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Gregory: Gregory is a rock. He's my pet rock I picked up to be a paperweight.
Posted by Douglas, Sep 5, 2007. 1722 views. ID = 1

Gregory

Posted by Douglas, Sep 5, 2007. 1722 views. ID = 1
This post was written in 11 minutes.
The very first post on the Fifteen Minutes Of Fiction website. I'm so proud.
This post has been awarded 26 stars by 7 readers.
This post is Part 1 of a writing series titled My Pet Rock.

Gregory is a rock. I don't mean he's a pillar of support in times of trouble, or any such metaphorical nonsense. No, I mean it literally. He's a rock.

I was out walking on Hill Street when I saw him. I'd like to say there was something special about him that attracted my eye - some luminescenece, some pattern of coloring or shading of dark and light. But there was nothing about Gregory that made him leap out from among his peers, except this one thing: he was smooth and flat on the bottom, and nicely rounded on the top.

The perfect paperweight, I thought as I picked him up and jammed him into my jeans pocket.


Why I named him Gregory, that's anyone's guess. I don't even remember if I had a childhood friend named Gregory - a couple Gregs, and I suppose Greg was short for Gregory, but I never thought of them as Gregory.

But this rock - he was definitely a Gregory.

For three weeks I kept him on my desk, between the computer and the printer. Every morning I would say to him: "Good morning, Gregory, it's a beautiful day today," or "Hey Gregory, can you believe how hard it's raining out there? Good thing you're in here where it's dry, huh?"

To each of my inquiries, Gregory would, with the arrogant indifference that only a rock can express, remain silent and still.

When I needed a paper that Gregory was holding down, I would say, "Pass the electric bill, please," or "Hey, Gregory, have you got my paycheck?"

And still, Gregory would remain strangely mute.


On the bright side, Gregory would never complain when I left for the day - no whining and complaining "You never spend enough time with me," or "Is your work more important than me?"

For three weeks he sat there on my desk, between the computer and the printer, saying nothing. And then, at the beginning of the fourth week, I think something snapped. It was right after, for the four hundredth time, I called him Gregory.

"My name," he announced with more irritation than I have ever heard from a rock, "is Willis."


Copyright 2007 Douglas. All rights reserved. FifteenMinutesOfFiction.com has been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work. For permission to reprint this item, please contact the author.
 


 
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This post has been awarded 26 stars by 7 readers.
This post is Part 1 of a writing series titled My Pet Rock. The next part of this series can be found here: The Phone Bill.




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