3.

the grave digger’s handbook

How does a book thief end up kneeling and howling and flanked by a man-made heap of ridiculous, greasy, cooked-up rubble?

There was an intense spurt of coughing.

When the coughing stopped, there was nothing but the nothingness of life moving on with a shuffle, or a near-silent twitch.

A suddenness found its way onto his lips then, which were a corroded brown color and peeling, like old paint. In desperate need of redoing.

My feet stepped through the cluttered aisle and my palm was over his mouth in an instant.

Prior to waking up, the book thief was dreaming about the Führer, Adolf Hitler

She was listening contentedly to the torrent of words spilling from his mouth.

Wie geht’s dir heut?” She hadn’t learned to speak too well, or even to read, as she had rarely frequented school.

The reason for that she would find out in due course.

The second eye jumped awake and she caught me out, no doubt about it. It was exactly when I knelt down and extracted his soul, holding it limply in my swollen arms.

Her heart at that point was slippery and hot, and loud, so loud so loud.

She woke her up with the same distraught shake.

There was a woman wailing.

The situation was unsavory to say the least.

It was eventually decided that all three of them should be taken to the next township and left there to sort things out.

This time, the train limped through the snowed-in country.

It hobbled in and stopped.

All was white, and as they remained at the station, she could only stare at the faded lettering of the sign in front of her.

I traveled the globe as always, handing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity.

I watched them trundle passively on.