Psychohistoria


The sound reached him as he broke apart thin pieces of rock and let the silt-fine dust fall from his hand. Some of the grains collected in the creases of his pants. When he swiped the grains from his pants over the edge they caught the sunlight and floated dull out into the air.

He stood and the rock gave, slightly and slowly, bending downward. He was not enough weight to disconnect the rock. He could not break it. Instead, it pushed back up what he gave.

As he stepped off onto the stable rock, the crack of the hanging rock split from the mother mountain. The piece smashed into the mountain below, exploding like fireworks, shooting fragments straight up into the air and into the bushes at the base. He looked over the edge. One of the cars honked.

He walked back through the hillsides where the brush in the wind was the color of fire and back up to the house where other others sat in lounge chairs on the patio that looked out over a green grass valley patterned in the twirling wind, some napping, resting. He walked through the patio of the Charming Estate, running his hand along the tops of the chairs as he passed them.