Erika's Art Blog

I did an illustration of the story I wrote for my short story class.

I bury everything I own. My house is a bleached skeleton, and I am the scavenger bird, picking every last bit of carrion from the ribs. I began with a lamp. It was the light I read by, but when I no longer wanted to read I couldn't stand the sight of it, so I unplugged it, took it to the back yard, and buried it. The weight of the dirt on the end of my shovel felt so good there in the darkness that when I was done, I went back inside to fetch the books I no longer wanted to read, and I buried those too. The smell of fresh earth was like a drug. I buried my pots and pans 4 feet deep, so I wouldn't be tempted to dig them back up. I buried my shoes and my dresses. I buried the wide maternity ones separately, with the unworn blue baby clothes. I buried my chairs. I buried my photos.

I spent every night for the better part of 3 weeks burying my possessions and slept through the days. I did not discriminate; the gold necklace left to me by my grandmother went in the ground just like the salt and pepper shakers shaped like smiling poodles.