Untitled

The following is the first draft of an untitled short story that I started writing yesterday.

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        We were told that Moses commanded it, and since Moses is the one who talks to God, Moses' words are taken as God's.  And so we all have to line up and walk out of the camp and take turns throwing rocks at a convicted Sabbath breaker until he dies.  All you heard was he was gathering sticks for his mother.

        "Thank God he was caught before he got home," says a man in front of you.  "If she was caught lighting a fire, we would be stoning her too."

        People are singing hymns.  A lot of people are crying, especially women and girls.  A lot of people are shouting Amen or Hallelujah, especially men.

        A boy who looks eight, nine, or ten hands you a rock and says "May the Lord strengthen thy hand," and you quietly laugh because he used the archaic second person singular.

        Your hope is that the man will be dead by the time it's your turn to throw your rock.  There are so many people here, that so many people must already have thrown their rock.  The man must already be dead.

        The man in front of you throws his rock onto a large pile of rocks, turns around and whispers "Lord have mercy" and walks away.

        Now it's your turn, but all you see is a big pile of rocks.  The man must certainly be dead now.  No action from you could have been the cause of death or any harm to him.

        You pause and try to think of something good to say, like something a man in the crowd would say whenever Moses or Aaron talks -- "Praise the Lord," or "Bless God," or, like the man in front of you, "Lord have mercy" -- but none of those seem to be the right thing to say.

        You toss your rock underhanded.  It falls a cubit short of the pile.  You look around and everyone except for a woman sitting on the ground is looking at you.  You walk forward, stoop, and flick your rock with your hand.  This time it falls less than a pinky's width in front of the pile.

        You're pretty sure everyone is still looking at you.  You just don't want to turn around.

        "What do you say, Miss, should my last throw count?"  You turn to face the seated woman but she's still staring forward and completely silent.  She hasn't said a word since you got to the front, and now you're thinking she's the very last woman you should have asked that question.

        You pick your rock up again, hold it out over the pile, and drop it.  It claps when it hits the pile.

        You turn to see the boy who was handing out rocks try to give a rock to the lady sitting on the ground.  She wouldn't take it, so he sets it in her lap.  She shrieks, then wails, then falls over and lies motionless.

        It's strangely quiet back at camp this evening.  You'll grow used to the weird silence, just like you'll grow used to the heat, and to stoning other Hebrews to death.  You nibble on your ration of sweetcake and you sip your ration of water, and you look out at the red mountains around you, and you see that there is bread and water in the camp and none outside it, and you decide that, at least for now, life is less cruel with your people than without them.  And over the next forty years you will make that assessment again, and again, and again.