Quentin Sheers

One Summer's Work

My grandparent's gravel driveway was a constant task in my youth. During our frequent storms, the small stones would ride their way down to the bottom of the driveway. It was always delegated to me to bring up that gravel, shoveling it into wheelbarrows and spreading around the countless tiny rocks. I decided to make games out of it; if I didn't, I am not sure what would have happened. Insanity, maybe. Nonetheless, each shovelful began to be a town with living people. Particularly big shovelfuls would be big cities with all the problems of high rents, dirty streets, and men in gray suits with briefcases everywhere. I felt the vibrations in my feet as I unloaded each wheelbarrow. The heaving and shoving up the increasingly steep angle of the driveway sapped my strength. As I brought up a distinctly heavy wheelbarrow, I stumbled over a stubborn stone, and the wheelbarrow ripped from my hands: hundreds of pebbles were spilled onto the grass. I scowled, realizing the extra hours I had just created for myself. I got down on my knees and began to carefully pick out the gravel, mindful not to get any grass on them. I did so and noticed each stone was a

little different from the next. I picked up each pebble and wondered what life had it lived: was it simply doing nothing, or did they have a family, a partner? Each one turned into a person until I had a wheelbarrow full of people. It became almost too heavy to li, though I hadn't picked up half of what I dropped. I gazed at the gray-white stones dotting the tall grass, seeing little villages in a forest. I looked up to the sky, spotting the sun sneaking behind the horizon. Those villages, I told myself, would be for tomorrow. I carefully spread out the remaining people and wearily walked back to the house for supper and sleep. The next morning, I woke up to a pungent, acrid smell coming from the open window. I hurried downstairs to find my brother. I saw him say, "Outside."

The pressure in my chest began like an inflating balloon. I dashed to the door in my threadbare pajamas to see the driveway being tarred. Workers, silently spreading the sticky, nauseating pitch. I could barely breathe as the ballooning tar compressed my body. I saw my grandfather mouthing to me, "Now we have a real driveway." I looked at the noxious black tar suffocating the cities, tearing down towns, and destroying my driveway. The unstoppable tide of tar

swallowed each pebble, and the balloon in my chest popped, leaving me breathless. Tears started to stream down my face, and I began to choke on the fumes. I could taste the poison trickling down my throat. There was no chance for me to say goodbye.