“Flat stones, Cadence. You have to use flat stones.”
Remy ran his hand through the sediment just beneath the water’s surface. Sand washed away with the current of the river as he pulled his hand out. Five black rocks sat in the palm of his hand, four of them smooth and flat. He tossed the one rounded rock back into the water
He looked out over the narrow neck of the river. Tree branches stretched across the water from both sides. Thick moss hung down like heavy strands of hair on a hag’s head. Remy had tied the target to one of the thicker branches so it would dangle a few inches above the water.
Remy turned to his daughter, took in the eyes that were odd: one wide and one like a slit across her face. He took in the way one side of her lip pulled down, the scars on her face and arms where flames had licked her skin. His heart cracked and he clinched his teeth to bite back the anger welling up in his chest. He closed his eyes, released a long breath, tried to relax his suddenly tense muscles and opened his eyes.
“You do it like this,” he said and held his arm out to his side and at an angle. With a flick of his wrists he let the rock go. It skipped across the water, went into the air, skipped again but sailed just to the right of the target. “Dang it, I missed.” He shook his head. “But, you get the picture, right?”
Cadence nodded, her once curly blond locks were short, barely there and clung tight to her skull. The one good blue eye shimmered with excitement as she took a stone from Remy, held her arm at an angle and tossed the rock. It plopped into the water and sank.
“Ah man,” she said, lowered her head. It came out “ah bant.”
The second rock sank as well.
Remy held the last rock out for her. “One more, kiddo.”
Cadence took the final rock, one a little bigger than the others. Remy stepped behind her, took her elbow and steadied her arm. “Close your eyes, child. See the target in your mind, feel it in your soul as if it were pain. We don’t like pain, now do we?”
”No sir.” It came out “Doe thir.” She did as she was told. Her eyes closed, her lips a crooked line across her face, one puckered with scars.
He stepped back. “Go on ahead now. Hit the target. You can do this, Cadence.”
Cadence took a deep breath, opened her eyes and stared down the target with her one good one. She stepped out with her left foot and flicked her wrist. The rock skimmed the water’s surface three times before striking the woman dangling upside down from the overhanging tree limb. She let out a yelp of pain as she swayed from side to side. Blood spilled from the wound above her eye and flowed into her brown hair.
“Bulls eye,” Remy cheered.
The child’s eyes grew wide, a smile stretched across her young face.
“Do you want to try again?”
“Yes,” she said, clapped her scarred hands together.
He rummaged through the sediment, came back up with several smooth rocks. The woman cried, her nostrils flaring, her mouth held shut with duct tape, muffling her screams.
“Aim for the middle of the target next time. She’s still much too pretty. Remember how she looked at you? Remember what she said to you? Remember how it made you feel?”
Cadence nodded, took another rock and closed her eyes and remembered …
This piece was written when my son was five years old. The family had gone to the river walk in Cayce, South Carolina. The river was low and I told a couple of stories how my brother and I would cross the water when it was low enough to. We also used to have stone skipping contests. My brother, older by a year and a half, was always better than me at most things until I got into my early teen years. Skipping stones was one of those things he made look easy.
My son asked me to show him how to skip stones. For half an hour or so I rummaged around in the water looking for smooth rocks, which there were plenty of. I showed him several times how to hold the rock between thumb and first finger with the middle finger like a resting spot for the rock itself. I showed him how to hold his arm sideways (much like a sidearm pitcher would). I showed him how to flip the rock, allowing your wrist to snap and your first finger to release the rock so that it sailed even with the water, striking it and bouncing up in the air. It took him a couple dozen attempts, but he finally skipped one three times across the top of the water. He jumped up, pumped his fist and yelled, “I did it.”
We walked away a few minutes later, him happy and me proud and my mind turning over thoughts. The first line to the story is almost word for word what I told my son, but I had used his name and not the fictional burn victim, Cadence’s. As we walked the path to the car, the story had somewhat developed into a father showing his child, one with bad scars all over her body, how to skip rocks and take revenge on someone who had looked at her in the wrong way and insulted her. I won’t lie and say I didn’t have a little fun writing this piece.
Hey, while I have you here, did you like Skipping Stones (or any of the other stories posted so far this month)? If so, would you mind leaving a comment, liking the post (and following the blog if you want notifications of future posts) and sharing it to your social media pages? It would help me get these stories out to others. Thank you for reading, commenting, liking, sharing.