Fleeting Tales.

I've been doing a series of Fleeting Tales when time wouldn't permit long luxurious hours of fiction and my creative drives would have to suffice with quick short stories of different places, people and times, drifting in and out of my Blogger drafts. They're supposed to be Reader Treats, for these are open ended, thus you can let your imagination go wild irrespective of what the author had in mind.
Here are a few... I promise longer tales once these wretched exams get over. Love!

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  Coquettish melody.

She smoked some more just so that husk would would stay in her voice, for that perfect break when she hit the highest pitch followed by a loud thump and strum on her acoustic. Her brown braid always danced somewhere around her right shoulder, with strands of careless stray hair fluttering around her ears, her eyes.. A perpetual hint of pout on her oval face flirted with the perfect arches her brows made. Her uncared for skin radiated some warmth I say, it was uncanny. A constant (almost stubborn) reminder of beatitude, her songs.
I cannot fathom what was so perfect in her, when everything about her was wrong and raw. So wrong and so raw.

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Castles in the air.

Our sky was overcast with the sun, and around me your face brought in shifts of colors; wild colors which made me roll over the grass, laugh and pant at the same time, while squeezing my eyes shut to the warm tears that would leave my eyes a non virgin to happiness. 

There was a lot of green, quiet and peace even among the concrete jungle around us, there was a lot of life. A whole lot brewing coffee, red wine every fortnight, toothsome romance and artless tomfoolery. 

Dry spells of hostility would anneal us for hasty limbering down of temper and sorry faces, for resistance in vain, for a slow broad smile that would follow. 

It was simple. It was kind. It was honorable. And perhaps, it was love. 

.......and then what do I expect of a Goodbye, when all the castles in the air still remind me of your animated reality, and my sweet denial.
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Cooing touches.

The downpour seems to be intoxicated with bold hints of a question you haven't quite realized yet. The throbbing pulse fails to escape exhilaration when that familiar song competes with your senses and it gets harder and harder to keep up with your rationality, which was a pride to you. That pride however, seems to have extinguished in a matter of a single night; when facts turned into irony, when practicality seems laughable at the vivid fantasies your overwhelmed mind materializes, you can almost touch it.

You're in control of yourself, you're standing straight. But what would you not give, to let that guard off, and just act like the irresponsible voice that coos into you ear, quietly- the one you're turning a deaf ear to, the one that resonates in the void within you, winks at you, to give in.

The downpour seems to be intoxicated with bold hints of a question, you'd realized a long time ago. 
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Fishes in his pocket.

I remember that one last day of summer, when Mother stood on the porch waiting for father's Chevy to skid into the drive way. Little Harry ran around the house with dead fishes from the pond in his shorts, I was waiting for mother to find out..
It was a hot day, but the evening seemed to set in an hour early.. Mother still stood on the porch, her pickle stained dress blowing harder with each circle of the windmill, back in the farm.

Harry slept with the fishes in his pocket, that night. And my mother wrote in her diary that night;
"The heart has the power to overrule any storm, but it also has the power to brew and blend stillness into a storm it conceives with no rhyme but too many reasons."

Little Harry didn't remember his father coming back, that night. He doesn't remember him at all, now.
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Rickie don't lose that number. 

For a Tuesday, it was a rather busy night for the bar. For a Tuesday, there were too many drunk Johns and Janes around. Not that anybody was complaining, the band would mostly play to empty chairs during the week days. The bands with slots during the weekends considered themselves the Rolling Stones, to say the least.

So it was a welcome change when good ole Tony went to serve three punches and a Long Island at table number 6, and was quietly vouchsafed with a piece of paper by one of the robust Italian ladies. Poor Tony was too shot to pieces to open the folds, so he went and stood behind the bar with cold sweat breaking all over him. The manager hit him on the head, and he dived for the next table to order, he was waiting for the night to end, for table number 6 to vacate- and so it did, when the ladies (somehow) made their way out of the bar, delicious perfume and hiccups lingering behind them. 

For a Tuesday, it was too many coincidences for the little bar- when Tony finally did open the folds and read the untidy numbers scribbled, the band played on encore the perfect number for the night ; 

"Rickie don't lose that number, it's the only one you want... you might use it if you feel better, when you get home... Rickie don't lose that number..."

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Awaiting feedback, as always!
-Nil.