Smooth Stones

Reads: 619  | Likes: 1  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story that I intended to be an indication that there is a resolve past what one may be dealing with. I'm sorry if it doesn't make sense, or seems logically impossible: it is not entirely based in reality...However, the message most certainly is.

When I wrote this song, I was listening to "Carried Away" by Carl Broemel. I strongly recommend listening to the song as you read.

Godspeed, T.

Submitted: August 20, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 20, 2017





“...because when I found what I believed to be a place I belonged, I still kept one foot out the door, for fear of getting in too deep. And yet I came to realize something: if I cannot commit to a place I belong, I can never truly commit to myself.”

-Shiv Lewis, Excerpts from Riptide, 1932


A great, blue nothing. That which takes men across its surface to new lands of fruit, to return unsullied. Where heroes find purpose, and poets whisper peace. How many choose to spend their final wish; of which stones skip and spirits walk on water. That was home.


I would find the most rugged part of the shore, of which carried the roughest rocks, and break those away from the land around them: that which held them down. Upon the lapping waves I would place these crags onto the sand in a circle...they stayed together better that way.


For the longest time I watched over these imperfect jewels: I watched as the sea would ease over them, out of sight every few seconds, only to reappear. I knew to leave when the circle would emit a glow, as if this magic was not mine to understand: only to treasure.


The dawn of morning would bring the most refreshing sight: that the once jagged rocks had now turned into smooth, creamy stones of all colors: cerise and pear, jade and amethyst, sage and amber. Warm to the touch they were, so vibrant and full of energy to have been cooled by the waters and animated by the sun. The beauty of them inside had been reflected to that which others saw, and for which I knew was their one, true nature.


In the evening, when the rays reflected upon the sea, I knew it was time to say goodbye. These smooth stones, once rough, had now been purified, and I was grateful to have held them, even if but a day. Kneeling down, I scooped them up and, one by one, let them float out to sea. There would they join all of the lost seafarers and poets and dreamers to which I had once been told of. To them these stones would let them find their solace, and to prove that something once thought imperfect or damaged can be fixed.


I kept all but one, a small, forest-green stone which, as I sit and tell my tale to my grandchildren, has not faded to this day. It still lies in a hand-carved wooden chest, given to me by a tousled sailor. He had told me to one day place something in it that reminded me of staying strong through struggles, and to come out better than I had been before.


“Sometimes I still think of him, and wonder if he came across one of the stones I settled into the ocean.”


“But grandfather, aren’t stones meant to sink? How would he have ever found one if it lays somewhere in the deep blue?”


I smiled, and said, “perhaps the stones do not have a destination other than to become part of something larger than itself. Although that is just it: those stones, with their presence, will inspire hope. A beacon for all to look upon, for when the waves clear, and the seas part once more, shall there be.”


“Be what?” Said the youngest.


“There will be something worth writing a story about…”


© Copyright 2019 Dan Zuniga. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Poetry Short Stories