"Skimming Stones" by Rebecca Harrison

Skimming Stones

Dylan took me to skim pebbles on the sea. We walked, hop-footed to the waves edge, where the sky rolls over the salt winds, where the sun sits fat on its reflection. I filled the pockets of my dress with the smoothest pebbles I could find, and they warmed me through the cotton, made me wobble and sway.
“There’s a whole country down there,” he said, as his pebble skipped twelve times and then sank. “No, there ain’t,” I said, and I lobbed mine and heard it plop. Sunlight scratched my bare arms making them red as the stinging weeds had when I tripped in the graveyard. “A whole country — that drowned in the giant’s tears. They chained up that giant, and it were just a wee baby, all stinking and squealing for its mam. But he got them good — he cried and cried so many tears until he cried the whole sea and all them drowned.” He tossed a grey pebble out into the shine. I counted the ripples as it skipped. My hair was turning into one big salted tangle. “He’s still crying down there now. Listen, Gertie.” So, I did. But I only heard the gulls, torn-winged and hungry.
And then Dylan got the boat. He rowed, and I clung to the sides. He rowed, and I listened. And I licked the water that splashed my lips, and it tasted like tears. And we leaned down to the waves and saw turrets lit by turquoise fish. And behind them a great shape, fists raised and face red. And the sea grew and lapped us.

ReBecca Harrison

Rebecca Harrison sneezes like Donald Duck and her best friend is a dog who can count.

Headshot: Unknown

Photo Credit: Elizabeth Sterrett