The Stone
He felt vulgar when he picked up the stone. It was lying there, so conspicuously, so open to every single eye and yet it was only his own that had seen it. The whole of the circumstances made the fact unimportant, they rendered it useless and futile. But somehow, in the reflection of the sun's rays upon the almost crystal covering that made its way through the top of the rock, Terrance sensed an obligation to take it, to have it, to make it his.
He kept it in a cardboard box. During the first three weeks he opened it daily to look at his stone and admire the colors reflected from its crystalline top. He would stare for hours into the depths of the clear wall, imagining figures that held temporary, forgettable meanings in his mind. Then other things took over and the cardboard box would remain closed for days. Eventually dust and utter disregard covered it. When he moved out it was almost in a mechanical gesture that he packed it, without even opening it, among other objects he had also considered superfluous.
Time passed. He chose his wife. She didn't chose him. So he looked for another. And then he was chosen too. Her name was Lois. She had red plastic shining hair. Her high-pitched laughter broke through windows and glasses, dreams and sleep. She danced around the house, naked and smiling, making dinner with her breasts dripping small imperceptible sweat droplets into the stew. Her sense of humor was bizarre, as she often laughed suddenly without the least provocation, and never would she share her husband's cheer in one of his renowned witty comments. Terrance hated her. But something, he didn't quite know what, had compelled him to marry her, to make her his own.
They had a child. They named him Clay. He was a problem from the start. He would eat earth from the pots in the house or the park. Terrance was at first suspicious of the child, for his skin was a soft tan hue and both his parents' were milk in tone. This led to an immediate DNA test. But Clay was his son all right. Anyway, Terrance didn't really like him. He was a nuisance for his lifestyle and his aspirations in life. He hindered his ascent in his job, as he would suddenly mention embarrassing moments of the family's life during the now uncommon visits of important executives. He would cry abruptly at the touch of a visitor's wife and call her a fat walrus. But somehow, everything made sense. It just had to be that way. Terrance felt as if he was moved by something else. Whenever he had this feeling, he would try to fight the pushing force, but would always end up looking foolishly concentrated during dinner parties or christenings. He yielded to whatever force, if there really was something of the kind, and kept on going and going. Even though sometimes it seemed he didn't even think about the things that he did and the decisions he would make.
Time had flown by as it always does and Terrance was old now, wasted away, a disappearing shadow of what he once had been. As he lay taking in his last breaths he held the faded-color cardboard box and looked once more into the depths of the stone's crystal wall. It was then, dying in his bed, that he understood and the sudden clout of comprehension rendered him speechless. It had been the stone all along. He now knew it was but the path of the stone that he had followed. Its motives, its goal, escaped him. As he exhaled a final sigh, his eyes were set upon his son's, looking at the cardboard box with coveting regards, and sensed in Clay the same obligation to take the stone, to have it, to make it his, that he as a young boy had once felt.
He kept it in a cardboard box. During the first three weeks he opened it daily to look at his stone and admire the colors reflected from its crystalline top. He would stare for hours into the depths of the clear wall, imagining figures that held temporary, forgettable meanings in his mind. Then other things took over and the cardboard box would remain closed for days. Eventually dust and utter disregard covered it. When he moved out it was almost in a mechanical gesture that he packed it, without even opening it, among other objects he had also considered superfluous.
Time passed. He chose his wife. She didn't chose him. So he looked for another. And then he was chosen too. Her name was Lois. She had red plastic shining hair. Her high-pitched laughter broke through windows and glasses, dreams and sleep. She danced around the house, naked and smiling, making dinner with her breasts dripping small imperceptible sweat droplets into the stew. Her sense of humor was bizarre, as she often laughed suddenly without the least provocation, and never would she share her husband's cheer in one of his renowned witty comments. Terrance hated her. But something, he didn't quite know what, had compelled him to marry her, to make her his own.
They had a child. They named him Clay. He was a problem from the start. He would eat earth from the pots in the house or the park. Terrance was at first suspicious of the child, for his skin was a soft tan hue and both his parents' were milk in tone. This led to an immediate DNA test. But Clay was his son all right. Anyway, Terrance didn't really like him. He was a nuisance for his lifestyle and his aspirations in life. He hindered his ascent in his job, as he would suddenly mention embarrassing moments of the family's life during the now uncommon visits of important executives. He would cry abruptly at the touch of a visitor's wife and call her a fat walrus. But somehow, everything made sense. It just had to be that way. Terrance felt as if he was moved by something else. Whenever he had this feeling, he would try to fight the pushing force, but would always end up looking foolishly concentrated during dinner parties or christenings. He yielded to whatever force, if there really was something of the kind, and kept on going and going. Even though sometimes it seemed he didn't even think about the things that he did and the decisions he would make.
Time had flown by as it always does and Terrance was old now, wasted away, a disappearing shadow of what he once had been. As he lay taking in his last breaths he held the faded-color cardboard box and looked once more into the depths of the stone's crystal wall. It was then, dying in his bed, that he understood and the sudden clout of comprehension rendered him speechless. It had been the stone all along. He now knew it was but the path of the stone that he had followed. Its motives, its goal, escaped him. As he exhaled a final sigh, his eyes were set upon his son's, looking at the cardboard box with coveting regards, and sensed in Clay the same obligation to take the stone, to have it, to make it his, that he as a young boy had once felt.
