Dirt I kicked the dirt. It sprayed up in a puff of dust. Dry. Orange, slightly yellowed where the light touched it. Dirt. I was quickly called out for kicking the dirt. It’s dirt, you wouldn’t expect someone to be so upset about it, as if it were sacred soil. Which it was, but that wasn’t the point. It was dirt. Tiny pieces of dead stuff, broken pieces of rock, of random other minerals. Dirt. I snapped back on this point. It. Was. Insignificant. Dirt. But nooooo, fancy dirt. From a world far away, or something. As if that made it worth more. It was still just ground up soil on the floor. If it was so important, why didn’t they put it in a jar or something? Why not bottle it up, ensure its safety? It’s just dirt, it’s not like caging an animal or something. How else am I supposed to know I’m not allowed to kick it. .. Apparently there was a sign. Whoops. Still dirt. Hell, it was prettier flying than it ever was on the floor. Orange with shiny yellow, an illusion like gold. It was better off. But no. Don’t touch the dirt. Important dirt. Sacred dirt. I just don’t get it. If the place is already gone, what does it matter that you get to mess with it’s ashes? It’s better than pretending the place never happened, or worse, just talking around it. It’s dirt. Familiar. If anything, it could be commentary that this other, familiar world, held the same soil as we did. But no, kicking it, realizing this similarity is bad. Rude. Just let me kick dirt. Did those people even think it was sacred? Would the dirt we bury our waste in be sacred in a thousand years? Would anyone who found it put it in a “no touchie” jar? It’s dirt. The same as yours, the same as mine, the same as theirs. Pretending it’s more than that disconnects from the world it came from. It wasn’t very different. Same dirt. Same, pretty shine when it touched the light in the air once kicked. Powdery, dry, easy to hit. How would we know it was so similar, if I hadn’t interacted with it? Hadn’t kicked it? Yes I am justifying kicking dirt. “Sacred” dirt. Dirt, of all things. God forbid it was sand.
Dirt, a short story written on January 5th, 2026 for an English class warm up. Happy new year. Preferred font: Atomic Age
