Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt, this week is
Plinth the Uneven took in the scene. A girl, pebble-young in white, eyes lowered, nervy; a woman, nicely strata’ed, also in white, talking softly. Sodding devotees, that’s what they are, he thought. A novitiate and her minder. She’ll want to light the bloody candle, too and that wax always played havoc with his fissures, sticking the planes together when they should be easing – gloriously, inevitably – apart as the rain permeated his corporeal magnificence. If it wasn’t for all the wax that had dripped down his flanks over the centuries, he’d be gravel by now, washed to the river and out to sea; by that point he’d be completely granulated, and at peace, in the swish-swosh-swirly currents.
He’d had millennia to ask why. Why him? Why had those stupid, simple minded druids chosen him? He was just an ordinary stone; not exactly a Sarsen, but big enough to stand pretty proud. All the others, granite and grit alike, admired his smooth sides. Back then, the alluvia ground at each other, hoping he’d flake in their direction.
He’d lost a couple of meters to floods and shakes before that little ape appeared. Of all the warm-bloods, these bipeds, with their knowing eyes and chants and pointy tools, were the worst. It was just another day, warmish with a chance of occasional storms later and the sun was warming his top when the nosey little vandal appeared. He took one look at the way the sun reflected back off the sheen of quartz that had just been exposed by another flake and fallen to his knees.
Plinth watched in disbelief as this oaf, this ‘artist’ brought others to look. That was before they started chipping. Chipping! The indignity. After their first efforts the other rocks started calling him ‘Uneven’ because of their ham-fisted carvings. They planted a tree which was all he needed, sheltering him from the rain and absorbing the water table before it could crumble him from below. And then they’d gone.
But relief was short lived. Every two centuries or so another group would find him, swoon and start chipping. Swirls and crosses, spikes and shelves; he had had them all. The candles came, what, five hundred years ago and hadn’t stopped.
Plinth screamed; sadly he screamed at a pitch that the biped’s didn’t register but it caused the nearby limestone to wet itself again and another cliff fall ensued. How bloody long was he going to stay like this?
He let the girl scorch his surface with her clumsy match. It wasn’t her fault but one day she’d be that woman with another clumsy little pyromaniac. He looked up at the sky, at the gathering clouds. He’d have his revenge. Oh yes. One day, one day soon enough they will be a reckoning, he thought. Go on, melt the ice caps, morons. That’s what always happened before the next ice age. Then we’ll see how who’s best equipped to handle all-terrain glaciation. Oh yes. You’ll need a bigger candle then.