Robert and the Kicking Stone

Magical Realism (500 Words): Think of a fantastical image or episode, and incorporate it into a story, which is told in a completely realistic, matter-of-fact, non-magical way. This will have the effect of making the magical appear real. Bring the reader into your world of magical realism by tapping into their senses, fusing the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and touch of the gritty real world with the magical. For example: “Gita’s skin caught the gnarled cedar bowl as she handed him the ten rupees. Smoked ground turmeric and specks of her blood rained on the Punjabi street-market floor and turned into gold.”    

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    Robert and Miss Turska climbed out of Papa’s taxicab, the big Peugeot 402.  Robert could tell that Mama didn’t want him to get out because they might get lost in the traffic jam, or run into German soldiers or something. But they were driving so slowly, Papa thought it would be okay.  

    Miss Turska bent down and picked something up off the road. “Do you know the game, ‘kick the pebble’?” she asked Robert. She held out her hand and showed him a white pebble about the size of his favorite shooter marble, but not as smooth and not as round.

    “No,” Robert said, staring at the pebble, which kept changing color from white to gray and back.

    “Well, I played it as a little girl.” She dropped the pebble, and it turned gray when it hit the road, sending a spray of black sparks that turned white as it skittered forward.

    Miss Turska caught up to the pebble and gave it a little kick. “See? You kick the stone just a little distance, then do it again.” 

    She gave another kick, and it tumbled forward ksh-ksh-ksh until it hit a little bump in the road, which sent it flying, where it giggled and sent out more sparks, until it hit —BONK—the back of a man’s calf.   

    The pebble fell to the ground and lay quietly.

    The man put down the handles of his wheelbarrow, which was piled high with suitcases, turned, and glared at Miss Turska.   He said something to her in Flemish, but Robert didn’t understand Flemish very well, yet. Then he turned and stomped forward again.

    “I’m sorry, sir.” Miss Turska called after him, snatching up the pebble. “Well,” she said to Robert, “you must be careful not to hit anyone. Do you think you can kick this pebble all the way to France, without doing so?”

    Robert grinned. “Yes, ma’am!”  

    Miss Turska handed him the pebble.  

    Robert looked at the lumpy white kicking stone, then gently drop-kicked it like a football. It shot forward, but stopped just shy of hitting the wheelbarrow man again.   Tiny white flower-sparks bounced out of it.

    “Very good!  The only rule is to never allow the stone to hit anyone.  If you do that, you lose.”  

    Robert smiled at Miss Turska. She was okay. 

    There was a big open space ahead of them, so Robert gave the pebble a really solid kick, but instead of giggling and sending flowers, it just made regular sparks. He looked up. Two men shoved a woman out of their way as they left one of the houses along the road, carrying a lumpy bag. She got up and wailed, “How will I feed my children?!”

    “Are they stealing her food?” Robert asked Miss Turska. “Shouldn’t we fetch the police?” Papa always said that a good man never hurt women, children, or dogs.

    “Oh, yes, my young man,” Miss Turska replied. “But you see, there are no police to help her. They’ve all fled, too.”

--January 18, 2026

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    Hopefully, the setting is clear, but in case it's not:  It takes place in Belgium, around May 15, 1940. They are heading west toward France, refugees escaping the Nazi invasion of western Europe, and caught up in what was probably the greatest population movement in European history. Think apocalypse-lite crossed with a traffic jam from hell.

    Robert and Miss Turska were real people, though their actions in this story are fiction. Robert was the son of the taxi driver my grandfather hired to take his family to Calais. I don't know his real name or his age, though I imagine him as an eight-year-old. Félicie Turska was my great-grandfather Herman's housekeeper, and later, his second wife. She would have been about 46 when the story takes place.

1939 Peugeot 402 taxi (left) in Paris.
Source.