Pebbles in a Washing Machine

I’m walking along my morning stroll when someone walks up and hands me a pebble. I don’t know them too well, but I think we’re meant to be friends. Or maybe they’re just friendly, it’s hard to tell the difference. I do know that they’re respected in the community for their value in a skill. An exceptional skill.

​

They handed me the pebble and told me to clean it up to make it presentable.

 

The stone was soft green and covered in frosty blue splotches–a misshapen world mimicking the colorful decay of a fallen leaf. The colors should richen after it’s been polished. I smiled, took the pebble, and skipped further down the path.

​

About a minute passed before someone else stepped into view.

They excitedly said hello and handed me another pebble. This one was dull red, like burned copper left to cool at the windowsill.

 

They told me how to clean it, and went on their way.

​

This was starting to become a bit to remember, so I took out some paper and repeated what they said. My pencil was dull, but I got the major points down well enough. Each pebble had to be cleaned in a different way, but now at I wouldn’t mess it up.

​

I was about to start walking again when I got a tap on the shoulder. A new person holding out a lavender pebble. I listened to the instructions and scribbled down what they said, tucking the pebble safely into my pocket.

​

By the time my walk was done, I had to stop by the store to buy five different polishes with three different brushes for eleven different pebbles. My paper was covered front and back in chicken scratch and lead rubbing together.

I stumbled home with tools rattling in the lap of my arms and my pockets clacking with muted marbles, waiting for me to wake up their shine. But as time tugged the clouds forward and woke up the stars from their nocturnal nap, I was barely halfway through the instructions on the backs of the lacquer tins.

​

I began to panic. How would I have time to get them all done? I couldn’t. There was no way. Even if I used moonlight as my lamp and caffeine as slumber, I wouldn’t be able to get through all the pebbles.

Sweat drenched my brow as I responded and reshuffled potential actions. Each step acted like a card on a poker table as I, the downtrodden bum, hedged my bets and struggled to play my hand.

I had enough time to polish a few of them, but not all.

How could I do that? How could I take my morning stroll knowing that there are disappointed scowls waiting for me? Why didn’t you polish my pebble, they’d say, Why was mine deemed less important than the others? How could I possibly respond to their unsaid words?

​

I could see the pebbles collecting dust while I scrambled to gather my thoughts. I only stared at them as they pleaded back. Grabbing the first polish, my hand went cold. What if I opened it too strongly and it all jumped out? What if it stains my fingertips and I get so distracted by the mess that I use it on the wrong one? Or the wrong several.

​

And so I panicked, scooped up the pebbles, and tossed them all into my washing machine.

 

The machine wailed and trembled as it shook like a seizure-stricken child. I felt as my insides tumbled in time with its rotations. Each bang pummeled my torso, bruising my ribs along with my heart. When I took them out they were cleaner but scuffed. The tiny world now bore a great cavern scratched down its side and the copper had been bled white.

​

My shoulders slumped as the morning rolled in–the pebbles digging into my palms and burning inside my jacket pocket. My daily stroll now a jailor’s march as I go to return my beaten pebbles. I begged my mind to forget that day and threw my pebbles into the lake.