Thanks to The Young Writers Initiative‘s summer camp, here’s a cool piece on taking a metaphor and turning it into a full bit of writing. This is some flash fiction on the metaphor of eyes being ‘pebbles’, a somewhat cliched idea which I’ve hopefully given a new spin to. It does discuss death, grief and end of life care, so be warned!
Her Eyes Were Pebbles
Her eyes were pebbles as she lay there, motionless as if asleep. Or dead. In my heart, I knew it was the latter, but I couldn’t bring myself to dismiss the former. Not yet. Her eyes were pebbles and her teeth were pearls.
They’d replaced them earlier that day. Two men in brown overcoats, one to remove and replace while the other handed him various tools and objects. Two pebbles, smooth, with the rings which they often had. The pebbles were grey but the rings, very thin rings, were amber. Muted amber, though. Everything in the room was muted.
Her teeth were pearls. Or made of pearl, in any case. The man handing over the equipment turned to me and told me as much, with a toothy grin which made me wonder if his teeth were also made from pearls. The finest pearl from here to Frosthorn, he declared, and I nodded politely.
Tears were still brimming in my eyes, tears from days ago. They lingered only to taunt me. They felt nothing for her.
I knew that because they remained even when I wasn’t looking at her ivory body, covered by her nicest clothes. They had been sewn and cleaned by her mother, who kept a handkerchief nearby to dab away her own tears every so often. Grief hits you in waves, she told me, and I nodded politely. I thought that all the fuss seemed much like what happened around a wedding, although I didn’t say so. It didn’t feel right.
Her eyes were pebbles, keeping the delicate eyelids open and making her look even more dead than before. I thought it was a terrible practice. The teeth were fine because they had kept her lips closed. I wasn’t sure why they even bothered with it all, but her mother had insisted. Pearls and pebbles, she’d said, and I’d nodded politely. A very important tradition.
Would she want it? That didn’t matter. All that mattered was that her eyes were pebbles, and I nodded politely at her pale face to show that I loved her despite those cold, empty rocks.
Oskar Leonard 