It was magical. And it was mine.
I would wake with the ability of flight.
THE MAGICAL ROCK BY ASHLEY WHEAT 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 51
I used to think that all great-uncles gifted their great-nieces magical rocks. It took me years—six at least—to realize the words my father conjured up the next morning after my great-uncle’s visit formed nothing but a story. At first it wasn’t. It was as real as the words on this piece of paper.
Normal great-uncles, when they meet you for the first time, hug you or pick you up or shake your hand or present you with a teddy bear with an offset eye. But it wasn’t like that with my great-uncle Bill. It was even better. Sticking out his coarse and discolored clenched fist, he peeled his fingers back one by one by one until he revealed a rock; its dull, worn edges and brindled tint aligned with the wrinkles and the spots sprinkled on his wrist.
My first impression: it was just like all of the other rocks in the backyard near the fence. In actuality: It was anything but ordinary. It was …