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Broken Stone

It was large, gray and black, taller than a man, wider than several side to side. It sat in a stream bed that rarely saw water, in a clear area by the road, miles from the surrounding hills and their stone debris. Hard surfaced, roughly round, its weight digging painfully into the earth, resolute. The cold surface was cut by clefts and facets, hard edged; fine cracks, rare and shallow. It felt immovable, cold, dark, indifferent, its essence somewhere else; touching it left smudges of cold, grey mud, flakes of dead skin. Did it flee there from some distant, violent place, did dark floods pick it up, ravish it with grinding stone and mud and quietly leave it at this spot? Or did it fall from the sky, rudely spit out, formless, through fiery heat, piercing black clouds of burning dust to land, settle, and shape itself to this place?