Introducing Litro Shorts: a visual teaser inspired by “Hole” by Michael Matejcek — part of our new experiment in bringing short fiction into moving image without losing the quiet force of the page.
Litro Shorts: “Hole” by Michael Matejcek. A short visual teaser inspired by the story.
James hikes down Aspen Circle past the neat rows of Split Levels and Ranches, all with their fresh sod and spindly saplings that look more like sticks than trees that might someday cast some shade. He heads to where the asphalt turns to gravel, where that half-finished Craftsman has been abandoned for weeks. Today he doesn’t slip behind the plywood slapped over the entrance. Today he’s not interested in what’s inside. Today he scrambles up the dirt pile by the garage and slides down the other side to where the trench stretches out to the stubbled cornfield. A gash in the earth no one has bothered to fill.
He hesitates, then tosses his school backpack into the hole, knowing it will force him to follow. The leap sends a jolt through his spine, but he sits still, breathing deeply until the pain passes. The air down here is cool, almost damp. The dirt walls are lined with roots, the backhoe’s grooves still clean in the clay. He stretches upwards, the trench’s edge an arm’s length away. He sits in shadow, cool and heavy, while the layers of soil at the far end are bright with sun. Overhead, the sky, a rectangle of blue, is framed by the jagged earth.
He unzips his pack – two tuna sandwiches, a box of raisins, his mother’s garden trowel, a half-crushed box of rice from yesterday’s takeout, the last of the Ho-Hos. He frowns at the Ho-Hos. Those are Chris’s. For sure his brother will be pissed, that is, if he’s even home to notice. Lately, he’s been pretty much living at Linda’s, but today is Saturday. Linda has a shift at the diner, and his father, who’s been doing seventy-hour weeks, sometimes takes the afternoon off, meaning there’s a chance both he and Chris could be home. A small chance, but there.
He’ll eat one sandwich now and save the rest for later – something he picked up from his mom, who, in her last year, made the day’s meals early while she still had the strength. When she could no longer get out of bed, it was just him and Chris in the kitchen. Tuna sandwiches were his thing. Nothing fancy, but something Chris would eat. He forgot to pack a drink, so each bite is an effort to get down. That’s all right, though. He has time. He leans back against the dirt, staring at the narrow sky, chewing slowly.
The sun is out of sight, but the shadow slashing across the dirt makes it easy to place it in the sky. The line of light makes him think of Marcie Mosier, the girl behind him in fifth grade, her whisper delicate on the back of his neck. See the light? How it climbs the wall? How it lines up with the whiteboard? You can tell the time if you know how to watch. He fills his lungs, slowly exhales, and lowers his lids to follow the shadow creeping up the trench wall. He wishes Marcie could see it with him. But Monday, he’ll describe for her the shadow wrapping its way around the spidery roots, the dark slowly engulfing layers of soil. She’ll smile, and he’ll feel its warmth filling his chest, flushing upward until it reaches the back of his skull.
The excited barking startles him, and for a minute, he forgets where he is. Above, frantic movements, a flash of yellow fur. A dog pacing, ears flattened, yapping madly until its ears prick up to some far-off sound, and is gone. James holds his breath, straining to hear beyond the sudden silence. There it is – voices, muffled but distinct, calling out his name. In his mind, he sees them clearly – neighbors gathering, calling to each other, Chris and his father among them. His father’s face tight with worry, Chris offering one of his socks or maybe a tee shirt to the dog to catch his scent. He should call out, but not yet, let them search, let them sweat. He closes his eyes to feel the comfort of their concern, the crew spreading out, their eyes sharp, alert, until finally, the barking grows near, the lab leaping eagerly at the edge of the hole.
Then, as if the wind has carried them away, the yaps and yells are gone. Only the tarp flapping over the eave of the house. He opens his eyes, not sure how long he’s been there, or if he’s heard any sound at all. The sky, before a piercing blue, has washed out to a heavy dusk. The trench is now swallowed in a darkness so heavy it’s almost solid, a thing he can’t imagine anyone penetrating from above.
His breath plumes before his face. He is suddenly very cold. And hungry. He can’t stop shivering. He voices his mother’s familiar scolding, “James, you need to eat,” the words startling the silence. He devours the second sandwich, the raisins, but he cannot stomach the rice. He’s still hungry, but he’ll leave the Ho-Hos. Those he’ll return to the cupboard above the refrigerator for Chris.
His eyes have adjusted to the dark. The wall opposite the house is less steep and is thick with roots. The earth is loose. The trowel bites into it easily, giving him footholds. The roots are as stout as ropes, and it’s not long before he’s clambered over the lip of the trench. The sky has deepened to an inky blue, thin streaks of crimson stretch across the horizon over the cornfield. The gravel crunches under his feet until it turns back to pavement flanked by orderly homes, each with windows glowing yellow in the twilight.
His own house at the end of the block stands unlit. A silhouette against the sky.
Without warning the street lights flicker to life, the glare washing over the street, a sight he’s never seen before, and for an instant, it seems as if the world has whispered a secret meant only for him.
