Brick

         Brick was innocent. It had lain undisturbed since being tossed aside when they repaved Grove street. 53 years had buried it under a foot of dirt, recent heavy rains exposed 2 inches of one end.
         It had watched the town grow around it, grateful where it lay was still an unused lot, but knew change was coming. There had been men measuring and discussing plans for a 5 story building with a large basement, it’s days of peace were over.
         It remembered it’s birth, coming out of the birth mother already shaped, then a period of sleep as it dried. The best time was the oven, basking in 2,400 glorious degrees. It came out with a glossy, very hard surface which the years as a paving stone had not worn away. It was still glossy, just dirty.
         It could feel the humans shoe kicking to loosen it, being pulled from the ground and used by one human to strike another 4 times before being dropped in the pool of blood forming around the head. It much preferred the cleaner earth.
         If bricks could feel shame it would hide from the world. It hadn’t been it’s fault, but having been used as it had did not meet with it’s personal non-violent values.
         The police preserved the blood evidence and were ecstatic to have found finger prints on it’s still glossy surface. Brick would get it’s dignity back.
         Now it would be kept in a normally dark, quiet evidence room for the foreseeable future. In a drawer right next a beautiful, Spanish vase. Brick discovered they were actually touching.
         “Hi, I’m Brick, it’s nice to meet you.”
         “Hi, I’m Lonely Lola.”
         “Not any more.”
         “What’re you going to do about it?”
         “The Fire gave me life!”
         “Ohhh, very warm.”