They're more like fragments, but I like to refer to them as "stories waiting to happen." :)
The crickets’ nighttime songs swaddled him in a solemn blanket of atmosphere. On evenings like this, he always liked to lie on the roof and gaze up at the glowing beauty of the moon. But the night’s Queen is not full tonight; she sat gingerly on the wisps of ghostly clouds, bending to mimic the shape of the Cheshire Cat’s grin. He still loves her glow, though. It’s still magical. He crawled on the rust-caked roof and let himself be bathed with the meager magic light emanating from her, his head lolling to an unheard lullaby.
He shook the headphones off his ears when the music’s unpalatable tang sank into his taste buds. Sometimes he wonders why heartbroken people still listen to songs that tell them terrible things about love. Sometimes, he wonders why he still joins their “martyrs” horde. But he muses, maybe that’s what real love is. You let your past swing from the tangles of your aching heart and be okay with it…because pain is an important part of the package.
The sun was so outraged today that he sent blistering fingers to squeeze out all the salty rainwater from everyone’s skins. I stooped, imbibed the last drops from my canteen, and let myself be squeezed some more. I was a warm, human raincloud. The heat wave is still rolling.
more at my OneWord.