Member-only story
Lit Up | Fiction
Stones
a wayward stone cried out to him, pick me, pick me…
During the 70's In Morristown, New Jersey, a man named Stan Leer collected stones. Not quartz or amethyst, not gold, or any precious element formed in the earth over time and pressure that would be of value. The formless, bland material called out to him at random, his eyes cast downward on the sidewalk until a wayward stone cried out to him, pick me, pick me.
The loudest stones were the ones just barely perceptible to sight, a slight smooth surface buried under grass or moss. Unkempt fingernails excavated these voices in a single strike, clawing into the earth. Stan did not regulate such impulses so to feel something solid in his hands.
His corduroy trouser pockets bulged and clacked, straining the leather belt punched to its last hole. Wide blue eyes with a murder of crow’s feet trailed into the white forest of his beard that reached down to his neck. He did not care if others were walking behind him, eliciting curses and bewilderment from his fellow townsfolk who, knowingly or unknowingly, passed the bane of every windowpane.
In town, the stones without home were quickly adopted. In the woods he stuck to the power lines, walking without fear of tick or bear until he came to the clearings where utility workers had…
