this is the story of a rock

Backed by popular support, A story.

this is the continuation of another, unfinished post seen: here Which is the second part of tale. the first part

or, for the lazy (and my own interests of continuity):

She never liked to known "a rock." by rights, she was stone, a boulder, heaved and thrown, cracked and stolen from bedrock. time had placed her atop a screne hill overlooking a meandering river and, for the forseeible future, it was her final resting place. Stone had never bothered to count the laps of sun-and-moon as they chaced eachother across the heavens. She imagined that sometime ago, long ago, one had stared to chace the other; time had errased predtor from prey and the sun-and-moon simply followed.

In time a more industious spieces settled in the forest along the river. the herd called themselves "villiagers." Their herd lived in a village frequented by other, similar folk, "merchants," "travelers," "warriors," and more exotic and mundane names. it was all too confusing to the Rock. Soon she simply called them all "Folk." as it happened, one summer's morn, a Folk stopped by. It was a man. She marvled at the Folks' need to name themselvs.

this man was differnt then other Folk. the man stayed with her. He built a shelter by her and sang songs on the warm nights about her, about the wind, about anything and about nothing. Winter came and the rock began to fear the man would leave; as she had become so accoustom to him. She antisipated, like geese at the frost, he would take to the winds. When he didn't, the Rock was overjoyed. He sat on top of her in the setting hours and a woke each morning with the sun.

the winter was long, but so too was the following spring and summer. The rock had become found of this Folk. of this man. But she began to desire her solitude. His trips each evening wore a path in her moss. His dwelling buried around her and cramped her, ans stole her eastern winds. cooking fires scarred her and the man's present chaced away much of her beloved forest game. and the man's home attracted merchants to the village, to her; their steps wearing a trail in her beutiful prairy grass flowers. But still she loved the man. She love the man's love. so, again, she rejoyced when winter came and the man warmed her.

One evening, the man dragged home a deer. Normally the man cleaned his kills by the river, but winter grew close and winds were fierce. the man cleaned the deer and hide next to her. He had no time to sing that night. Time grew hasteily to Folk, and this man was no different. the rock knew the man was meant to be bird and not a rock.

that night when the winds tore and rain stung, she did not shelter the man as she had done before. The storm raged. late in the maelstorm, the rock, on Rain slick mud, moved for the first time in ages. as she slipped away, she turned a last, love long glance to the man hundled in deer furs.

The rock rolled down, down, down and with a mighty dive jumped in the river below.

The man looked on, traquility upon him. the rain softened and ceased. the skies lightened with the approch of dawn. the rosy welcoming hugs of dawn warmed the man's equanimity into a burning wanderlust. a song on his lips even before his first step.

Miles she rolled on the river bed, pushed brutally on by fridged waters the rock's heart suddenly warmed. The man's song reached her here. If it is possible for a rock to do so, She smiled broadly.


-marcus