THE LEFTOVER SPELL

14. PLAID

There he was in red plaid with golden lined shirt, over-sized plaid pants, white waist and his hairs combed backward with jell. With a hat that he never wears tucked within his left arms that too made up of the same plaid clothes like the shirt and pants. His golden watch attached with the glasses chains of right ear. He is lean, tall with glamorous skin, straight nose and curvy mouth; which seems like they are dancing when he speaks.

He do not walk or run he just jumps and fly. His love comprises from the noises the rain makes to the littering the oceans leaves at its waves. He believes the ocean is a mischievous child who yearns to rebel by doing anything and everything which she isn't supposed to be doing. He would flew away his thoughts to the rising sun, the gleaming moon, the wanderlust stars to be found by someone who would do something with those thought make them a story, a song, an art, a long forgotten feeling or some unknown task or it can be anything just more than something.

He was the lord of quirkiness, the nephew of creativity. His power involved to see things and blew away that particular thought, any living being when touches those thought do something with them or they too unknowingly blew them away until it reaches someone who does something or become someone with that thought. No matter how big or small they are.

He jumps in his shoes made of clouds and fly with the winds buried in his hat. He rose from his chair made of clouds and blew away the next conquest to become the best fisherman. He saw that thought touching a farmer’s girl and she became the first fisher- women.

Century passed, the world evolved and so does his conquest and thoughts. He had made different sports like climbing the mountain in hope the humans will preserve the air they freely get to breathe in the lower surface. Skydiving to live the moment when ypu feel your heart might burst out. Bungee jumping to live your lives seriously or the words like selfie to warn off how selfish one can turn to if addicted to this sort. Best of them were the words feminism, to see each other like a living being an equal breathtaking creation of the almighty. His sadness was that no more than few only understood his thoughts. Maybe he has gone older and needs to brush up his skills.

He began his quest to find his uncle creativity to brush up his skills little did he knew he was the son of tales. His mother the goddess of story and tales stroked his stolen child’s head and he became the master of novels. All the red plaids in his clothes became drawers, that her mother filled them with infinite stories and shut them all with the knot made of golden lines in his clothes.

All the twists the turns jotted in the notes, napkins, skins, back paper of the notebooks, the note pad filled with half-finished thought were his doings. Each plaid boxes were filled with thoughts, ideas and stories waiting to be burst. Then reach the writers or readers or any human being with the pursuit to acquire the ideas and flourish it in their own skill sets. 

Centuries past and lives evolved with the tales woven by his threads. He became the tale whose pockets were filled with stories.