Whispers of the Stone
Preface: Whispers of the Stone
This is a story that follows the journey of a pipe, carved from sacred stone. From its creation to the present day and beyond, the pipe witnesses and absorbs the stories of different times and places. It travels across lands, cultures, and time passing through the hands of many, each leaving their influence upon it, and being influenced by it. The pipe becomes more than just a vessel; it is a keeper of histories, experiences, and the spirit of those who encountered it along the way.
This is an excerpt from a book I’ve been thinking about writing for awhile—not something hastily thrown together, but carefully put to paper after plenty of thought. Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve been carrying a notebook around with me. Whenever I get an idea—yes, I do have those—I scribble it down. I’ve even pulled off the road, taking a detour onto some side road, just to make sure I don’t lose a brilliant thought before I get distracted by the next thing I see on my journey, or start jamming to some awesome tune emanating from my radio. Gems are too good to let slip away! I took 3 semesters of creative writing fiction in my undergraduate--hopefully it wasn't wasted time!
Let me know your thoughts, likes, dislikes, and criticism: Don’t be kind, tell what you really think. Please see the Poll after the short story. Thank you. D.G. Comer
Whispers of the Stone
The old man shifted in his worn wooden chair, the creak of the timber beneath him matching the stiffness in his bones. His face, lined and weathered by the passage of time, told a story of years lived hard and long, while his hands—rough and calloused from a lifetime of work—gripped the armrests as if they were old companions.
His silver hair, though thin now, was still braided, a single braid trailing down his back, resting at his waist. His eyes, though touched by age, held a fire that hadn't dimmed—a sharpness that spoke of a man who had seen much, endured much, and still carried the weight of stories not yet spoken.
The fire in the pit, just beyond the porch, crackled softly, sending occasional sparks into the cool evening air. His grandson sat nearby in his grandma's chair, leaning in toward the flames, ready to move should she step outside.The flickering light cast shadows across his youthful face, the glow making the contrast between them all the more vivid. The warmth of the fire reached out to both of them, while the scent of burning pine and cedar mixed with the earthy smell of the woods that surrounded them.
The fire burned steady, a reflection of the old man's spirit—strong, unwavering, even as time had left its marks on his body. Together, they sat in the quiet of twilight, the forest around them slowly giving way to the night. The only light came from the fire, and between them, a silence that wasn’t empty, but full of the weight of untold stories, waiting to be passed from one generation to the next.
The air was cool but calm, the sounds of the evening in the woods could be heard, if one listened. Rising from the chair, the old man looked at his grandson and said:
"Wait here. There’s something you need to see. Been waiting a long time for the right moment. I reckon you’re old enough now, but you’ll have to judge that for yourself.
His weathered hand gripped the porch post for support as he stepped inside the cabin.The cool air replaced by the familiar warmth of the hearth. His wife stood at the kitchen counter, her hands busy with some small task, though her eyes followed him as he made his way toward the bedroom.
She didn’t have to ask, but still, she spoke softly, “Are you going to tell him about the pipe?”
He paused, one hand on the doorframe, glancing back at her. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice low.
“You know,” she said, her voice carrying the wisdom of their many years together, “he may not believe any of it. You’ve got to be ready for him to resist, maybe even deny everything you tell him.
The old man sighed, nodding. “I know,” he said, “I’m ready for that.” He pushed open the door to the bedroom, stepping inside and moving to the small, worn bag that had sat undisturbed on the shelf for years. His hands moved slowly, carefully, as he reached inside and made sure he pipe was still there, wrapped in the same cloth that had protected it for so long.
As he turned to leave the room, heading back toward the porch, his wife was still standing there, watching him. Their eyes met, and the weight of what he was about to share seemed to hang between them.
“If he don’t believe,” the old man said quietly, his hand resting on the doorknob, “or if he doesn’t feel any connection with the pipe, then what? We’re too old to tell all the stories it holds, especially after what the doctor said.”
She shook her head slowly, her expression hard to read yet full of quiet understanding. "Just tell him what you can," she said softly, her voice steady with strength. "If it's meant to be, he'll get it in time. You waited, and now he's old enough to understand."
The old man nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up in a sad smile, and then he stepped out of the cabin, carefully closing the door behind him. A moment later, he paused, turned back, and slowly re-opened the door. With a grin tugging at his weathered face, he looked at his wife and said, "I don’t believe the doc. We’re going to live forever."
She chuckled softly, shaking her head with that familiar warmth in her eyes. "You old fool," she whispered, still smiling as he closed the door once more, the sound of her laughter lingering behind him as he stepped into the night.
The firelight flickered across the porch as he made his way back to his grandson, the pipe in his hands, knowing that whether the boy believed or not, the stories had to be passed on.
The old man settled back into his familiar chair, and with quiet reverence, he opened the bag. Inside was the pipe. He held it in his hands, his fingers tracing the smooth stone, as though he'd done it a thousand times before.
"You see this pipe?"
His voice was low, soft, like he was talking to the stone as much as to his grandson.
"This pipe... it’s got more stories than I could ever tell. But it doesn’t just tell 'em. It gathers 'em. Every life it’s touched, every ceremony, every hand that’s passed it along, every breath of smoke—it holds all of that."
He leaned back, looking out over the dark woods.
"I got it at an auction that your grandma and I went to way back when we were just married. I didn’t know what I had, just knew it felt right, like it was waiting for me. But over the years, through the dreams, I started to understand. This pipe... it’s alive in a way. Been absorbing everything for centuries—every prayer, every song, every event and every word spoken near it.”
His grandson listened closely, watching the way his grandpa's hands moved over the pipe, almost like it was something sacred. Because it was.
"The first dream came right after we headed home in that old green truck out back.. I was tired from the long drive along those winding roads, so I pulled over to rest. That first dream—it was just flashes and movement. Your grandma said I mumbled a prayer in my sleep, though back then, I wasn't much of a prayer man.
He paused, his voice quieter now.
"But then the dreams came again. That first night back at the cabin, everything was clear. I saw the pipe, being used in ceremonies, passed from hand to hand, tribe to tribe, traveling across lands. Each person who held it gave their prayers, their energy. I saw warriors lifting it to the Great Spirit before battle, mothers pleading for their children’s safety, elders asking for guidance during tough winters and when food was scarce. With each puff of smoke, the pipe soaked in those prayers, growing stronger with every use."
The old man’s eyes narrowed a bit, as if seeing it all again.
"But it wasn’t just about the ceremonies. This pipe wasn’t picky about where it gathered power. When it sat on a collector’s shelf, long after it left the hands of the tribes, it was still working. People would walk by, glance at it, maybe read the little sign. Some just kept walking, but others... they’d stop, stare at it. Even then, it was absorbing their thoughts, their curiosity, their wonder, even if they didn’t know it.”
The grandson sat quietly as his grandfather finished speaking, the fire crackling softly in the background. He listened, but he wasn’t sure he believed. The pipe, the stories, the dreams—it all seemed too far from reality, too much like something from another time. His eyes drifted toward the pipe, resting in his grandfather’s hands, but he didn’t reach for it. He didn’t feel the same pull, the same reverence his grandfather seemed to hold for it.
The old man watched him, sensing the doubt. His lips curled into a knowing smile. "You don’t believe me, do you?" he asked softly.
The boy shifted uncomfortably, glancing down. "I don’t know, Grandpa. It’s just… a pipe. How could it do all that?"
His grandfather nodded slowly, as though he’d expected this. "You think it’s just a story. That’s alright. I didn’t believe it at first either." He leaned forward, extending the pipe toward his grandson. "Here," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Take hold of it."
The boy hesitated, eyeing the pipe warily. "What’s the point? If none of it’s real, touching it won’t do anything, right?" his grandfather said, his tone challenging, but not unkind.
The boy swallowed, uncertain. He glanced at his grandfather’s steady gaze, then slowly reached out, his fingers brushing the smooth stone. As soon as he wrapped his hands around the pipe, something shifted. A strange, almost immediate feeling spread from his palms and into him, like warmth traveling up his arms and settling deep inside. He gasped, his heart pounding in his chest. The longer he held it, the stronger the sensation became—an energy, a presence he couldn’t explain.
His eyes widened as he looked up at his grandfather, whose face remained calm, a quiet understanding reflected in his expression.The boy tightened his grip on the pipe, now feeling the weight of all the stories his grandfather had shared, the truth in them becoming undeniable. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he knew—this pipe carried something far beyond its stone and shape. It was alive with the history, the prayers, the lives that had touched it.
"Do you feel it?" his grandfather asked quietly.
The boy nodded, too stunned to speak. His disbelief melted away, replaced by a quiet understanding. The pipe wasn’t just a piece of stone—it was everything his grandfather had said, and more.
"Tell me more, Grandpa," the boy finally whispered, his voice filled with awe. The words hung in the air, heavy with the realization of what he'd just experienced.
The old man smiled, a deep, satisfied smile, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Good," he said softly. "The pipe has many stories to share. And now, you’re ready to listen."
"It’s not just the pipe. It’s about connection. Energy. Every person who holds it, prays with it, or even just looks at it—they’re adding something. Every time someone lights the pipe and the smoke rises, it’s like a bridge between the earth and the sky, between us and the spirits. Even when it wasn’t used in ceremonies, it was still... soaking up everything around it."
He held up the pipe, the last light of the day reflecting off the red stone.
"I could feel it, you know. Every time I dreamed of it, it felt heavier—not in my hand, but in my spirit. Like it carried more with each passing year. It’s not just a piece of stone. It’s a vessel. Every soul that’s touched it left something behind, and in return, it gives something back—a bit of wisdom, a bit of strength, maybe even some peace."
The grandson’s chest tightened as he stared at the pipe, feeling a strange pull—something he couldn’t yet name but couldn’t ignore. His nod was slow, tentative, like stepping into a current he wasn’t sure he could escape.
"You see," the old man continued, "this pipe has seen things we couldn’t even imagine. It’s been in the hands of great leaders and simple folks alike. It’s witnessed joy and sorrow, peace and war. And it remembers all of it. When I hold it, I can feel the weight of those lives. In my dreams, it shows me what it’s seen—times when it was used to bring peace between tribes, or when it was hidden during raids, buried under the ground and forgotten for years, only to be found again. And still, it remembers."
His voice softened, like he was sharing a secret.
"Even when it sat on that collector’s shelf, it wasn’t forgotten. People would come and go, but the pipe... it was still alive. Some would pass by without a glance, but others... they’d stop, stare into the case, feel something. They didn’t know why, but they sensed it. The pipe was waiting, gathering strength, holding onto every prayer it had ever known."
The fire crackled softly in the background as the young boy held the pipe in his hands, his gaze far away.
Grandpa continued,"It’s a keeper of stories, of prayers whispered to the stars. And those dreams, those visions... they were never just mine. They’re waiting—for anyone with ears to hear and a heart to understand."
He turned to his grandson, eyes shining in the dim light.
"Now it’s your turn. The stone still whispers, even now. It’s got more stories to tell, and you’re the one who’s gonna make sure they’re not lost. You feel it, don’t you?"
The grandson hesitated, then nodded, the weight of responsibility settling on him. The pipe seemed to hum with a quiet energy, like it had been listening and was ready to pass its stories on to him.
The old man smiled, a gentle expression of understanding crossing his face as he nodded at the boy.
"Good. Then you understand. This pipe’s journey ain’t over yet. And now... it’s calling you. You can feel it, can’t you? It’s a burden, but it’s also a gift. Your journey’s just beginning."
The grandson sat quietly, the weight of the pipe still resting in his hands. He felt it now—truly felt it—the pull of something far greater than himself. The stories, the prayers, the lives that had passed through this pipe were no longer just words from his grandfather’s lips. They were real, and they were now his to carry.
A mixture of emotions stirred in him. He was eager, yes—there was something powerful about holding this piece of history, about stepping into a legacy that had been passed down for generations. But there was a heaviness, too. The responsibility pressed on him, the knowledge that this wasn’t just an object; it was a keeper of lives, of truths, of spirit. He could feel the weight of that responsibility sinking into his chest.
His eyes lifted to his grandfather’s, and in the old man’s face, he saw both pride and the understanding that this path wouldn’t be easy. The boy felt uncertain, unsure of what came next. How could he live up to the stories, the traditions, the dreams? How could he carry the pipe forward in a world so far removed from the one his grandfather had grown up in?
The old man seemed to sense his grandson’s hesitation. "You’ll find your way," he said, his voice steady and kind. "The pipe will guide you, just like it did for me. Don’t rush it. The stories will come when you’re ready, and when it’s time, you’ll know what to do."
The grandson nodded slowly, the enormity of it all still settling in. He wasn’t sure where this journey would lead, but deep down, he knew there was no turning back. The pipe had chosen him now, and with it came the stories of his people, the wisdom of the past, and the strength to carry it into the future.
As he looked down at the pipe resting in his lap, he understood. This was his beginning.
Grandson reached over and laid the pipe onto the worn wooden table.
The night air grew colder, but the warmth of the fire and the words they shared still hung in the air. The old man patted his grandson's shoulder gently and took a sip of his coffee, not even noticing it had gone cold. The pipe, quiet yet powerful, rested between them, waiting for its stories to be told.
They both looked up as the crackle of the fire had long since faded, the once bright flames now reduced to a soft, pulsing glow. Above them, the faint shimmer of the northern lights danced quietly across the sky, casting ghostly hues against the darkened trees. Neither spoke, each lost in their own thoughts, reflecting on the weight of the stories shared, the legacy passed from one generation to the next.
The quiet was broken by the soft creak of the cabin’s back door. Grandma’s familiar voice called out, warm and steady. “Come on inside, boys. It’s getting late.”
They lingered for a moment longer, reluctant to leave the night’s stillness, then rose slowly. As the cabin door shut behind them, the porch was swallowed by darkness. The faint glow of the dying embers was all that remained, casting a last flicker of warmth into the cool night. Somewhere in the distance, the low, mournful howl of a coyote echoed through the trees, fading unnoticed into the vastness of the night.
ABOUT ME
PORTFOLIO
The Author is D.G. Comer: This is about me, myself, and I am what I am, am I ?
These are the two books D.G. Comer is currentlly working on. Both "should" be published in 2025. If a publisher is found, or self-published. "Watch for Them!"
