Minerals
This was an assignment for Steakibitz. We were to write a transition covering a large span of time. I wrote about rocks...
.... "That's what I said." Huffed Boulder, wishing he were less of a rock and more of a man so that he could walk away.
Stone and Boulder had been friends for as long as either of them could remember. Back when it all began, a pair of big rough hands rolled Stone to sit next to Boulder. A part of a big circle, they were. A big circle where people sat and growled stories with animated gestures and roaring flames licking the big black above. Stone was glad for it. The grass here, he reasoned, was far greener than there.
He was especially glad when the sun-baked little boys hid behind him and screamed with laughter when they were found. Or when women, barefoot and youthful, set their leathers on him and spoke quietly about flowers and kissing and rain. Time passed like this. Ages for some, moments for the rocks sitting peacefully in the grass.
Boulder, with his stern jagged edges and his high flat face recalled other things. Sometimes, the howls of men careened up from the plains situated below the hills. He could never strain to see what was going on, for he was a rock, but he imagined great sorrow following on the heels of those howls. Passion too. And Glory. A little boy killed a rabbit once, behind the giant Pine. He would not speak of these things to Stone, whose smooth surface had been worn that way by the river where he was born.
But the rains always washed away the blood of such things. The rain even washed Stone and Boulder when the pale skin of foreign men laid down their sun-baked little boys and barefoot women. But it had never been the same since then. Since then, more had come. More people, more things, more winds that wore them down and turned Stone jagged and Boulder cragged. Once, a little girl drew on Stone with crayon. Once, Boulder noticed a man killing another behind the giant Pine.
Perhaps it was because so much time had passed, even for rocks, that Boulder thought he could share this with Stone...
.... "That's what I said." Huffed Boulder, wishing he were less of a rock and more of a man so that he could walk away.
Stone and Boulder had been friends for as long as either of them could remember. Back when it all began, a pair of big rough hands rolled Stone to sit next to Boulder. A part of a big circle, they were. A big circle where people sat and growled stories with animated gestures and roaring flames licking the big black above. Stone was glad for it. The grass here, he reasoned, was far greener than there.
He was especially glad when the sun-baked little boys hid behind him and screamed with laughter when they were found. Or when women, barefoot and youthful, set their leathers on him and spoke quietly about flowers and kissing and rain. Time passed like this. Ages for some, moments for the rocks sitting peacefully in the grass.
Boulder, with his stern jagged edges and his high flat face recalled other things. Sometimes, the howls of men careened up from the plains situated below the hills. He could never strain to see what was going on, for he was a rock, but he imagined great sorrow following on the heels of those howls. Passion too. And Glory. A little boy killed a rabbit once, behind the giant Pine. He would not speak of these things to Stone, whose smooth surface had been worn that way by the river where he was born.
But the rains always washed away the blood of such things. The rain even washed Stone and Boulder when the pale skin of foreign men laid down their sun-baked little boys and barefoot women. But it had never been the same since then. Since then, more had come. More people, more things, more winds that wore them down and turned Stone jagged and Boulder cragged. Once, a little girl drew on Stone with crayon. Once, Boulder noticed a man killing another behind the giant Pine.
Perhaps it was because so much time had passed, even for rocks, that Boulder thought he could share this with Stone...