This post by Frank Larnerd
The rains uprooted the stone, near the stairs to the house. Flat and rectangle shaped, it seems to be crawling up from the earth, struggling through the grass and dirt of the hillside. The stone is the color of cheap hotel pillows, marbled with white seams of chert. It lays flat on its belly, creating a small cave, or opening underneath its weight. The one exposed side is smooth, though chipped and warn on the corners. It looks to be about two feet long, a foot wide, and nearly seven inches thick.
I stop and kneel at it. Already the street lights are on and the sky is closing its curtains of indigo and purple. The air is full of the sound of passing cars, zipping off to anywhere else but here. I put a hand on the stone. It’s warm, even in the lateness of the day.
Hunkering further down, I try to peer into the opening under the stone.
I reach out and then instantly draw my hand back. Thoughts of spiders and poisoned fangs.
I feel eyes on me. I turn and glance around to the parking lot.
I take a deep breath and reach into the darkness.
When no spiders attack, I turn my hand over and touch the underside of the stone. It’s cold and gritty with harsh lines on its face, jagged and pronounced. My fingertips explore them, like a gypsy reading a palm.
After a while, I stand up, knees complaining. The sun has slipped behind the mountain, taking the daylight with it, leaving its last faded streamers of blue to die alone among the night.
Ignoring my knees, I go to the stairs, wondering if I should tell them about the tombstone.