Spoiler! :
James was an ordinary chip off the old block in more ways than one. His father was one of the many mountains in the Adirondack range, and James had been a break-off from a cliff on his father’s western face.
All rocks around there were a dull grayish-blue, but James was a lively brown speckled with red and green pebbles. He was two feet across, but, like an iceberg, most of his two feet was underground.He bore a flat face away from the mountain, but rest of him was as round as a marble.
Day and night James did as rocks do, thinking over the world he could see, imagining the world he couldn’t, philosophizing, theorizing, and musing. Every morning that wasn’t cursed with a chill rain brought out birds of almost every size, color and song. James tried naming the different types he saw, but it was impossible.
“They all look alike!” he exclaimed in frustration. “Now, if they were more like rocks, I could tell them apart.”
Truth be told, James couldn’t tell his rock friends apart either, but the fact that they never moved helped a lot. To his right there was a pebble scree, and many shrill voices rose from the congestion daily. To his left there were a few smallish sized boulders, most of them occupied with arguing amongst themselves.
But James’ best friend was the rock beneath him. Ten times bigger than James and a million times bigger than the rock scree that covered him, George was the largest thing James had ever seen. Or rather, never seen, for James could not look below his base, and George’s true surface was hidden beneath a full foot of rocks.
But ol’ George had a powerful voice, and when he spoke out with the rich, booming tones all other rock voices ceased. He spoke mainly with James, but even then their conversations were short.
“Whaddya suppose the sky is, George?”
“I dunno, some big blue thing maybe. Maybe that’s the ocean up there.”
Both George and James knew what the ocean was, even though neither of them had ever seen it. Even the trees spoke in pungent aromas, spreading the salty deliciousness about them.
“I like to think that it’s one big rock, big and blue.”
“Hmmm, I dunno. What’s holding him up there?”
“Well, why not ask the other question? Suppose you were the big blue rock and you were looking down here thinking, ‘What’s holding them down there?’ huh?”
“Well…geez, I dunno.”
There was silence between them for a moment, and then George spoke up.
“But what about the times when it’s not blue?” he said. “What about cloudy days when the sky is grey? What about night time? And what about the stars?”
“Maybe,” James replied, speaking more slowly than usual. “Maybe the big rock can change colors. And maybe the stars are little diamonds in the rock, glittering from far away.”
James knew that George wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t care, he went on.
“I change color too,” James admitted. “It’s a natural rock thing. Whenever the rain comes, I get a darker brown than before. And when the sun comes out to dry us up, I lose three shades!”
George agreed silently, but he still didn’t know about any big rock in the sky. In fact, George didn’t care much for many of James’ ideas. hours they could debate, imagine and discuss of and about the ocean. All their lives they had heard stories about rocks that had made the perilous journey down the rivers and into the oceans.
“Someday I’ll find it,” James said to George quivering with his imaginations. “Someday we’ll get there and enjoy it together.”
“I’m too big to move,” George grunted. “You’ll have to see it for me.
“I’ll do it, George!” James promised enthusiastically. “I’ll go for both of us. I’ll find the ocean.”
* * *
One day, just before the sun came up, James awoke to find something different under him. The dirt was looser, and noticeably wetter than before. Some of the small rocks in the scree had tumbled off George’s top side, and James could hear the other pebbles lamenting the happening.
“George!” James said excitedly. “Something happened! I think-”
But James never finished his sentence.
Quicker than a diving sparrow, James slid down over George and landed on the ground heavily. For a single frozen-in-time second, James was presented with an upside-down view of George’s front face, something he thought he’d never see. George looked surprised, concerned and happy all at once.
And then James was pushed over the hill with his own momentum. Other rocks and rock screes provided hard landing places for James, and their cries of outrage were very annoying. James was glad when the mountain started to even out, both for the reduction in his speed and for the patches of soft dirt that had started to appear. High up on the mountain, James thought he could hear George bellowing after him.
“The bottom of the mountain is not what I thought it’d be,” James thought, “It’s not even half as nice as the top of mountain.”
James could be excused for thinking like that, for his view of the mountain base was flip-flopped and constantly moving. His entire vision was filled with the morning sky, and then his face was crushed into the dirt, providing him with a view of mud. Again he was turned up to the sky, and again he fell back to the mud, over and over, rolling pell-mell down the mountain.
Just when James thought he could take no more, the rolling sensation stopped.
“Finally!” James cried aloud.
Only, he realized too late that a new sensation had taken place of the rolling one. James could feel himself falling.
It was not a long fall, certainly not the Niagara, but James screamed at the top of his voice for as long as he was airborne.
James was in an entirely new world underwater. His first impression was of the wetness of it, the cold chilling effect it had on him. The next thing he took note of was the intensity of the flow. The current took him downstream quite a ways before he came to an unsteady rest at the bottom.
For the first time since he’d started falling, James was at rest. Not a complete rest, though, since the water kept pushing him forward, inch by inch. He had time and the presence of mind to start thinking about where he was and what he would do.
“I must think of a way to get back to George,” James thought, “I must be very alert and not-”
Very suddenly, he lost all presence of mind and let loose a bawling cry. The true emotion of loneliness hit him harder than his fall. Down here, he couldn’t talk to anyone, hear anything, and there was hardly any light. Only mute stares and emotionless faces met James’ pleading looks.
Time passed like syrup under the water, and James became so absorbed in his self-pity that he did not notice the changes that came over him. All the dirt and loose rocks stuck to James came off, slowly but surely. Shortly after his fall, James was as clean as a newborn rock. The third change came the most gradually: James was getting smaller!
True, it was at the rate of a few flecks every day, and it hardly mattered much, but it was the start of something new.
* * *
James did not know when it happened, but somewhere along the way the river got weaker. It also must have gotten deeper, because all light was cut off from James’ sight. He was moving more slowly now, only half his own length in a day, because current did not move the deeps.
“I wonder if I’m in a lake,” James thought. “Or maybe I’m in the ocean!”
Lakes and oceans both had been described to James by the birds, but he could never understand some of their words like wet, deep, and flowing. They had another word for the ocean as well, sometimes soul-piercing, but both times they said it was the song of the ocean, the rejuvenating sense of freshness that made their wings lift and their beaks take up song.
James had no wings to lift, no a beak with which to sing, but if he had, he would not have bothered to do so. There was no song in this water; surely it could not be an ocean.
The thought bothered him over the many slow weeks, but finally the river grew shallower, and James could feel the current again. James could not be sure, but the flow now seemed weaker, much weaker than it had in the mountain river. He didn’t know it, but he was also much smaller now, nearly a quarter less than he had been on the mountain.
“I wonder where this will all end,” James thought. “The birds said the rivers stopped at the ocean, but they never said there was an end to the ocean.”
James did not need to wonder long, for above him, on the surface of the water, an ominous occurrence was happening. Dark clouds covered most of the yellow-grey sky, throwing the earth into darkness. Men ran to and fro both on land and sea, battening down their lives and loves.
Below the water, James was oblivious to the brewing storm, trying to find the difference between his speed and that of a pebble next to him. Above, sheets of water fell from the heavens like megaton bombs. The turgid river surged along, pulling James along at a speed greater than he had ever known. All he could feel was the rush of the water, the other rocks rebounding off of him, and the electrical tingle of excitement.
Hours passed like that, with James getting more and more buffeted as time went on. It felt like he was falling down the mountain again, and he made a complete turn just traveling his own length twice.
“This must be a storm,” James thought through the pummeling. “The birds never had much to say about it, I wonder where they are?”
Far into the night and the next day the storm raged. James was so numb that he fell into a state of unconsciousness unknown to normal rocks. Every new bang was a dull throb among his other pains. If there ever was a Rock Hell, James knew he was in it.
His last conscious thought was of the ocean.
* * *
James awoke in the darkness, his consciousness coming back to him as suddenly as though someone had thrown a switch. The storm was gone, and James felt much better.
For a moment, James thought the water had grown warmer and less oppressing. A few minutes into his wakefulness, he realized he could also feel something soft and whispery about him. It came like a thunderclap: he was out of the water!
James was so excited he could not speak from joy. Every fiber of his being quivered with the pleasure of being free from the burdening weight of the river, the chill of the deep water. He found beauty in the way that the ground caressed him, peaceful serenity in the darkness, and resounding comfort in the lulling sound of the waves.
Waves? James strained to hear the sound again, wishing for a glimmer of light. It happened again, and then again…and yet again. Over and over, as ceaselessly as Time itself.
“I wonder if I’m still near the river,” James thought. “And how did I ever get out?”
His answer came swiftly, for with the break of dawn, the lit sky lightened the stark black to a murky grey. He could not imagine an area as large as that without mountain or rivers, so it stumped him terribly. What was that huge flat thing?
The grey soon turned to a pink blush, and white clouds above were tinged with the first beginnings of orange. Birds began to stir and call out with songs unfamiliar to James, one especially.
It was a mournful cry, echoing back the loneliness of the flat thing. It sounded up and down, as though the singer was on the wing in turbulent air. Sometimes it ended harshly, like a scream, other times it warbled melodiously. James could not find the bird that sang the song, but he was suddenly distracted by the rising of the sun…and the revealing of the ocean.
Huge and wide it was, constantly moving with the motion of the waves. James could see where the sky and the sea touched, forming one long line. It was so far beyond anything James had ever seen, witnessed or imagined.
The cry came again, and James knew what it was this time. He could feel the soul-piercing screams, the mournful calling, and the refreshing warbles.
He could hear the song of the ocean.
James knew what it was, and he knew that his search was over.
“I found it, George,” James whispered. “I found the ocean.”
* * *
George looked down the hill to where he had last seen James, tumbling down the mountainside. Deep within him he heaved a mournful sigh, knowing he would never see his beloved friend again.
Things had changed dramatically since James had left. Men had come, bringing with them their trails and trash. George could not understand why they enjoyed them so; all the animals and birds for miles fled when Man came.
Even worse, George had to suffer their presence day and night, for under his rocky face tents were often pitched. Each family made more mess than it took away, and George grew despondent with the grief his world was bearing.
One evening, a young couple with high-stacked backpacks stopped by George. George could hear the love and laughter in their voices, and he watched them closely. Something was different about them.
They pitched a tent, as George had suspected, but then they proceeded to gather the remains of other campers’ filth. They had nearly four bags filled before George’s clearing was clear again.
Could it be? Was Man taking his filth and leaving? Or did they dislike the trash too? Were they doing it for their own comfort?
Suddenly, a small voice rose up to George, tiny and fragile. It was barely louder than the pebbles in the scree, but George knew that voice.
“Friend George,” the voice called out.
“James!” George thundered. “James! You’re back!”
“Not for long, I’m afraid,” James replied. “I will go when these Men do.”
“I don’t understand,” George said, his joy suddenly toppling to confusion. “Why must you go?”
George looked his friend over again. James was much, much smaller than before, and far smoother than George ever thought a rock could be. His color was different now, a brilliant red with a single golden streak through him.
“I see nothing that holds you, James,” George said. “You have changed much, but what is it that binds you?”
“Look at me, George,” James said. “The ocean bored a hole through me. This Man tied a string to me and him. I will go where he goes, and see what he sees.”
“These Men then, they have imprisoned you.”
“No, George,” James assured his giant friend. “They have freed me! No more will I be restrained to a single spot, staring forever at the same window. I will see many things, and visit many worlds.”
“Tell me of them if you ever come back,” George said, trying in vain to mask his grief. “Tell me where you went.”
“I will, George,” James replied. “And the first story I tell will be of our promise. I found the ocean, George.”
James and George spoke long into the night after the couple had gone to sleep in their tent. James told George of the river, the long wait and of the storm that brought him to the beach. James told him also of the power of the ocean, both the patient grinding of the waves and the sudden fury of the storms. James told George of the many long years he had spent on the beaches, afraid he would someday be ground into the sand he rested on.
“And finally,” James said in the morning, when the couple rose to leave. “I was freed by this Man, and brought up into the world.”
“Come again to me, James,” George pleaded as James began to move from earshot. “Someday you must come again.”
“I will try,” James shouted back, barely audible. “But remember, someday you too will travel to the river, someday you too will find the ocean. Remember that, my friend!”
“I will remember,” George whispered, for James could no longer hear him. “Goodbye James.”
George could not contain the emptiness in him after James had left. The snows of winter, heat of summer and rains of spring did little to waken his numbness. He felt as James did at the bottom of the river during the storm. Time passed for him, each century a dull passing object.
Finally one day, George felt his back pull away from the mountainside ever so slightly. His massive bulk would not yet travel down the mountain, but he knew his time was drawing near.
“James…I remember.” He whispered.
It was extremely creative, interesting, funny, a bit sad, and had a lovely ending. Overall, it was a well-balanced, superbly narrated tale. It kind of reminded me of some kind of expanded folk tale, in a way, or something that could be made into a children's book (hey, you could add some illustrations and have your very own picture book!). 
I liked how your rocks have personalities and everything, but they are still rocks. I thought it was very interesting that rocks can really only tell things through their 'face' rather than all over, but I also thought that it was a good balance between humanizing the rocks and keeping them as alien creatures.
I liked how you made George happy at the end too - you actually had me worrying that George the rock would be lonely forever. You made me care for a rock - I never thought I'd see the day 
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