Mammon
Cocoa-dusted soil ran off my gloves like Adam’s ale as I began to unfold and dig deeper into the ground’s underbelly. Kneeling in dew on that mistier-than-usual morning, I tucked gazania seeds into a bed of grass in time for Spring. With each tiring scoop of my spade, the ephemeral rush of a warm exhale among cold inhales of the frosty air exhilarated me inside. Distracted by this balmy sensation, I almost missed that my pine-shaded spade had hit a dead-end. I could only make out what it was from the tip of what looked like pale-green shaded paper peeking out among the earth hiding this bewildering object like a blanket of shadows concealing Mammon itself. I tossed my spade aside and began uncovering the paper, revealing itself to be stacks of money, brushing off the last fragments of the petrichor-scented dirt. I couldn’t decipher between the adrenaline of my frosty inhales or the thrilling consternation of what my eyes were perceiving. I kneeled in stupefaction as £100 bills smirked deceivingly at me, giggling at its power over my senses.
