Stragglers in the Heartland
With apologies to Robert Benchley
Teddy wiped his nose and sank his spade into the earth, again and again, each time lifting out a small piece of his planet and turning it on its side. About two feet down, he hit a vein of worms — hundreds of ’em, slimy and writhing in the raw mist, just asking to be hooked — and Teddy thought about abandoning his duties, ditching church and spending the day fishing for crappie in Oil Creek.
He dumped his son’s body in the wormhole and frowned down at him, shaking his head. “Damn it, Eugene,” Teddy whispered, sniffled and hit himself hard in the face with the shovel to keep from crying. “What in God’s name were you thinkin’?”
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