In the Pebble of a Tear

uh. I wrote this story in a day, and it's like the only story I've written and liked. Enjoy. Tell me what you think...

 

Their shadows move slowly across the ground. I watch them from the security of my hiding place. Through the tough, green leaves which cover just enough to disguise my blue denim jeans and fuzzy black jacket, I crouch. My knees aching from the weight of my body upon them, my back cold from leaning against the moist wooden fence that separates me from the yard next door, I dare not move. I observe their almost soldier presence while they search – stepping in unison as a single body, examining the shadows behind the trees as they call my name. Their eyes piercing through the darkness right at me, I hold my breath.

“Anna.”

Soft, heavy breaths, but I don’t move. Not that easily.

“Come out, Anna.”

I’m tempted to give away my place behind the row of bushes, but I know I have to endure the pain on my body for a little longer. Squirming quietly, I reposition myself. Now sitting on my hands with my face inside my knees, I count the footsteps across the lawn. I take in each thump, the soles of their shoes moving across the grass.

“Anna! We give up. Where are you?” calls the girl with the soft footstep.

“Sarah, you know she won’t come out like that. She always, has to be found. Hide and Seek is the only game we ever play where she always wins. I’m not quite sure how she can –

“Jake! Shhhh. Did you hear that? I think she’s behind the bushes.”

Oh no. My worn down tennis shoe slips from atop the wet leaves and dirt, snapping a small twig. It’s just enough.

“Finally, I thought you’d never find me,” I say, nagging, but we all know that I could have been smothered between that thorn bush and old rotten fence for hours. I’ve won at this game every time we’ve played it, even when we were smaller. You’d think Sarah and Jake would get better at it now that we’re teenagers, but instead I think they’ve gotten worse.

That’s the problem, they’re too impatient. They rush through the front yard searching atop the trees, through the back yard skimming the bushes, and then they get tired and give up. They don’t take in the small rustles of grass blades, the soft breathing held up in the air.

“Hey, Anna, do you want to go down to the cliff with me?” asks Jake.

“Are you coming?” I ask Sarah.

“No, I have way too much homework to be out all night with you two.”

Now that I think about it, I have to do loads of homework too, but we can’t both leave Jake because then he has to go home, which we never want him to do. Who knows what kind of scars he’ll have the next day, telling his teachers “I fell down the stairs” or some lie like that. “Sure,” I answer.

The cliffs are only about a 25 minute walk from Sarah’s backyard. We walk the same way we always do; laughing, running, making more noise than a dog barking ferociously at a moped driving by at night.

“Thanks for coming,” he says in the midst of our laughing.

“No problem,” I reply, trying to soothe his guilt.

The only upside to living in Maine, other than the lobster, are the many light houses shining in the dark of the night. It’s perfect when you need a place to look out onto the Atlantic Ocean and think. About something, about everything, about nothing. We sit down on our usual bench that looks out onto the waves crashing upon the cold, rigid rocks at the bottom beyond the cliff. This old, red, wooden bench with the permanent feeling of musty sea salt has heard its fair share of secrets. It doesn’t judge you or tell anyone your thoughts, it just listens. I sit on this bench with Jake, both silent, feeling the soft air blow past our faces, pushing against the sails out in the dark sea.

“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to fly?” Jake asks, breaking the silence. “To have the feeling of being lifted into the air where nothing can bring you down or ruin your flight, where you can feel the cool wind on your face, the breeze pushing you along. Not caring where you’re going, where you’ll land. Just lifting off into your imagination and never having to come back.”

Smiling I answer, “Everyday.”

He stands up from the bench, staring out into the open sea. And then moves toward the horizon, as if getting a running start before he takes off, and jumps past the edge of the cliff down to the tumbling waves and sharp edges.

He leaves me there, on our bench. I don’t move. I don’t run to stop him, I don’t watch him hit the rocks. I sit on our bench and watch him fly.

He flies, with a drop in the ocean, in the pebble of a tear upon the skin on my cheek.