Playing hide and seek, living-loving-laughing, collecting stones and moments, she picked a golden one. It flew away but left her hand glowing.
Lovely golden-brown hair, a tinge of black and kohl-eyed (you beautiful one), he had a unique habit of watching the birds, following them as far as he could with his eyes (do you know this bird, hmm).
She thought he was a dog who wanted to become a bird. Happy by nature, he came rushing madly whenever she whistled (my gugglu-pugglu come here you); he knew it was evening walk time.
He loved the walks, the joy in his eyes, running fast like a deer, jumping cutely like a rabbit proved so every single day (run-run-run-yeah).
She found him notorious and innocent, funny and silly, crazy and cute, all (you are a clown, yes you are).
She can never forget how he once gazed at the moon; mesmerized by the round shape in the sky, wondering, maybe, when and how does it fly… he just kept looking.
Caressing him one evening, after the walk, she didn’t know what was to befall (you biscuit lover, don’t go now).
If only she had the faintest idea, a frivolous hunch, she would have never let him go outside the house.
That night he didn’t return, even when she whistled; she went in the dark, calling out his name, but no sign of him.
Early next morning, walking and whistling, asking any and everyone in the village, she wished to see him, see him come rushing towards her from somewhere so that she could hold him tight in her arms and never let him go.
Two months have passed and she still wishes the same. Her eyes quietly wait to see him.
She watches the birds more closely now. She wishes to fly.
A roguish year, 2020, I believe was a twist in our LIVE story. Terrible, oh, terrible things happened. Let us nurture hope, let us learn from our mistakes, let us help each other and contribute honestly to this change.
Let the old charm of stories work, let stories heal your tired heart.
This colossal twist proves that the great writer is planning to finish a chapter, but the story is far from over. Dawn is about to break, the sun rays will fall on a new beginning soon.
Come to Chiming Stories, pocket old and new posts and watch, along with me, the horizon.
Yes fly! For walking on the second track is dull and usual, but dreaming high, high, high requires tools. Tools like the right pair of shoes, a chirpy, gritty soul that eats butter-jam dreams, a soul that drinks milky-milky creams.