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.
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.