The weight

Several stars shimmered over Simon's left shoulder. Somewhere a world was coming to its end. His finger was sore. In the grass behind him a lizard bit a cricket in half. Simon picked up the stone again. How far could he throw it this time?
Today at school his friend Peter had thrown the stone almost a half a football pitch. He knew he could never match the throw, but he picked it up on its retrieval and did what he always did. He tried.
The stone felt smooth to the touch, but there were some sharp edges. It was quite slim and easy to grip. He strained his arm like he'd been taught and powered it forward in a sudden thrust combined with a sublime flick of the wrist.
After the initial elation of the projectile successfully leaving its human catapult, dismay bit hard as the stone began to shake hands with gravity. The grass began to beckon a distance short of the half way line.
As Peter raised his arms to celebrate his victory the stone landed, hard and spinning. It bounced up again, surprisingly high, and continued on over the victory margin. Once more it returned to the earthly arms of its mother and once more she rejected her son. The stone continued its journey, bouncing and spinning as if Ezekial were watching from the sidelines.
From a distance Simon saw the strange dance of people running to the fallen girl. The stone's trajectory had taken it into a collision with her temple. There's no way he could have thrown the stone that far. No-one would believe it was him.
And as people looked around for the culprit, it was true to say that nobody peered in his direction. The freezing blood in his veins made it difficult for him to move, but he did begin to walk towards the fast forming crime scene.
He couldn't see much of the girl behind the caring onlookers, but he wasn't looking for her. Feet were constantly shifting and from under a pair of brown boots appeared the stone. The same hand that had pushed events this far now reached eagerly and precisely between two legs. His hand clasped the prize as the boot slid onto his index finger. He waited in panicked seconds before he was able to retrieve the weapon. Thus pocketed, his clothing hung heavy on him and he shuffled off the field to the toilets to be sick.