The stone skidded to a halt on the other side of the stream. I felt horribly cheated out of something I could boast about. I had so little to brag of, only this pathetic little feat and yet it was withheld from me.
If only the stream were wider. if only I had stood at the mouth of river and watched it bounce back to the origins of its course in the mountains. Or at the edge of Africa and it would have skimmed to the coast of Australia.
Now the ripples faded, weaving into the murky current, stretching out the craters on its surface again and forgetting a little pale stone had kissed it.