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.