I am told that there are stories everywhere. I am looking for them, and sometimes I almost see one and then it darts away.

Bits and pieces of potential stories are stashed away somewhere at the back of my mind, like incomplete jigsaw puzzles. The funny thing is the more you try and fill the gaps, the more you realize that the piece that you’re trying to fit isn’t the right one.

I am trying desperately to paint my tales in different shades. I am attempting to not have them covered in the emotions that lurk in all my posts because in that case, sooner or later your stories start to mirror each other. Then it’s like being in one large story – where the same people and same situations appear under different names and places.

I am told that everyone has a story to tell. I agree. It’s just that there has to be a narrative worthy of the plot. That’s the tough part.

Some of the best stories I have been told came from people when their hands were wrapped around glasses with dark liquids. I will always remember the look in their eyes and the rising and ebbing of the vulnerability beneath. I will remember their stories, not just because their stories were noteworthy, but also because the time they told me their stories was magical; a time where for only a brief while, I walked through their worlds, waiting, watching, listening.

In the dark smoke filled room, I heard a story about guilt, the most unforgiving of emotions which found its way into the conversation, as the people at the table became increasingly uninhibited.
As a child, the storyteller had a  friend; a girl with straight brown hair and teeth that were held in place with braces. They played with each other often enough and their parents would coo over how perhaps when they grew up, they’d marry. The storyteller, a rather disgruntled young boy, was offended every time this was said and told his parents he wouldn’t marry someone so strange. “She smells like bananas.” He told his parents, while they laughed at how cute he was. He didn’t mind playing with her though; she played a mean game of Monopoly.

At a picnic, both families decided that the kids could go play while the adults chatted and drank beers from yellow cans. As the afternoon grew warmer and the parents became more animated, he and his friend snuck away to skip stones at a lake. She told him she really liked looking at fish, because “They look so happy all the time.” They sat at the edge, looking at fish and arguing as children do, over something insignificant.

One thing led to another and he told her that should she able to swim to the other end, he’d let her have some book she’d been eyeing for a while. She agreed but said she’d need to check with her mother. He knew he’d get yelled at for suggesting this and told her to “stop being such a baby” and to swim anyway.

The story got pretty predictable at this point, and the storyteller told us about him screaming because her bobbing head disappeared, the livid parents, the accusatory glances, the bloated, lifeless friend whose parents moved homes immediately after and the recurring dream ever since with the bloated dead body and the leaves stuck in her brown hair.

Somewhere in that room, we were part of his thoughts. Although the grief had been dulled by time, there would always be an unshakeable sense of remorse that someone who could have been around, perhaps at this table, died because of a silly bet. As everyone became quieter, I realized that hanging somewhere between the guilt and the regret, was a silent plea to not be judged.

Take a lie and wrap it with glitter.

She, the one with a big umbrella and dangerously high heels, overbalanced at a crossroad and came down in a heap. All the vehicles screeched to a halt and a flurry of colourful words was witnessed.

She looked sheepish but not mortified and tried to pull herself together while the street watched her.
The man in the black car came out, and amidst loud gasps, helped her up. He offered to hold her bag, a dull pink because they don’t make it any other colour, and her folder. She quietly followed him to his car and got in, nodding at the wonderful man who held open the door for her.

They fell in love, in the confines of his car that smelled of rosewood. He told her he knew that there was something rather special about this day and she smiled while it rained and perhaps little fairies in a parallel universe sang and had a tea party.

They then got married and went on to have two perfectly healthy children one of whom became a state level swimmer. The other became a realist and called out his  parents’ bluff and said this story was cooked up to cover up the fact that they had actually been set up by their own parents because they were getting older and nobody would want to marry them.

They looked like they were caught cheating on a test but they quickly covered that with an indignant tone and angry expressions.

The son smirked and walked away.

The death of inanity.

I’ll tell you about my day.

Don’t worry, I won’t tell you about what I had for lunch; I am aware that the details of the perfectly cooked fried eggs don’t interest you.

I’ll leave out the parts of my day where my cab broke down and my hair looked like a beehive because of the humidity.

When we meet for coffee, I know you’d rather not hear about the stomach cramps that my friend had or the fact that my cousin is now studying Judo. I won’t ruin your cheesecake by giving you an in-depth description of my idea of a perfect dinner.

At no point in the day, will I tell you about the sale on old bean bags or the book store that now serves piping hot tea and butter biscuits.

Most importantly, I won’t ask you what you had for the various meals of the day and whether you enjoyed work. It’s work, I know you don’t have feelings attached to everything.

Now that I have realized that my stories are probably nothing without the pointless details I like to give, I’ll show myself to the corner because I have no tales to tell.

I’ll however definitely come back to you when I save a tiger or become the president because I think we’ll all agree that, this won’t be insignificant.