Scribble Stones Novels & Stories

Nothing. Panic threatened to claw its way up my throat but I squashed it down. Then I saw it. On the floor near the candle, partially hidden in dust, was a small, smooth river stone. It was out of place. I picked it up. On its flat side, a symbol was scratched: an arrow pointing down.

But it’s not completely false either. I stand before he can ask anything else and start pulling things from my bag because if I let this turn into a conversation, I might not finish it. Chalk first. Except it isn’t chalk. It’s crushed stone from the northern ridge mixed with ash from the last full moon and a drop of my own blood. I ground it myself. I know exactly what’s in it. I crouch and start tracing over the faded circle carved into the floor centuries ago. My hands move automatically, following lines I memorized when I was barely older than him.

The knowledge of the lie settled into my jaw, locking my teeth against the bitter taste of a commitment made in the dark. Then the heavy basalt pack stone resting in my breast pocket lurched. It pulled free of the wool by itself, rising into the dead air between us. The stone split down the center with a sharp, tectonic crack, a harsh white light burning out from the core. The mineral grain dissolved, unspooling into a long, pale parchment that hovered in the air before my eyes. The script was written in the high formal ink of the council:

A graveyard bordered by brown plastic fencing, replete with rectangular gravestones. He reached out. Touched a gravestone with his fingertip, wiggling it. Firm and secure, inserted into the foam base, glued down into the foam. Sound practice, what he did with all his trees and telephone poles and street signs. Based on their width and size and texture, he guessed he’d snipped off Popsicle sticks and painted them. They could be purchased in bulk at hobby stores anywhere. He had a box. There it was, open on his workbench.

"You're going to do something stupid." "I prefer the term fieldwork." She closes the window. --- The quarry is exactly as described — a wide bowl of grey stone, abandoned a generation ago when the good granite ran out, now overgrown at the edges with dry brush and dotted with the territorial markings of Stone-Jaw Boars. The creatures themselves are about the size of a large dog, built entirely forward — all shoulder and jaw, minimal hindquarter, with a hide that has literally incorporated fragments of the quarry stone over years of rubbing against it. Their tusks are blunt but heavy. When they charge, the ground registers the impact.

Baby Robbie's eyes lit up as he grabbed a loudspeaker, calling out at the top of his voice like a street performer. "Look over here. We’re having a clearance sale for our rough stones today. Seize the opportunity and grab the best deals for these rare rough stones.” Soon, a group of people gathered around and started asking with great interest, “What’s the clearance price for them?” Baby Robbie said, "These inferior rough stones will cost 400,000 per piece. There are only 60 pieces, so there will be no more once they’re all sold out.” "400,000? That’s much cheaper than usual."

“I can't do my shopping here, I have to do it in Dubai city.” I spoke to Demola. “my Diamond.” I spoke excitedly. “You mean, I’m not your gold? Why Diamond?” Demola asked in curiosity. “Well, I love diamond rings and diamond is a precious jewel and goes with your name. Diamond, I believe means, not comparable. It is a gemstone that sparkles. And you, my love, is my Diamond. Happy now?” he started humming: do re mi fa so la ti do; do ti fa so la mi re do. Shaking his head and enjoying his music. Then I knew he approved my calling him Diamond. When he was done singing, I was watching in amusement.

Purposeful. _*]:min-w-0"> Luna approached slowly. Her mark burned warmer with each step. _*]:min-w-0"> The stones were covered in carvings. Symbols. Runes. Images. _*]:min-w-0"> Wolves. Moons. Eclipse patterns. _*]:min-w-0"> Luna knelt beside the nearest stone. Traced the carved wolf with her finger. The stone was warm. Like it held its own heat source. _*]:min-w-0">

Lucy held the stone up to the light, admiring the way it caught the moon's rays and reflected them back with an ethereal, otherworldly glow. The stone itself was a deep shade of blue, the color of the night sky just before dawn. Its surface was flecked with tiny specks of silver, like stars scattered across the heavens. As Lucy turned the stone over in her hand, she could see that it was not just a single shade of blue, but rather a spectrum of colors that seemed to shift and change with every movement.

Suddenly I was grabbing a sharp edged rock and as I kneeled down on the ground, I had a strong urge to scribble and write something. So scribble I did. After finishing I stood up to stare back at my work, smiling knowingly. What felt like hours I watched her grave stone and let the wind brush past me. Only when I thought it was enough and I was just about to walk away when I noticed something stuck inside a hole on a tree’s bark. Curious enough I slowly dragged the stuff out of there only to realise it was a piece of paper, crumpled and twisted in a fold to fit inside the hole.