A Strange Day in July

The life of a stone near a nice lake.

Well, it was more of a strange day in April rather than July. That is, it began in July. Then it went on to the rest of the months quietly until it finally happened on the seventeenth dawn of the seventh month.

 

Charles had always been quietly sitting near the edges of the crystal lake water as far as he can remember. Or, rather, as far as he would want to remember. The days quietly dragged itself throughout the fabric of time, and it droned past him interminably, as he counted the days by the zephyr that swept through the trees. He would watch boys play near the edges, laughter and screams etching into him as the sun set into the lake and beyond. Although children had always come to play for many passing days, Charles would not offer to play with them and only hoped to be taken with them. But it was satisfactory simply to watch, and it helped him pass the time. He felt as though he had been at this lake forever, but it was true that he only began sitting here since the month of April.

 

Charles usually never took too much delight in a variety of things. He was older, and his body, once rather large, had shrunken down to a smaller size over the years. His physique still had the unmistakable hardness to it, however, in spite of the years that had ebbed away his size. He was content with the arrangement of life as it was, and he was happy with the sunshine and the occasional touch of water.

 

Life was everything he could hope for, under the guidance of the sun and the mystery of the moon.

 

Sunshine soaked him at the break of dawn, and his happiness renewed itself as the experience of morning reached deep within him. He immersed himself into staring pleasantly along the gentle ripples of the clear, transparent lake when he heard the noise of children approaching. The chatter rose above the wind and the songs of nature, and it forced him to look in their direction.

 

There were actually only two children, one boy and one girl, who came striding briskly toward the water's enveloping arms.

 

As he watched the children play and stack the stones on top of each other, he vaguely wondered what it would be like to move. He had been stuck in one position for a long time now.

 

Maybe it was because he was not a very attractive stone.

 

Maybe he wasn't smooth enough, shiny enough. Maybe that's why the children never picked him up. He would move himself, but that wasn't possible. It simply wasn't possible. What difference would it make, in reality? Whether he was thrown into the depths of the cool, gazing water or not, he would still be happy. He would still live on until another event occurred, causing him to be moved by another external force. He had no control. And he adapted so quickly.

 

Still, Charles wondered.

 

Once he saw the boy and the girl, he tried to persuade them to pick him up. Of course, this discounted any form of noticeable or visible communication between himself and the children. However, he believed that it might work this one hopeful time.

 

After a few minutes, as if by some act of miracle, the children leapt closer to him. The boy picked up one stone near him and tossed it with effort. It skipped twice before it disappeared quickly into the water. He chattered incessantly to the girl next to him, who appeared a bit annoyed at his gregarious nature. He then picked up another stone, reeled back with his short, gleaming arm and hurled it toward the red-dyed sunset into the water. The smooth, dark stone skipped three times before being swallowed by the lake.

 

"Come on, Charles! You can do better than that!"

 

Charles paused in a way only a rock could. That was his name. He had almost forgotten it once, as the fascination of moving had taken over. The boy named Charles began arguing with her, and their conversation grew. While they spoke, he looked over to the lake. It seemed to speak to him softly, with welcome and in gentle curves, like a repeated wash of spinal curvatures approaching him to make an offer. Yes, Charles, she said, take my hand.

 

Before he could even consider that he did not simply imagine those words, he was soon lifted out of the very place he had been positioned for three months, beginning in April. He felt the surrounding of soft flesh and an unimaginable degree of temperature. A thumb brushed against his roughly made structure, and the grittiness was peeled back from his body. He felt a nauseating rush of the child’s greed to propel him as far away as possible, and then he was soon launched out of the hand. Though he was just another rock being thrown into the lake, to Charles, he was suddenly a bird of flight, born of air and feathers. He flew toward the familiar surface of the water.

 

It seemed to smile at him.

 

-----

 

Charles wasn't surprised by the fact that he had only skipped the first rock twice. He felt much better when the second one skipped three in a row. Even if his little sister was bothering him while he concentrated on such matters, he found that to be perfectly normal. Much more normal than the third and perhaps the last stone he would ever throw in his life.

 

He threw with all his might, but the third stone skipped back toward him.

 

He stared at the stone that skipped back with scrutiny. Nothing seemed extraordinary about this particular stone. It was a bit rougher than the others, but smooth enough and a good size. However, the event was enough to force him to stop in tossing another stone. It was as though the stone was resentful of the tossing and was warning him to end this cruel hobby. When his little sister wanted to try, he stared at her with a bit of anxiety and told her that they had to go home. She whined, but he reassured her and led her home. He stared back at the lake as they traveled a few meters away. The stone seemed to be staring back through an impenetrable darkness where he could not quite see it. It stirred in him a fleshier, rawer fear that lacked all reason. The gravel crunched eerily as he held onto his sister's small hand, tracing back to the stone paths that led to the doorstep of his house. The shivers ran from dawn till dusk, orange glow till orange glow.

 

It was on this day of July that Charles developed the strange fear of stones.

 

-----

 

Charles successfully landed back to the edges of the water.

 

He had moved, seemingly without an external force of movement. The truth was that the lake, the water itself, had benignly shifted its current in a suddenly different direction in just the right time to force Charles back ashore. But he swam proudly in the slick, filmy substance called ignorance and crafted new ambitions. He wanted so much more, and the liberation of flight, along with the simple hops that led him back, only furthered his desire. No longer could he live with the simple observation of nature and his surroundings. The harmonic tunes of crickets and songbirds no longer quenched the new flame of desire to experience movement. He made tremendous effort to force movement in himself, by quiet meditation and focusing on the very concept of movement. He replayed the very moments in which he had skipped so perfectly back to the boy's feet, already retreating when he did recognize the shoes.

 

It had to have been his own willing.

 

So he willed himself. If he could focus on the very action he wished to commit, then he would be successful. Nothing. He grew angrier by every moment he could not budge.

 

Days passed on without success. Then as the afternoon melted into twilight, his last futile attempts to move went by with another prick of disappointment. He had not noticed a single child pass by within the days that had passed. Strange. He had always seen children here. Perhaps he did not care any longer.

 

Pity met his vision and pooled around the anchors of his devotion.

 

That was when he felt a certain deviation from the ground underneath him. He paused in a way only a stone could. Finally! This was the result of his efforts of focus and determination. He would be rewarded by the freedom of movement once more. He rejoiced and thought he would be able to move freely, skip all the way across the lake's diameter and back. Then he felt, as all things would, the enveloping, caressing touches of water that coerced him. He felt the cool ripples wash over him and beckon him. Washing over him was not only seduction, but it was revelation and realization. He moved according to the direction of the water. The water softened him, hushed him to relaxation as it dragged his heavy body into the lake. The gurgled melodies of the lake made him float, made him think he was moving again.

 

Ah.

 

 So it was her all along.

 

Charles did what would have been considered the closing of the eyes. The currents let him fall softly against the bed of the underwater sand, and he rested. Fish passed by absently, and also jerkily. The refraction of the sunlight created patches of wavering and moving light that soon became a part of his vision. Water whispered carefully into him, and the currents continued moving. Charles had always been here as long as he could remember.

 

Or, rather, as far as he would want to remember.