I know soil. Its memory hums beneath my feet, my hands deep in its dark gospel — decay turned bloom. A cradle for seed, for bone, and eternity’s silence — where roots whisper, gossiping like neighbours over the fence.
I know the hush of unborn gardens, the breath of ancient forests. This soil is no dirt; it is a dream that remembers the shape of everything rising from its palm.
The whole cadence of the conversation changed, and the temperature of Cal’s ears changed with it. His dad only said dude like that when he was contemplating something that annoyed him deeply.
“Did we not teach you to clean under your fingernails?” Dad asked after turning down his music. Which he never did, even when he made Cal drive.
Cal shrugged and strangled the steering wheel. “Ummm, I just forgot.”
“Riiiight. Forgot. After you buried a body?”
Cal couldn’t laugh at the joke. It was noticed.
“Hey. What?”
“Uhhh...” Cal started.
“Oh shit. What? Your ears are red. You did something. Dude?”
Whispers of truth reached out to Cal from the ether, somehow circumventing the constant chaotic shred of Dad’s nineties punk rock. The answer was in the radio. He reached over to the old Toyota dial and changed the station, then cranked up the sacred volume to fill the car with blasphemous news and information. Propaganda, Dad called it, but sometimes the news was true. Cal knew that now, most assuredly.
...appears that the suspect didn’t merely take down the adjacent Ozempic and Pepsi advertisements from the left field fence at School Stadium in the middle of the night, but he broke the signs down and transported the pieces to Schaller Woods Park, where he then reassembled them in the grass before draining the contents of a nearby porta potty all over them, on top of which he added hundreds of bags of dog feces from the dog park dumpster. The suspect then spray painted the words "they’re making you buy your own sickness so they can sell you the cure, and all you have to do to win is show some self control," on the parking lot in all black letters. All of this was captured by various CCTV systems, which seems to have been the suspect’s intent, though local residents and police patrol units saw nothing that raised suspicion at the time. The subject was wearing…
Cal sighed and turned the volume all the way down. “Dad. I uh…”
“Hold on,” his dad said. The old man took a long deep breath and rubbed his bald head. “Dude. That’s the most punk rock thing I’ve heard in my entire fucking life.”
And that was the greatest compliment Cal could have received. He blushed. “Thanks, Dad. I just wanted to...”
“Ssssshhh. No talking now, we’re just gonna savor this moment for as long as it lasts, because we’re going home now, and I’m gonna let your mother ANNIHILATE you, because if she figures it out before I tell her... Seriously. You’re so dead, dude. I feel sorry for you.”
In Hollywood, Hedda Hopper was a star among those dishing the "dirt" on the real stars, those who go in front of a camera and make us believe they are really happy, sad, angry, in love, and much more. These days, such dirt is tweeted and posted and shared online. No one waits for someone like Hedda to spoon feed them gossip. Rest in peace, Hedda. Your day is done.
“Over there,” said the digger driver, pointing at a ragged blue object covered in dirt. “I suppose it's a crime scene now. Why else would someone shove a suitcase into landfill?”
The forensics officers garbed themselves in PPE and went down to take a closer look. The man pulled it out a little, then unzipped it, peered inside, and looked around. “I see bones,” he said. “Human bones. It's murder.”
I don't think I've ever submitted something that has ODed but I so love the way today's one has gone I don't want to get rid of it so I'm afraid it is a 40 word overdose
Dirt – 70mg OD'ed by 40!
==================
She'd just finished the cleaning when there was a bright flash.
“Hi Cinders. Ready for that ball?”
Cinders looked at her hands. “No beautiful dress or golden carriage is going to do it this time. He's bound to notice the dirt under my nails.”
“Hey beautiful, men aren't that observant. He'll see that you're a woman without guile with nice eyes and nice tits. Look babes, when we get to the slipper part he'll only know it's you when the slipper fits. Even your smile and tits will be forgotten by then.”
Cinders looked at her Fairy Godmother and sighed, “Isn't there another way my story could go?”
I will ignore the smear. You’re just being immature, wiping that on me, so I won’t lower myself to your level. I will stand here, proudly, ignoring the little mess that dirties my new pants. I won’t be thinking about it at all. All thoughts of this small, barely noticeable smudge, will be placed completely and totally to the back of my mind.
They stood in the middle of the field eyeing each other with a seriousness that was quite comical. Pleasantries were obliterated by a new language that placed a seriousness on the sport that was a bit over the top. One participant indicated even more displeasure by obliterating his opponent's shoes in a dirt storm. In all seriousness blows were exchanged.
I hate the dirt under my fingernails, the stiffness in my back. I search for hidden produce among never ending weeds. Pulling until I see the rows of growth again, I stop. My carrots, onions and vegetables look so tiny. Why do I bother? I swear I'll never do it again. Then, I pop a fresh sweet pea into my mouth and sigh. Maybe I’ll do raised beds next year
On her knees, she dug through the soil, staining her hands and accumulating dirt under manicured nails. With dogged determination, she dug deeper and deeper, inhaling the earthy scent.
When her fingernails grazed against something hard, her breath stuttered. Had she found it?
She scraped away the dirt until she fully unearthed the small, walnut box.
Opening it, she found the treasure she’d left as a child: her Pog collection.
Ooooooooo! Such imagery! Well done.
Thanks V! ❤️
I know soil. Its memory hums beneath my feet, my hands deep in its dark gospel — decay turned bloom. A cradle for seed, for bone, and eternity’s silence — where roots whisper, gossiping like neighbours over the fence.
I know the hush of unborn gardens, the breath of ancient forests. This soil is no dirt; it is a dream that remembers the shape of everything rising from its palm.
(Massive Overdose)
“Dude…”
The whole cadence of the conversation changed, and the temperature of Cal’s ears changed with it. His dad only said dude like that when he was contemplating something that annoyed him deeply.
“Did we not teach you to clean under your fingernails?” Dad asked after turning down his music. Which he never did, even when he made Cal drive.
Cal shrugged and strangled the steering wheel. “Ummm, I just forgot.”
“Riiiight. Forgot. After you buried a body?”
Cal couldn’t laugh at the joke. It was noticed.
“Hey. What?”
“Uhhh...” Cal started.
“Oh shit. What? Your ears are red. You did something. Dude?”
Whispers of truth reached out to Cal from the ether, somehow circumventing the constant chaotic shred of Dad’s nineties punk rock. The answer was in the radio. He reached over to the old Toyota dial and changed the station, then cranked up the sacred volume to fill the car with blasphemous news and information. Propaganda, Dad called it, but sometimes the news was true. Cal knew that now, most assuredly.
...appears that the suspect didn’t merely take down the adjacent Ozempic and Pepsi advertisements from the left field fence at School Stadium in the middle of the night, but he broke the signs down and transported the pieces to Schaller Woods Park, where he then reassembled them in the grass before draining the contents of a nearby porta potty all over them, on top of which he added hundreds of bags of dog feces from the dog park dumpster. The suspect then spray painted the words "they’re making you buy your own sickness so they can sell you the cure, and all you have to do to win is show some self control," on the parking lot in all black letters. All of this was captured by various CCTV systems, which seems to have been the suspect’s intent, though local residents and police patrol units saw nothing that raised suspicion at the time. The subject was wearing…
Cal sighed and turned the volume all the way down. “Dad. I uh…”
“Hold on,” his dad said. The old man took a long deep breath and rubbed his bald head. “Dude. That’s the most punk rock thing I’ve heard in my entire fucking life.”
And that was the greatest compliment Cal could have received. He blushed. “Thanks, Dad. I just wanted to...”
“Ssssshhh. No talking now, we’re just gonna savor this moment for as long as it lasts, because we’re going home now, and I’m gonna let your mother ANNIHILATE you, because if she figures it out before I tell her... Seriously. You’re so dead, dude. I feel sorry for you.”
HEDDA
In Hollywood, Hedda Hopper was a star among those dishing the "dirt" on the real stars, those who go in front of a camera and make us believe they are really happy, sad, angry, in love, and much more. These days, such dirt is tweeted and posted and shared online. No one waits for someone like Hedda to spoon feed them gossip. Rest in peace, Hedda. Your day is done.
PROMPT: DIRT
THE COFFIN
Once we’d made sure he was securely in the coffin, we sealed the lid shut.
As tightly as we could.
Then, we lowered the wooden box into the ground and covered it in six feet of earth, to ensure it was an inescapable prison.
But barely three minutes later, the dirt on top of the grave started moving, and his shaking hand came bursting out again.
Which was a sight that never got old, even though, as part of the stage crew, we all knew how the illusion was done… 😎
70mg of Dirt - Another Monty Story
Monty eyed the Jeep—Jay’s “Zebra”—with disapproval.
“Dirt and grime is a lifestyle choice now?”
Jay shrugged. “That’s trail-earned dust.”
Monty sniffed a stripe, then sat squarely on the hood.
A passing child whispered, “Look! A safari cat!”
Monty froze. Jay laughed.
“See? Now you’re part of the design.”
Monty glared.
That night, he left muddy paw prints across the windshield.
His final review: Could use more feline.
“Over there,” said the digger driver, pointing at a ragged blue object covered in dirt. “I suppose it's a crime scene now. Why else would someone shove a suitcase into landfill?”
The forensics officers garbed themselves in PPE and went down to take a closer look. The man pulled it out a little, then unzipped it, peered inside, and looked around. “I see bones,” he said. “Human bones. It's murder.”
I don't think I've ever submitted something that has ODed but I so love the way today's one has gone I don't want to get rid of it so I'm afraid it is a 40 word overdose
Dirt – 70mg OD'ed by 40!
==================
She'd just finished the cleaning when there was a bright flash.
“Hi Cinders. Ready for that ball?”
Cinders looked at her hands. “No beautiful dress or golden carriage is going to do it this time. He's bound to notice the dirt under my nails.”
“Hey beautiful, men aren't that observant. He'll see that you're a woman without guile with nice eyes and nice tits. Look babes, when we get to the slipper part he'll only know it's you when the slipper fits. Even your smile and tits will be forgotten by then.”
Cinders looked at her Fairy Godmother and sighed, “Isn't there another way my story could go?”
Nice twist. Who needs a Prince Charming when one has an intelligent brain?
The only overdose that’s good for you! 😁
I will ignore the smear. You’re just being immature, wiping that on me, so I won’t lower myself to your level. I will stand here, proudly, ignoring the little mess that dirties my new pants. I won’t be thinking about it at all. All thoughts of this small, barely noticeable smudge, will be placed completely and totally to the back of my mind.
.
.
.
I HATE YOU AND YOUR SUCKY DIRT!!
They stood in the middle of the field eyeing each other with a seriousness that was quite comical. Pleasantries were obliterated by a new language that placed a seriousness on the sport that was a bit over the top. One participant indicated even more displeasure by obliterating his opponent's shoes in a dirt storm. In all seriousness blows were exchanged.
The media called it a dust up for the ages.
Microdosing – 70 mg of Dirt
- Have you been eating dirt again?
- No, Mom, I was gardening.
- Then why is there dirt between your teeth?
- There is?
- Yes—and all the way from your neck to your pants. What were you doing?
- It’s complicated.
- Try me.
- The Venus flytrap got my friend, and I was trying to get her out.
- Is she okay?
- The plant or my friend?
- Your friend!
- A little bruised—but she’s fine!
I love the response to "is she okay?" and the way the mother doesn't take a breath. Brilliant
Mothers will always be mothers! 😁
That must've been a huge Venus Flytrap.
Or they were really small. You never know! 😎
I hate the dirt under my fingernails, the stiffness in my back. I search for hidden produce among never ending weeds. Pulling until I see the rows of growth again, I stop. My carrots, onions and vegetables look so tiny. Why do I bother? I swear I'll never do it again. Then, I pop a fresh sweet pea into my mouth and sigh. Maybe I’ll do raised beds next year
Dirt --- 70mg
_________________________________
She floated above the grave, watching as her stepfather shoveled dirt over her body.
Every scoop hit hard, like he wanted to cover up more than just her existence.
His face was cold, empty—no tears, no sadness.
Just him, working fast, like he needed her gone.
But she wasn’t really gone.
Not yet.
And she would make sure he never forgot what he did.
Never
Not for one single night.
Ohhhh, I LOVED this one, Miguel
Thanks! I sort of knew you'd love it though haha.
"Okay, fill me in." The chief leaned back in his seat, chewed on his (sadly unlit) cigar. "Give me the dirt."
"Well, to start, the police say he was robbed, but they didn't take his wallet, watch, or phone--"
"Nope. Gonna stop you right there. Sometimes a robbery is just a robbery."
"Sometimes, but--"
"Sorry, that dog won't hunt. Go find me some real news."
That's when Clark first realized Perry was in on it.
Treasures
On her knees, she dug through the soil, staining her hands and accumulating dirt under manicured nails. With dogged determination, she dug deeper and deeper, inhaling the earthy scent.
When her fingernails grazed against something hard, her breath stuttered. Had she found it?
She scraped away the dirt until she fully unearthed the small, walnut box.
Opening it, she found the treasure she’d left as a child: her Pog collection.