Good Dirt: A Novel Novels & Stories

I throw the broken part in my hand to the ground, and while waiting for them, I step on his fingers, pressing down slowly, until I feel the tremor under my shoe. “Remember this,” I tell him quietly. “Every time you try to touch someone who isn’t yours.” “Fuck!” “Mommy’s boy,” I mock, staring down at him with barely contained disgust. “Always someone else cleaning up after you.” My voice is low and dangerous. “Well, this time your mother won’t be cleaning up after you. Maybe rotting away in a fucking cell will teach you some damn manners,” I spit and he shakes his head, raising it slightly to look at me. I lean downward, a smile playing on my lips.

I grinded against him accordingly. "You've been a bad girl, Jordan." He reminded me, burying his face in my neck and inhaling my scent. "Always zoning out in class and having bad grades." "Let me show you that I can be a good girl." He looked up at me just in time for me to make an impulsive decision. I kissed him. He groaned hungrily into my mouth as his tongue immediately met mine. He played with it a little before sucking on it sensually. Couldn't say it was a bad kiss.

"You and Elroy were never friends. You've been rivals forever. Watching him fall apart—it made you happy, didn't it?" He dropped the act. Smirked. "Yeah. It did. Oh—and he's dead. Thought you should know. You're sharp, Celine. I wish you happiness." My pen hovered. Ink bled into the page. I tore it up, tossed it out. "Happiness isn't for me." I'd had it once. Look where that got me. He gave a soft laugh. "Goodbye. I hope you find freedom." This time, I nodded. Freedom—that, I could want.

And every time, he'd accuse her of being wasteful. It all seemed like a joke now. He could spend thousands of dollars on gifts for Regina, but when Madeline asked for a couple of hundred bucks to replace a broken oven, she was called materialistic. Expressionless, Madeline gathered the clothes and stuffed them into a large garbage bag. She then carried it downstairs, ready to throw it all away. As soon as she stepped outside, she bumped into Tristan. He had just gotten home, and in his hands was a bouquet of daisies.

The book she’d left on the counter, Dreams in the Soil, had opened itself overnight, pages fluttering as if sighing. Her phone flickered violently, notifications scrolling in reversed letters or garbled symbols she couldn’t read. In the background, a muted news report murmured about “unexplained plant growth” near subway grates and abandoned rail lines, the anchors’ voices flat, almost hesitant, as though reluctant to say what they had seen. When Jules arrived, the air in the bookstore was different. Wetter, richer — not mold or rot, but the raw, earthy scent of fresh soil, of something that had broken through the surface to reach for the light.

“A ride? Look at how dirty you are. How dare you even ask? “I have OCD. Don’t touch my bottom line!” After that, she couldn’t be bothered to give me another look. She supported Mark and left directly. Before leaving, she threw out one sentence. “Hurry up and clean yourself. Don’t embarrass me!”

I said, very seriously, "No, Mommy. You're a good person. You always told me that doing good things is never wrong. You were just unlucky. You saved a really bad person." My mom finally laughed through her tears. The sadness in her eyes slowly faded away. She pulled out a black card and waved it in front of me with a playful wink. "This is my reward for completing the mission. From now on, you and I are going to live a very happy and wonderful life." She used the money to buy a small apartment. It wasn't big, but she kept it clean and warm. Later, she opened a little flower shop. Every day, she was surrounded by flowers. Her days were peaceful and content.

A sticky sensation lingered on the back of my hand. For the first time in my life, Leighton's touch made me feel something from the bottom of my heart—disgust. Expressionless, I pulled my hand away. Then I grabbed a napkin and slowly wiped the back of my hand clean. I answered her, enunciating each word clearly, "Leighton, I gave you a chance. Stop doing this. Otherwise, I'm afraid I'll feel sick to my stomach every time I think of you."

He reached out with a withered, gnarled hand—trying to grasp me, to touch my face one last time. "I'm... so... sorry..." His lips moved, soundless, forming those three words—too late by a lifetime. But his hand fell, limp and lifeless, against the freezing floor. And in that instant, as his eyes closed for good, my spirit dissolved—scattering like starlight into the endless snow. Every debt, every grudge, every wound—all of it faded into dust. If there is a next life, Father, let us never meet again.

It was a dream about a set of people in a different world with different sets of rules. In Goodness’ dream, he claimed that he saw some people moving excitedly in an unfamiliar library at the centre of a small town. They were books with different covers: black, brown, yellow, pink and even blonde covers. The men and women all had long beards that extended to their jaw. The place was so weird with all sorts of weird customs and traditions and weird fruit bearing trees. The scent in the air was unpleasant like charred old newspapers. The sky was a worrisome grey, such as he had never seen before in his life. Some of the men carried historical books, screaming delightfully with open hearts as t