Dig

Here the start to a short story I'm working on.

Sweat ran from his callused skin. If his boss paid him for the salt in his secretions, Jengo would be the richest man in western Uganda. Knee deep in Lake Katwe, Jengo felt the warm black water ripple against his black skin. Synthetic shores were black, just like spirits, while the sky was a hellish red.
Journalists came occasionally, taking pictures and asking question, then leaving. They came to capture the geographical bleakness of the land, never once understanding the true horror was the workers who relied on the jagged chewed-up piece of earth. To them this wasn’t hell: it was living.
Jengo felt the equatorial sun drying salt crystals around his nostrils. His skin tightened but at least he couldn’t smell sulphur anymore. He dipped his hands past his waist and into the soulless water. His fingers pawed at nothing more than resistance until his shoulders were submerged.
Bent as if touching his toes, Jengo struggled to keep his head above water. His eyes were already bloated and gunky. He knew workers who thought it was easier to put their heads under, but Mr Jang had taught him otherwise.
“Boy, this mine’s going to tear your body up. Put your head under and you’ll only make the whole thing quicker, understand me?”
Jengo nodded, an eager streak of a boy he was quick to learn. “Any other tips for me mister?”
“Any cuts you get yourself some superglue and seal ‘em before you get in. Water will eat ‘em up something good.”
“But I haven’t got money for glue”
“Not many people have. You ever get a nasty cut come to me and I’ll give you a drop of glue for it.”
Jengo watched Mr Jang pull a square of blue foil from his pocket. It shone like a jewel in the desolate land. Mr Jang’s crusted fingers tore the foil and fished around inside. Carefully, he pulled out an oily, yellow rubber.
“Wrap one of these on everyday. Women don’t like men with ulcerous ones.”
Jengo took the condom, turned away from Mr Jang and slipped it on. It felt close and unfamiliar, but once inside the Lake Katwe, Jengo was glad for its protection.
Now, with his chin nuzzling the surface of the water, Jengo felt his hand strike salt crystals. His fingers worked like little teeth, gnawing at the lump to break it free. In the struggle, water danced into his mouth and nose.

Introduction

Here's an opening I've been working on for a few days now. I don't have a title or even a complete plot, just a rough path to follow, although I'm sure it won't take me where I expect it to.

***

Night fell suddenly. Like some creature in space had tossed a sheet over earth, willing mankind to their cages and sleep.
Tom looked out across his garden and saw the world with new eyes. At this hour, things were inexplicably different. His retina’s picked up on light he used to neglect, his optical nerve processed with a new diligence.
A fern billowed in the slight autumn breeze, it’s branches waving suggestively at the innocent cherry tree, who’s fruit seemed to blush.
In the dry humidity of the midday heat, the expansive lawn had begun to mimic the sun’s canary colour. Now it was grey, flat and compressed, as if it alone was shouldering the sky’s weight.
The box hedge ran the perimeter of the garden and looked like a 12 block of moldy cheese, left by yesterday’s giants. In the furthest north corner of the garden, someone had sliced a wedge of foliage and replaced it with a sturdy wooden gate which allowed access to the bordering cemetery.
The gate always remained padlocked, not because Tom was scared of a zombie invasion but simply because he didn’t like sharing his air with the dead. They didn’t need his clean, perfumed air and he didn’t need their stale, remorseful stuff.
Whenever he inserted the key to open the lock, he was sure it warmed right there in the center of his palm, as if he were opening the gates of Hell. He knew the problem was entirely psychological, but still avoided any unnecessary trips to the gate, just encase one day he accidentally started some kind of rapture. Celebrity culture is bad at the best of times, but imagine being that guy, he thought on more than three occasions.
It would be unfair to call him a recluse, if he was to die suddenly his body would be found before it decomposed, but not before his eyes turned milky and glazed over like pearl buttons.
An early winter wind barged past the subtle autumn breeze and hit the branches of a weeping willow causing it to mimic a mushroom cloud. Tom resented this tree and it’s unruly manner. His first gardener had told him the only course of action was to cut it down. Three gardeners later, Tom agreed.
Despite his contempt for the creature, he could not bear to fell it as his father had planted it when they first moved. The current gardener, Paul, simply trimmed the leaves around the base allowing the foxtrots to bask in the sun. To him, this action was a little like cutting a lion’s mane with plastic scissors just to tan it’s ears, but he never voiced this opinion. The pay was far too good.
The smell of charred cake mix sucked Tom’s mind back into the kitchen where his body was waiting. Standing, he charged for the plain black oven gloves on the side of his plain black countertop.
His house was like his garden, organised and proper. While the artist who painted garden worked with a flurry of greens, golds and colours in between, the artist tasked with the house had a much more reserved pallet. Black, brown and off-white seemed to be his favored colours, because they were the only ones used.
Tom guided his hands into the gloves as he made his way to the back wall of the kitchen where the oven sat, short and squat. A nail on his left hand caught fabric and made an innocent whine. The sound scrambled Tom’s brain and made him want to stick a finger in his ear and manually remove the noise from his head. He didn’t.
Instead he crouched, pulled the oven door open and watched a plume of smoke rise from it’s belly. It felt dirty and hot as it poured around his face before vanishing through the extractor fan.

A Reassuring Noose

Pull me down
To my knees
Hang around my neck.

We’ll spiral down
Into the dark
A ship that’s bound to wreck.

Sit with me
Let us lunch
Upon the sands of time.

Scale the walls
Don’t look down
Just enjoy the climb.

We are trapped
Bound with lust
Imprisoned by our cause.

Here’s to us
Just the two
We’ve bolted all the doors.

Life is life
Death is death
Neither’s our’s to chose:

But with you here
By my side
I know I cannot lose.

Ghosts

I’ve seen ghosts walk through the dark
I’ve held my hand in theirs’
I’ve shared with them my dying dreams
They’ve told me all their prayers

We walk alone in this world
Our feet compress the dirt
When its our time to move along
The world remains unhurt

The rivers still drain into the sea
Just no one left to sink
Our writers and poets are all gone
Their message left in ink

The message is a warning
Meant for you and I
The shortest part of living
Is the time before you die

I see the ghosts walk on this land
Because I am of their kin
The secret of your world is simple
Some battles you cannot win

Remember me when its all done
And you’re buried in your shrine
The darkness sits upon your chest
You’ll hold your hand in mine.

My Fair Lady

This is for you, my darling
And your buildings that chase the sky
I’ve invested all my hopes in you
The apple of my eye.

I haven’t set foot upon your flesh
Or touched your concrete skin
In your streets you have my heart
Now its yours I wish to win.

Until I set out upon my quest
I ask one thing to you
Do not change or alter slight
Remain forever new.