its smells of burlap and lantern oil...READ MORE by becoming a One Plan member.