CHANGE OF HEART
Within the shadow of the watchful oak on top of the hill, the earth was stirring; soil forced upwards, something breaking through. It could have been mistaken for a curious mole pushing towards daylight. But the thing wasn’t pushing through the soil, it was the soil. It was an arm of dried mud in a sea of dried mud. Fingers formed at the top of the limb, slowly flexing, slowly, reluctantly, remembering.
Next there was a head, lumpen and featureless, a neck, a shoulder. Another hand emerged, the fingers on this one grasping at the air. The shape birthed itself from the ground, arms pushing the torso upwards, a badly-drawn human in clay. Its legs emerged, jointed at the knee, and it tore itself away from the surface. It was free.
The only one watching knew that the thing wasn’t actually freeing itself but squashing down and trapping itself, or part of itself, into this tight bipedal form. It wouldn’t be happy about that. Using its newly acquired hands, the thing made of soil patted itself down, shook free loose pieces of dirt and whatever moss and leaves and lichen, spiders
