Le Rocher

January 21, 2009
By Klariza Alvaran, Barrington Hills, IL

Under the powerful light and the arid heat of the blazing sun as it centered the sky, I sat
A rough and porous boulder was I; a starkly, dirty gray lump against the golden plane of sand
In solitude I did remain until I was approached by a curious man.
He appeared middle aged and sported an embroidered kilt of sorts.
I watched the sweat accumulate on his muscular body while he walked towards me
He scrutinized me using his arms to estimate my dimensions
Tapping on surface with his knuckles to guess my density
After a final prod, he did leave.

The sun was nearing the west end of the horizon when he did return.
This time he was tailed by an entourage of twelve brawny men burnt golden by hours spent in slave labor, and behind them, they drew a wooden sled.
It was getting cooler as evening approached.
I pondered how the men did not shiver while only in loin cloths.
The man I had seen before motioned an arm in my direction.
Then, the burly men advanced towards me bringing with them the sled.
The four men at the head of the pack grabbed a hold of me and hauled me onto the sled.
Five other men walked to the head of the wooden contraption.
Each gripped one of the five strings, and they pulled it forward.
I was dragged across a never ending expanse of sand.
Soon, night overthrew the reign of day in the skies.
I grew colder as my surroundings did.

More time passed, and I watched the moon where it was directly overhead in the deep indigo sky, like a pearl as it rests on dark velvet
Suddenly, I heard voices—not like the calm voices of a happy family,
but like the grunts of displeased brutes.
I tried to shield my ears, but I had none.
We had arrived at a village lit by the flames of torches and very much alive in the night.
The men dragged me past countless houses.
Eventually, we reached a large, open dwelling.
I assumed it was property of the first man I had seen that same day as he was the only one that remained after I was unloaded in the atrium.
He left for a moment, then returned with a mallet, chisel, and other tools in this hand

NO! I wanted to shout.
Why were rocks never blessed with the ability to speak?

The man took his chisel and set its tip on the top of my head.
Then, he brought up his mallet and POUNDED the other end of the chisel.
I tried to cry out to no success.
He continued to set the chisel and pound
set and pound, again and AGAIN.
I began to lose track of where the chisel was.
I was overwhelmed with excruciating pain.
By the fifty-somethingth strike, I ceased to feel.
And so the end of me did come.

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