a little pebble named peb wanted to find

east coast on a cyclone. a little pebble called ble landed in the garden during that storm and when they met after peb was kicked across the garden...

The pebble was heartbroken, as it now will never have the chance to make friends with the other pebbles in that garden and now it was stuck with the bully pebbles

when the pebble really wanted to be with the fruity pebbles. But it wasn't the right kind of pebble. It was made of stone. Not colored, festive puffed rice. If only the fruity

pebbles would accept him as one of their own. It would be the happiest day of his life, and he would cry little pebble tears and laugh little pebble laughs. But alas,

pebbles deep down are a bunch of snobs. They think rocks are vulgar & grit is coarse. As for sand... their views on sand are unrepeatable. He walked on the beach morose, rejecte

rs lying in wait to shower him in minute bits of gravel. But being a geophile didn't make life easy. Gossip kept him from enjoying life, just because he needed a rock for arousal.

He was punctured on the front page of the Enquirer. People picked up that paper while waiting in line at the A&P. They didn't know what to think when they sneezed afterwards.

After all, they know not the curse of photographing and publishing and printing his face. They know not the storm of murderous spores racing down the valley for their bodies.

Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do. And then, it was finished.