It is hot. The sun burns through the sky, not a shred of cloud to block its sizzling rays. Of course all I can do is sit here. That how it is for rocks. No legs, no hands, hell, not even a fin or a sail. Nope, not for a rock. You’ve heard the phrases, you’ve problem said them: dumb as a box of rocks, solid like a rock, stone cold dead. Who wants to be dumb, solid, and dead? Not me.
Not that anyone asked. They never do.
At least last week I was in the grass. That was OK. Cooler, anyway, though kind of scratchy. Then some half-brained kid picks me up – no reason, mind you – and hurls me towards a stop sign. Clang. Yeah, funny. I’m pretty sure I left a dent. I’m probably smeared with red paint, too, though I’ll never know. No eyes, remember? So now I’m stuck here, in the dirt, next to a road, with no cover at all and the sun beating down and every once in a while a car hurtles past, wheels inches from me, washed in exhaust. It’s only a matter of time before someone veers over just a hair and then… wham. Cars are heavy. Trucks are worse. Trust me, I know. You think I was always this small? This smooth? I used to be big, edgy, sharp. I used to tower over people. I used to intimidate. Now I’m just a hunk of granite, hand sized, easy to throw. Easily abandoned on the side of the road.
If I weren’t I rock, I would scream.
Scribbles are thoughts, musings, stories, and poems. Scribbles are inconsistently added, quick, short, and (hopefully!) fun.