Winter Garden

There was a clayish tinge to the arm; the sort of dingy grey you get from over-chewed gum. But more than that, ‘cos there was that bread-mould blue and green to it as well.
I stabbed down hard with the shovel. The skin split, leaking pus and putrid slime. The cold air and my scarf dampened any stench, but I shifted my weight back a little, just in case. Flicking the shovel sideways, I mixed the arm innards in with the soil. I’d probably have to add another crate of worms to this pile, these cold snaps play merry hell with my compost.
Jiggling the head of the shovel - a nice sharp, pointed one - and rotating it a little I manage to waggle some more decomposing innards out and into the earth. Satisfied, I move on to the next shovelful. This time it’s part of a leg; at least I think it’s a leg. One of the older bodies, this one’s barely more than thigh bones and a gloopy gooey sludge.
Perfect. It only takes a few twists of the shovel and the leg is mushed in. I bend down to pull down the bones; they can go for burning later.
In the meantime I going to have to continue breaking down this mound of bodies by hand. Roll on summer; let the worms and bugs and slugs and humidity to the work for me. But for now, I’ll have to rotate the outlying edges of the pile so the compressing heat in the middle can do its thing.
I fucking hate winter.


Prompt: Freestyle (no prompt)
Word Count: 263