Mayday Stories: May 13 I Am A Rock
We had so much fun thinking outside of the box for this prompt. We decided to take on the perspective of a rock in an ode. Check it out below:
Ode to a Rock's Life
I am a rock, of a long line of rocks. Literally. I am in a line of rocks.
It is quite dull when you are a rock. You have no voice to speak. And bugs crawl over you.
And under you. They have no regard for your preferences. To bugs, you are but a rock.
The birds tend to mark you with white and gray. On a good day, the rain will wash the stains away.
Sometimes the rain will overstay its welcome. On those days, the less firmly rooted among us are swept away. Where do they go? What journey do they take? It is not for us to know.
I do miss the large rock on my left. It told good stories. The rock on my right has freckles of gray and only ever snubs any conversation.
It is a rock's rock, or so it tells itself. I think it thinks too highly of itself.
The sun gets hot. The air gets cold. The weather changes. Some days it's hot. Some days it's not. Some days I'm buried deep under snow.
I do not dream the way the birds sing of. Instead, I spin stories for my own amusement. I think sometimes I sleep, for I am often surprised when the sun finds me again.
One day it will rain so hard or the wind will blow so rough that I will be swept away. For that will be a good day to be a rock.
It is quite dull when you are a rock. You have no voice to speak. And bugs crawl over you.
And under you. They have no regard for your preferences. To bugs, you are but a rock.
The birds tend to mark you with white and gray. On a good day, the rain will wash the stains away.
Sometimes the rain will overstay its welcome. On those days, the less firmly rooted among us are swept away. Where do they go? What journey do they take? It is not for us to know.
I do miss the large rock on my left. It told good stories. The rock on my right has freckles of gray and only ever snubs any conversation.
It is a rock's rock, or so it tells itself. I think it thinks too highly of itself.
The sun gets hot. The air gets cold. The weather changes. Some days it's hot. Some days it's not. Some days I'm buried deep under snow.
I do not dream the way the birds sing of. Instead, I spin stories for my own amusement. I think sometimes I sleep, for I am often surprised when the sun finds me again.
One day it will rain so hard or the wind will blow so rough that I will be swept away. For that will be a good day to be a rock.
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