Skipping Rocks

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A story about skipping rocks.

Submitted: July 18, 2016

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Submitted: July 18, 2016

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Skipping Rocks

It began like a dream. For hours I had been skipping rocks, like I normally did after a splendid breakfast. The tops of the rocks dented my shoes like Morse code against my feet. Bushy vegetation swirled around me, suggestive but silent. Out of the nooks and crannies of the rocks insect eyes blinked at the great shoe eclipse. Whenever I skip rocks I stop at regular intervals and think to myself, “Where are the rocks taking me today?” However, today was different. Today the far-off sounds of wind chimes intermingled with the thousand voices of nature, making me eager. So I let the rocks lead me forward. Before I knew it I was investigating the tops of trees, the curvature and distortion of life.  For several minutes the thought to look down, as a novice rock skipper would did not occur to me. But the poetry and prose flowing from the Morse code slowly abated. Crunchy sand began to fill the empty spaces between my toes. What seemed like two wet, plump salamanders made my ankles tingle. Before I could connect these foreign phenomena of sense and guess their source, I began to falter. A split second before I hit the bed of rocks before me I imagined the pain. My body was ready to become the moon, blistered by the fire and hate of a thousand comets. I coughed and lifted myself up. A mask of sand and dust cloaked my eyes and face. No fangs or bites of pain had struck my body. Without guessing who had switched off the pain I tore through my mask and let out a quick succession of dusty breaths. De-masked and imploding with curiosity I reached out to the rock in front of me. An illusion of solid rock crumbled into a handful of dust and fell into miniature lakes encircling it. I swept, I shook, I kicked, and with confusion pulsing through my mind I karate chopped those rocks. When it was all over the trail of rocks had transformed into rows of shimmering globules of water. They were giant tears filled with tadpoles of light. I spun it around to see if it was truly circular when an obvious thought cruised through my head. If I had ben skipping along that path all this time, and burdened each one with my weight, why hadn’t a single globe burst like a grape? A cautious smile arced across my face as I slid two pairs of bright red shoes and socks off of my grimy feet. Revealed, the globes clustered together, like caviar. Forgetting in an instant any memory of pain, I wholeheartedly pounced onto the strange gathering. Tracing a path with my eyes I belted along the edge. Leaping higher with every stride, my feet discovered aimless patterns. I swallowed vast breaths of air, tricking myself into the ritual. Shivers of joyous dizziness fell onto my mind. The sky danced with the trees, and all the frivolousness of nature showed itself. I laughed at the remarkable way in which this had revolutionized skipping. Wait, or had I thought about laughing? Snickering shadows swam along the dizzy river. And were those dragonfly wings growing from my shoulders? “What exactly do you think you’re doing little boy?” I swung around to witness a lavender skinned fairy-godmother inching slowly towards my nose. Bewildered by the combination of her foreboding scowl and her charismatic colors, I stood in silence. “What did you do! This is my private collection of raindrops!” Fidgeting my feet pensively I avoided her glare. “Why do you have a collection of raindrops?” I asked. “Don’t ask silly questions child” the fairy-godmother retorted. She summoned me and grasped my wrist. After moments lingering amongst the glowing globules, of overindulging in their zealous luster I looked up, “I’m sorry Madame, I thought they were rocks”. “Of course you did boy”, fairy godmother chuckled, “But now you’ve got to clean this mess up”. We hurried through the clearing, hovering above the grass, borne aloft by translucent wings. I saw a shovel spinning in mid-air. A mound of dirt was spread across. Seeing that little hill perched in the air made me curious. The wind, gentle as it was that day still caused tiny crumbs of dirt to fumble downwards off the hill. As I imagined a ship falling off the side of the world a meaner gust sent a flurry of crumbs down toward the true earth. I must have spent minutes standing before the cascade, thinking of what it reminded me of, and wondering how nature chooses the object of its desire. Was every pirate ship that sunk into the deep blue just a snack?  Was every grand fighter pilot brought down by whispers that flowed like winds? Through human instinct I knew that encircling my feet were lazy, yawning ghosts. The fairy-godmother ushered them away back into the jade rifts among the trees. Slowly, decisively I brushed the hill of dirt off.  “Darling, take this and hide my collection again, c’mon – chop chop”. I tended to my chore for most of the day. It was not easy, I admit, like building sandcastles, but more masterful. A question was feeding on my mind like a caterpillar munching on a leaf, “Does nature actually belong to anyone, and can it”? Before I had time to speculate my fairy-godmother returned, threw a rag down and ordered me to spit-shine a plump raindrop. “Seriously, forget that crazy old coot” I thought. As I tiptoed away I spied a blanket of lush grass. It was draped around her, billowing rhythmically with the motions of dream and wind. “Finally free” I snickered. If a dastardly dandelion had not flashed right in front of me and snorted up my nose, with a mad revelry of sense that erupted like a firework of snot and phlegm, then I most likely would have never turned around and seen it. Have you ever seen a dog wag its tail? I imaged that as I watched her wag a rainbow. The peacock tail feather dusted the ground, flitting to and fro as I crawled close to get a better look. “Hmm, if she can take something from nature, than I can give something back”. I snagged the tail and zipped it up in my backpack. Bounding upwards from tiny worlds of capering color I arrived face-down on a squishy cloud. The hamlet bustled with the activity and industry of unruly white shapes. I made my way down a wooly avenue to where a family sat and hummed in repose. Oblivious expressions befuddled their faces, until I unleashing a torrent of ticklish pink and purple and diamond feathers forced them awake. The man lifted his wife’s arm and tickled her underarm, and she her son, and the son the grandfather. In an instant the spheres like glass ornaments, wet bubbling cages of abstract, acrobatic light dropped down. Comical laughter barreled past and resounded through the air like a shockwave. The raindrops continued to fall down through the foamy flesh of the cloud, and down … I assume to the bedside of my fairy-godmother. “What a cycle” I mused. I watched for the rest of the day, dreary-eyed and grateful that I had decided to go skipping, to follow my rebellious spirit. Time labored like the slow-cycling blades of a waterwheel. Star-charts and maps of other dimensions unfurled before me. After ascending its tree, a big fat moon yawned like a drowsy koala. The passion that is moonlight stretched across my hand. Cupping them together and forming a hollow chamber I watched as the light, more palpable and syrup-like than the insubstantial rays that fall on the surface folded itself into that dark depression. “That will do” I said to myself. Skipping downwards, from cloud to cloud, and then from stone to stone I returned to the one home I had always known. And from my pocket, the moon-rock rattled.


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