Faithful Pebble
Part Eleven
"Your neighbors told me about you. They said your arms were weak and that you're unable to climb the rope. They also said that you didn't speak, but I can hear you." He leaned over further with blue eyes squinting, cropped hair falling into them. "I came prepared. Just hold onto the rope and I will lift you out."
His answer was silence. It was heavy and impatient. Tapping the edge of that great stone wall, he waited for some sign, some hint that she had heard him.
None came. A minute, a second, ten thousand seconds passed by meandering like strangers on a street and still, even then, none came. Undetermined though, filled with a stout curiosity, the man in his doubt grabbed hold of the rope and began to tug hoping that maybe, wishing that perhaps—it jerked. In seconds—one, ten, ten thousand—the rope wound and wound until suddenly it caught, a weight pulling it down like the mouse dangling from his fabled clock swung pendulum.
Instantly, the man smiled. It was broad and wild and true, as true as the cyan dipped sky and as golden as a heart swaying on an invisible string. Left. Right. Up. Up. With sure steady tugs, he pulled and hefted the rope feeling the weight on the end climb and lift, soar to unimaginable heights pulled along, rising steadily with the hope in his heart. But like all stories, like all hopes, it was premature. His smile faded. It shattered mightily as suddenly, without warning, the rope snapped and the weight fell, falling to a bottom he couldn't see.
Can you believe I haven't finished writing the rough draft for this yet? Don't worry, I know the ending. There is an ending. I just haven't gotten there yet. It's been a long day. How was your week? ~ Calla