Micro fiction by Emily Hall

The stone lion

Has granite eyes, but he can see everything. Tourists walking through the garden, cameras swinging around their necks. They take photos of the great house, take leaves off the plants. The women haul in crying children on their hips. The men stare skeptically at the tour guides. 

 Sometimes, when the ticklish moss doesn’t muffle his hearing, the stone lion hears the tourists too. They say, I took time off for this! and Why don’t you watch where you’re going? They mutter about the ticket prices and long lines, and the stone lion wishes he could rest his big, granite paws on their shoulders and tell them that everything will be okay. 

The stone lion sees sun and rain. He sees irises erupt and fade. He watches cameras give way to screens, which cast new lights and shadows across people’s faces. He watches children trample the irises and stick their fingers up the other statues’ noses. The stone lion watches a family followed by a quiet girl. The father of this family points to his daughter and says, Why can’t you be more like your friend? The stone lion sees the friend and notices her hands are folded tightly in front of her. 

 Someone made her hands that way, the stone lion thinks. And he knows this because someone made his paws that way too.   

 The family and friend finish their tour of the garden. The sun goes down, the stars come out. They shine their brightness along the stone lion’s mane. The stone lion sleeps with his granite eyes open. His big, granite paws rest on his pedestal, crossed at the wrist. But in his dreams, he uncrosses them, leaps down, and walks away.