Annie’s tears drop onto her Roman sandals. “Annie?” I drop my backpack onto the cracked brick path. My older sister Annie is sitting at the end of the veranda, huddled against the side of the house in a crimson sundress, head bowed into her hands. The door is held open by a faded kitchen-appliance box and-Ī high-pitched gurgle. Ivy climbs the wooden pillars that support the veranda roof and give our home a cottage-like look. Its squeals match the rickety fence and clumps of wildflowers I trample as I walk across the front lawn. Home looms before me, and I swing my backpack off before peeking into the letterbox.

Today smells different, like the cusp of summer. I drop the stone into my pocket and breathe in the perfumed air rising from the magnolias that flank the street. Nothing dramatic, just saying goodbye to my teachers and high-fiving my mates going to St. The gabbro’s subtle weight increases as I tell it all the crap that happened today, my last day of intermediate school. I squat to pick up the grey-black stone, jumping when a fresh raindrop slides across it and splashes onto my wrist. Today’s is a small trapezium of coarse-grained gabbro that’s spilling through the fence of our neighbor’s yard. This is the story of how I became a rock.

This is the story of how my home breaks and is rebuilt. This publication may not be reproduced without prior permission of the copyright owner of this book.Īll the characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Contact at Buerogemeinschaft ATP24, Am Treptower Park 24, 12435 Berlin, GermanyĪll rights reserved.

Rock by anyta sunday