"The Rock," & Looking Ahead

I've been trying my best to organize my aspirations around getting a short story out a week for this newsletter and then, of course, getting down to it and doing it. As you can probably guess by the tardiness of getting this week's one out, it's all a bit fucked at the moment.

But never fear! I think I have found a proper solution to keep myself on track...it's just taking a little more time, organization, and effort than I initially thought. Which shouldn't be all that surprising if you know me, as I have a lot of random, sporadic ideas that rarely, if ever, come to fruition, where the only bad thing is that most things I start never get finished. Ask my wife about "Bullish or Die T-shirts" and you'll have an idea about what the hell I'm talking about. Either way, it's not a good habit and one that I am genuinely trying to break as I lean in (once again) into my novel editing work, business and tech writing work (for work), and shooting for a short story a week, which, to be honest, has been nice. I need to tighten things up and keep things not so expansive to ensure they get done.

As always, thank you for being here, thank you for reading, and I hope life is treating you well. My goal ahead is to stay more on schedule with all of this and start building this entire website/blog out to encompass all of my work, both published and not; a kind of library for myself and for anyone who wants to take a stroll and take a read. This week's story, "The Rock," is just that, published in freeflashfiction.com back in November 2020.

I like this one, and it's good to see that the site is still up.

Cheers.

"The Rock"

I woke one morning with a rock under my pillow. It was a small rock, no bigger than a grape. Its circular shape pressed into the side of my skull as I tried to move it away. Failing at this, I slid my hand underneath my pillow, immediately noticing its edgeless, smooth skin. I held it up in the morning light. The rock was nothing special.
 
If I had seen it on the street, I might have kicked it.
 
"Maybe you put it there?" my wife suggested. "In your sleep?"
 
We were out on the deck with a breakfast of bagels, cream cheese, and lox. It was Sunday. We had nowhere particular to be, like most privileged people. The birds sang and danced in the branches as if they were in church. Maybe they were.
 
"Could have been a mouse," I replied.
 
"I've never heard of a rock-carrying mouse, but nowadays, anything is possible."
 
I went downstairs, placed the rock in the middle of the rug, and lay on top of it.
 
I pressed my neck into its curves. I kneaded my taut muscles and sore cells. I rolled onto my side and kneaded the small rock with my old ribs, groaning in deep sighs. Tears came to my eyes. Images of the bottom of a body of water and beady-eyed fish came to me. I imagined crabs and their instincts.
 
"Where are you headed?" asked my wife.
 
"For a walk."
 
"If you can, grab some milk."
 
"One percent."
 
This was not about the likelihood of my getting the milk, but what she preferred.

I took the rock to a trail with a river that snaked along its path. Our kids, when they were kids, used to catch water skeeters in their thin water. They tied a string to their fragile bodies and laughed until their faces turned blue.
 
With the sun on my face, telling me I was there within time, I took the rock out and tossed it into the river. After a quick sink, it rested at the bottom. The river flowed over the unmoving rock. The water surged, moving other twigs and things, but the rock from under my pillow resisted. The rock was impassive, indifferent to the stream's efforts to effect it.
 
In the lines of the river's current, I read names. I heard voices, and I smelled the clothing of every human being that ever lived. The voice's words became clearer when I fell to my knees to listen.
 
"Time is unaffected by the onslaught of men. It never changes. It never will."
 
"Our only option is to leave the context of this existence for the next."
 
"Only then can we evolve."
 
I explained this phenomenon to our local shopkeeper.
 
"And then the voices —" I exclaimed.
 
"Are you sure you want whole milk?" the shopkeeper asked.
 
"There were so many, and then they were gone!
 
"You usually get the one percent," insisted the shopkeeper. "You sure you want it this time?"