He pushed the soil through his hands, and then he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. He found, by moving his fingers, the roots within the soil, and grabbed hold of them and started shaking the clump. The mud fell out in giant clods and smashed on the floor. He was making a mess, so he stopped and went to the side wall to get the broom.

He lent against the broom and looked over the whole of his land. It seemed to stretch on for miles. In fact it did. There wasn't another soul for miles around. He was totally alone in this world, because of the way that he had chosen to live. He had chosen to live this way, without anyone. He was thinking this, as he was about to go back to his work. When he was shot dead.

Labels: Fiction, Short