I pick up the grey stone.
The hail pelts us still.
They began pea sized, but they grow.
“Come with me.”
I grab the young woman’s hand.
To my house in the hill,
Slipping and sliding on the ice,
Till I push my door open,
And my house is filled,
And the cat.
The ice hits the door,
But we’re safe,
Behind dirt walls.
Her name is Clover.
“They bloomed the day of her birth.”
But they call her Chloe.
Mama is Rose.
They were not in bloom.
Her mother’s pain,
Like the stab of thorns.
This is a continuing story in 100 word increments. Read from the beginning by choosing StormWeaver category in the side bar of page.
Her blonde hair is shocked with electric blue streaks.
Her grey eyes are on her mother,
With pity and pain.
She wears baggy cotton overalls with a lacy tank top underneath.
“Excuse my mother,” she says. She comes over and takes the older woman’s hand.
“No trouble,” I say.
“It’s Adam. He has magic stones.”
“Of course he does.”
I squeeze the pouch in my hand and out pops the grey stone.
It falls to the ground.
Rain and hail blasts upon us.
“What is happening?”
The women cling to each other.
“We’re going to die!”
It may be true.
This is a continuing story in 100 word increments. Read the StormWeaver series from the start – Choose StormWeaver category from the home page.
I snatch the brown pebble from the ground,
my heart racing.
I don’t know why.
Coincidences happen all the time. Right?
“It’s that little stone you have isn’t it?”
The woman’s face is lit by the sun breaking through clouds.
“Put it back down again.”
“No,” I say. I slip it into the pouch with the rest.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I head away from her.
“I didn’t lose him,” she calls sharply. “He was taken.”
She grabs my arm. “It’s different when they are stolen.”
I’m about to speak, when a young woman calls out,
“Mama leave him alone.”
Binge read episodes 1 – 7 The continuing fantasy story told in 100 word increments. Choose “StormWeaver” in categories.
The woman wails.
Picking up the brown pebble my fingers brush up against,
a larger stone, mostly covered by earth.
But I see the outline of an unnatural square stone.
The woman stops crying,
She begins clawing at the tufts of grass encroaching on it until she lifts it upright.
Her face streaked with dirt and tears she asks, “Kind sir, what is your name?”
The pebble in my hand,
feels heavier by the minute.
Like I must put it down,
Close to the earth.
So I drop it,
In front of the square stone,
that says, “Adam”,
This is installment 7 in the Series “Storm Weaver”. Each installment is 100 words. Read the whole series by choosing “Storm Weaver” in categories.
100 Word Flash Fiction Series
Where has that last pebble gone?
I make the mistake of using the broom.
Did I hear a sound, the rattle of a pebble skipping across the floor,
Out the door?
Maggie springs after it, bats it further down the worn front path,
Now I’m chasing the cat,
Chasing the stone,
Till I come upon a weeping woman in the grass.
“I’m sorry to disturb you.”
These lowland meadows don’t usually include
Why is she here?
“The grave. It’s gone. There was a stone here for my baby.”
And then I see it, my brown pebble.
Read the StormWeaver series by searching under #StormWeaver category.
Maggie cat has stolen my prize,
She swats it across the floor.
With each swipe of her paw,
I hear the rattle of a pebble,
skipping across the tiles.
She plays with my treasure.
I don’t even know what it means.
“Shoo,” I say. But Maggie pays me no mind.
She’s carrying the bag in her mouth,
And drops it like it’s a dead mouse,
the bag empty.
I get on my knees.
with a flash light,
my hand chase dust bunnies,
reaching under the antique armoire,
I gather them.
There’s one missing,
The brown one,
And the cat smiles.
See previous Storm Weaver 100 word story posts for part 1, 2 & 3.
The pouch sits on a shelf,
in my house,
that is tucked in the hillside.
I stare at it for an hour.
Expecting it to shake, rumble, spill out its contents,
aglow and crackling with energy.
My patience is not rewarded.
The bag just sits there,
as any inanimate object does.
I take it down, pour out the stones.
roll them in my palm.
and swear I feel heat,
wind, the smell of fresh rain,
plants, coolness, and heavy solidness.
I slide them back in,
Return the pouch to the shelf.
Stare some more.
Until the cat knocks it down.
Read Part 1 & 2 at links below:
He left behind the pouch and the five smooth stones inside.
A pink one,
A grey one,
A white one,
A green and a brown one.
I poured them out in my hand.
As I rolled the pink one,
My face warmed from the sun,
The grey caused a breeze, moist with rain.
The white, chill.
The green the smell of herbs,
And the brown caused the ground to shake,
Or it was just my imagination.
Where did the old man go?
Why did he leave these stones?
Why me? What next?
These questions weighed upon me,
I started home.
continued from October 24 post
The old man held out the pouch in the palm of his crooked hand,
“I’m giving it to you.”
A simple reason.
The leather pouch was tightly closed.
Did I dare open the strings?
The sun warmed my face,
Poured over wet pavement,
Washed away all trace of cold.
Everything shined on a new day.
The old man smiled, knowing I couldn’t resist, but he gave no permission.
Still, I went ahead and worked my fingers under the string,
Undoing his labor.
Slowly, the mouth of the bag opened.
I peeked inside then looked up.
100 Word Story
Bells clanged as I exited the Pharmacy. Ice pellets and giant drops of cold rain pelted the cracked sidewalk and pinged off the metal canopy overhead. I shared the shelter with an old man who sat on a folding chair. His whiskered chin jut out. His lips caved in over toothless gums. His thick knuckled fingers worked a string through holes on an oily leather pouch. He peered inside like it held treasure.
“What’s that you got there?” I asked.
He looked up with grinning eyes then pulled the string taunt, closing the opening of the pouch.
The storm stopped.