Pieces Of My Heart

In response to Ragtagdailyprompt

RDP Thursday: Gregarious

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In a valley tucked between two sleepy mountains, there was a lake so clear it looked like the sky had spilled and decided to stay. Around it grew a ring of tall trees, pines with pointy hats, willows with silky hair, and one old oak who stood like a wise grandparent with a creaky laugh.

Every morning, the sun would stretch its golden arms across the water, and every night, the moon would paint a silver path for the stars to tiptoe across. It was a peaceful place.

But there was one little tree who didn’t feel peaceful at all. His name was Twig. Twig was a young sapling, and he was shy. Not “I forgot my homework” shy. More like “I would rather talk to a rock than say hello” shy.

He stood near the edge of the forest where the wind visited often, and he watched everyone else. The leaves chatted like they were hosting a never-ending tea party. The bugs buzzed in tiny groups, gossiping about which flower had the sweetest nectar. The birds sang in flocks, as if they were part of the same band. Even the clouds traveled together like fluffy friends on a picnic.

Twig sighed. “Everyone is so… together,” he murmured. “I don’t know how they do it.”

One afternoon, a playful wind came swooshing through the valley. It ruffled the lake, tickled the grass, and spun the leaves into little dancing circles. “Hello, Twig!” the wind whooshed brightly. Twig tried to wave a leaf, but he only managed a nervous wiggle.

The wind paused. “You look like you’re thinking very hard.” Twig whispered, “I don’t think I’m made for being with everyone. I’m just… small.” The wind made a soft humming sound, like it was smiling. “Small doesn’t mean lonely,” it said. “Come. Tonight, I want to show you something.” Twig blinked. “Tonight?” “Yes,” said the wind. “When the moon is awake.”

That evening, the sky darkened gently, like someone pulling a velvet blanket over the valley. The moon rose, round and calm, and the stars appeared, one by one, until the whole sky glittered like a jar of fireflies had been opened. The wind returned. “Look up,” it whispered.

Twig looked, and suddenly he noticed something he’d never really noticed before. The stars weren’t scattered randomly. They weren’t lonely dots. They were in groups. Some made shapes like animals. Some looked like cups and crowns. Some sat close together like friends sharing secrets.

Twig stared in wonder. “They’re… together,” he breathed. “Yes,” said the wind. “Even the stars.” Twig thought for a moment. “But they’re so far apart.” The wind chuckled softly. “And yet they still belong to the same sky.”

Twig fell quiet. Then the wind said, “Now look down.” Twig looked down at the lake. The lake was reflecting the stars perfectly. Tiny star-shapes shimmered on the water, and the moon’s silver path stretched right through them. Twig gasped. “It’s like the lake is holding the sky!” “It is,” said the wind. “And the sky is holding the stars.”

Twig’s leaves trembled. “Why are you showing me this?” he asked. The wind swirled around him gently, not too strong, not too fast. “Because you think being together means being loud,” said the wind. Twig blinked. “But it doesn’t.” The wind continued, “Some of the most gregarious things in the world are quiet.”

Twig tilted his tiny trunk. “Gregarious?” The wind smiled in its windy way. “It means enjoying being with others. Friendly, social and part of a group.”

Twig’s leaves drooped a little. “But I’m not like the birds. Or the bugs. I don’t know what to say.” The wind whispered, “Then start with something simple.”

The next morning, the sun returned, bright and warm. A line of ants marched past Twig, carrying crumbs and bits of leaf. Twig watched them carefully. They didn’t complain. They didn’t argue. They didn’t even stop. They just moved together.

Twig gathered his courage, every tiny drop of it. “Hello,” he said softly to the ants. The ants didn’t stop, but one of them lifted its head and wiggled its antenna. “Hello, Tree,” it said, and then hurried along.

Twig’s leaves fluttered. It wasn’t a long conversation. It wasn’t even an exciting conversation. But it was something.

Later, a ladybug landed on Twig’s trunk. Twig hesitated. Then he said, “Good morning.” The ladybug turned its spotted head. “Good morning!” it chirped. “Nice bark!” Twig almost laughed. Nice bark? That was the funniest compliment he’d ever heard.

Soon after, a small group of leaves tumbled past him, pushed by the wind. They spun and swirled like they were dancing. Twig watched them. And then, very slowly, he let one of his own leaves loosen. Not too many. Just one. It drifted away, joining the spinning group. Twig felt a strange, warm feeling, like he had just joined a game without even having to shout.

That afternoon, the willow tree nearby called out, “Twig! The wind says you’re learning to say hello.” Twig blushed so hard he thought he might turn into an apple tree. “I’m trying,” he admitted. The willow’s branches swayed kindly. “That’s all anyone does.”

Days passed. Twig didn’t become the loudest tree in the forest. He didn’t suddenly start hosting leaf parties or leading bug parades. But he did something much more important. He began noticing. He began greeting. He began sharing. Sometimes he offered shade to tired insects. Sometimes he let birds rest on his branches. Sometimes he simply stood near the others, listening to the wind’s stories. And little by little, something changed. Twig didn’t feel like he was standing at the edge of the world anymore. He felt like he belonged inside it.

One night, the wind returned again. “How are you, Twig?” it asked. Twig looked up at the moon and stars. “I think I understand now,” he said. The wind hummed. “Tell me.”

Twig said, “Being gregarious doesn’t mean you have to be the biggest voice in the forest.” The wind swirled happily. Twig continued, “It means you let yourself be part of something. Like the stars. Like the ants. Like the leaves in the wind.” He paused. “And even if you’re small, you still have a place in the sky.” The wind whispered, “Exactly.”

And Twig, the shy little sapling, stood a little taller. Not because he was suddenly brave, but because he finally knew he didn’t have to be alone.

Gregarious: when your “hi” finally leaves the drafts folder.

© Rohini 2009–2025.
All text, prose, images, and artwork presented herein are the original intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved.
No part of this content may be copied, reproduced, distributed, displayed, or used in any form without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

For licensing requests or usage inquiries, please contact: manomaya0214@gmail.com

In response to Ragtagdailyprompt

RDP Thursday: Pleasant

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In a small town tucked between soft hills and sunflower fields, there was a shop with a strange name painted on a wooden sign: THE PLEASANT SHOP.

It didn’t sell bread. It didn’t sell cloth. It didn’t sell toys. And yet, people went in and came out smiling, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, sometimes quiet like they’d just been forgiven.

No one really knew what the shop sold.
Except for one man. His name was Rowan, and he was known in town for having a face like a locked door. Rowan wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t rude. He just wasn’t… pleasant.

He walked as if the road owed him an apology. He spoke as if every sentence was a burden. Even when someone said, “Good morning,” Rowan replied as if they’d asked him to carry a piano.

One day, Rowan’s neighbor, an old woman named Mrs. Elowen, stopped him outside his gate.

“You should visit the Pleasant Shop,” she said.

Rowan scoffed. “I don’t need pleasant. I need practical.”

Mrs. Elowen smiled gently. “Then you need it most.”

Rowan muttered something about foolish old people and went on with his day.

The next week, something happened.

Rowan’s cart broke on the way back from the market. The wheel snapped clean off and rolled away like it had been offended by his attitude.

Rowan stood in the road, sweating, cursing, and glaring at the sky.

A young boy passing by offered, “Sir, I can help you lift it.”

Rowan snapped, “I don’t need help!”

The boy flinched and walked away.

Then a farmer passed. “Need a hand?”

Rowan barked, “No! I can do it myself!”

The farmer shrugged and continued.

Rowan struggled for almost an hour. His hands were scraped, his shirt was soaked, and his pride was splintering.

Finally, Mrs. Elowen appeared, as if she’d been waiting for the moment. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t scold. She simply said, “Come. Let’s get your cart fixed.”

Rowan was too tired to argue.

Together, they dragged the cart into town. And without saying a word, Mrs. Elowen led him straight to the shop with the wooden sign.

The Pleasant Shop

Rowan hesitated at the door. He expected perfumes, or sweet cakes, or nonsense. But when he stepped inside, there were no shelves, no counters, no goods, only a simple room with warm light and a small desk.

Behind the desk sat an old shopkeeper with bright eyes and a calm face. His name tag read: MR. PLEASANT.

Rowan blinked. “This is a shop?”

Mr. Pleasant nodded. “It is.”

Rowan frowned. “What do you sell?”

Mr. Pleasant leaned forward. “Pleasantness.”

Rowan snorted. “You can’t sell that.”

“Oh,” Mr. Pleasant said, “I don’t sell it. I teach it.”

Rowan crossed his arms. “I don’t have time for lessons.”

Mr. Pleasant smiled. “Then you’ll be quick.”

He slid a small wooden box across the desk.

“Open it.”

Rowan opened it.

Inside were three tiny stones. Each one was smooth, pale, and oddly warm.

Rowan looked unimpressed. “Stones?”

Mr. Pleasant nodded. “Stones.”

Rowan scoffed. “This is a joke.”

“No,” said Mr. Pleasant. “It’s an experiment.”

He pointed to the first stone. “This one is called the Greeting Stone. For one day, every person you meet, you greet them warmly. Not politely, not quickly, but warmly.”

Rowan’s face tightened.

Mr. Pleasant pointed to the second stone. “This one is called the Listening Stone. For one day, when someone speaks, you listen without interrupting, correcting, or rushing them.”

Rowan’s jaw clenched.

Mr. Pleasant pointed to the third stone. “This one is called the Softening Stone. For one day, when irritation rises in you, you pause before you speak, even if it feels silly, even if it feels unnecessary.”

Rowan stared at the stones like they were snakes.

“And what happens if I do this?” he asked.

Mr. Pleasant leaned back. “You’ll feel lighter.”

Rowan narrowed his eyes. “And if I don’t?”

Mr. Pleasant shrugged. “Then you’ll stay heavy.”

Rowan hated how calm the man was. He hated how simple it sounded. He hated how true it felt.

But something in him, some tired part, finally whispered…Try.

So Rowan took the box.

The First Day – The Greeting Stone

Rowan forced his face into something that resembled kindness. At first, it felt like wearing someone else’s shoes.

He greeted the baker. He greeted the fish seller. He greeted the little girl who usually avoided him.

And something strange happened. People smiled back. Not the polite smile people gave him out of duty, real smiles.

One man even laughed and said, “Rowan, you’re in a good mood today!”

Rowan almost snapped, but the stone felt warm in his pocket. He swallowed the snap. And for the first time in years, he walked home and realized his shoulders weren’t as tight.

The Second Day – The Listening Stone

This was harder. When his neighbor started talking about her chickens, Rowan’s mind screamed: Who cares?

When the shopkeeper told him about his sick wife, Rowan’s mind said: Not my problem.

But he listened.

He didn’t fix. He didn’t correct. He didn’t hurry them along.

And again, something strange happened. People didn’t just talk. They opened, softened, and started to trust him. Rowan walked home that night feeling something he couldn’t name.

It wasn’t joy. It was something quieter. Something like being included and belonging.

The Third Day – The Softening Stone

This was the hardest. Rowan’s irritation rose like it always did – when someone bumped into him, when the weather turned bad, when his cart wheel squeaked again. He felt the words climbing up his throat, sharp and ready.

But he paused. One breath. Two breaths. And in that pause, something happened. He realized he wasn’t always angry at people. Sometimes, he was angry at life. Sometimes, he was angry at himself. Sometimes, he was simply tired.

And he had been throwing his tiredness at everyone like stones.

The Return

On the fourth day, Rowan went back to the Pleasant Shop. Mr. Pleasant looked up. “Well?”
Rowan sat down slowly. He didn’t know how to explain it, so he said the simplest truth.

“I thought being pleasant was… pretending.”

Mr. Pleasant nodded. “And?”

Rowan swallowed. “It’s not pretending,” he said. “It’s choosing.”

Mr. Pleasant’s eyes brightened.

Rowan continued, surprising even himself. “I always thought pleasant people had easier lives. But I realized they don’t. They just stop handing their pain to others.”

Mr. Pleasant leaned forward. “And what did you gain?”
Rowan looked down at his hands. “People.”
Mr. Pleasant smiled gently. “Yes.”
Rowan whispered, almost ashamed. “And… peace.”
Mr. Pleasant nodded. “That too.”

Rowan glanced at the box. “Do I keep the stones?” Mr. Pleasant shook his head. “No. You don’t need them now.” Rowan frowned. “Then what do I do?” Mr. Pleasant said quietly, “You become the shop.”

The Lesson

Rowan left. In the weeks that followed, the town noticed something. Rowan still had problems. He still had bad days. He still got tired.

But now he greeted people like they mattered. He listened like their words weren’t an inconvenience. He spoke like kindness was not weakness.

And the strangest part? The more pleasant Rowan became, the more pleasant life became back. Not because the world changed, because people felt safe around him. And safety, in a human heart, blooms into warmth.

Let me leave you with this thought to carry with you:

Being pleasant isn’t about being fake. It’s about being brave enough to choose kindness when you don’t feel like it. Because pleasantness isn’t a personality, it’s a gift you give others…and a peace you give yourself.

© Rohini 2009–2025.
All text, prose, images, and artwork presented herein are the original intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved.
No part of this content may be copied, reproduced, distributed, displayed, or used in any form without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

For licensing requests or usage inquiries, please contact: manomaya0214@gmail.com