Lives . . .

I wouldn't mind being a rock.

A smooth rock that's perhaps spent some time in the riverbed.

I once watched children play in a small stream. I had gone to the park for a change of pace and to write.

My observations merged with the story I was thinking about and I saw the flat rocks as fish for the character to avoid. Pretend fish, of course.

I've always been alive enough to take care of people. And now, I find myself more awake but making lumbering Frankenstein mistakes.

Frankenstein needed an instruction manual. I've often wanted one for myself. Mine would tell me where to live in Wyoming.

Lately I keep thinking about the rock. The rock's purpose is pretty clear: sit in the meadow until someone picks you up, skips you across the stream. Then sink. And do whatever rock's do at the bottom--until something changes.

The rock piece wouldn't make a good story. Good stories require characters that act, react, and interact--not that are exclusively acted upon. But here's the beauty: the rock isn't looking to be a character or to even be in a story. How liberating! The rock just is.

Isn't that what people want, too? To be seen exactly as they are (rock) and liked and appreciated and accepted (mostly) because God created them? (I suppose some people's ideal isn't rock, like mine is. Some might wish to be perceived as something grander or better.) (And no, people don't want to be used...I just realized that I didn't want anyone carrying that analogy forward.)

I wonder if anyone has e-published a guide on how not to be Frankenstein. I bet someone has. And it's probably sitting on a server somewhere for me to download for .99.

I won't look though. I will instead close my eyes and see the gray smooth stone--perhaps it has wavy stripes running through it--resting below a shallow stream of water, waiting for whatever comes after one has sunk.