The Hole

9 12 2020

Frank stared at the hole. He didn’t trust holes. Holes were where something used to be, and it might come back.

Then what? Then your hole’s gone! See? Can’t trust a hole.

He kept staring though. It was his job for now. Official hole-starer, as it were. He slowly shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then front to back. Small movements that kept the blood flowing to his weary feet, but didn’t disrupt his steady study of the hole. It was vital, he’d been told, that any change in the hole were noted and reported as soon as it happened.

“Just stand there and watch that there hole,” he’d been told. He snorted at the memory and recalled something his father had told him years before: “Never trust a sentence with just in it”. That and holes. Both were untrustworthy in Frank’s view.

A slight breeze blew up and disturbed the grass around the hole, but the hole itself remained. Frank shivered involuntarily as the first exploratory rain drops found their way down his neck.

A mother and her brood shuffled past. “Bloody council workers! One down the hole and the rest just to watch!” she muttered as she passed.



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