Magical Realism
The Vision of Dawn đ
The morning broke slow and gray, the mist still clinging to the hills like an old secret. They had traveled long through the nightâEllowyn, the boy, and the knightâand now stood before the low, firelit forge of the dwarf they had sought.
By Muhammad Riazabout a year ago in Chapters
A Knight Against the Sky
The river ran backward the day the Queen vanished. Few noticed. Fewer still understood. The old signs were no longer readâthose with eyes trained in prophecy were dead, exiled, or forgotten. Men had burned their sacred groves, buried their stories, and scoffed at their elders. The silver trees no longer grew. And the dragons, once holy companions, had become harbingers of fire.
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Chapters
"The Kingdom Without a Name". AI-Generated.
The Kingdom Without a Name: Lost to Time, Bound by Fate Chapter One: The Marked One The mist came every morning in Brinmere. It rolled over the hills like a living memory, ancient and restless. Villagers swore it was harmlessâjust weatherâbut they never strayed into it. Not past the old standing stones. Not east.
By Khazar khayamabout a year ago in Chapters
The Secret Drawer
Growing up, there was one rule in our house I never dared to break: Donât touch the drawer in Dadâs study. It was an ordinary drawer in an old wooden desk â scratched, dusty, the handle barely hanging on. But to me, it might as well have been a vault. Dadâs tone made it clear â that drawer was off-limits. So, I didnât ask. I didnât sneak. I obeyed. For years. Until curiosity outweighed fear. It was a Saturday. Dad was fixing the car, Mom was out shopping, and I was cleaning the study as part of my chores. The drawer seemed to hum with quiet temptation. My hands shook as I reached for it, expecting alarms to go off, expecting my dad to burst in, furious. But nothing happened. The drawer wasnât locked. It slid open with a tired creak â revealing a stack of letters, old photographs, and a small, faded box. At first, it looked harmless. But then I saw the photo on top â a woman smiling, holding a baby. My breath caught. The woman wasnât my mom. The baby wasnât me. I sat down, sifting through letters written in Dadâs handwriting, dated years before I was born. Letters full of apologies, promises, regrets â addressed to someone named Evelyn. My heart raced as puzzle pieces fell into place. I dug deeper, finding birth certificates, hospital bills, legal documents. Dad had another family. A son. A woman he loved before my mom. My chest tightened. My head spun with questions. Why didnât I know? Who were they? What happened? The sound of Dadâs footsteps snapped me back to reality. I shoved the drawer shut, heart pounding, mind reeling. That evening, I couldnât eat. I couldnât speak. My world felt⌠different. Shattered. Days passed before I confronted him. I found him in the study, staring at the same drawer like it held ghosts. âI opened it,â I admitted, voice barely steady. His shoulders sagged. His eyes, usually sharp and controlled, softened with sadness. âI always wondered when you would,â he whispered. He explained everything. How he fell in love young. How they had a son â my half-brother. How tragedy struck â an accident, a bitter separation, a lifetime of buried pain. âI kept it all hidden, thinking I could erase the past,â he confessed. âBut Iâve learned⌠the past doesnât stay buried.â We talked for hours. About mistakes. Regrets. Secrets that fester in silence. I cried â for the brother I never met, for the father I thought I knew, for the child version of me who lived in a house of hidden truths. It took time, but I forgave him. And I reached out. Months later, I met my half-brother. We shared awkward smiles, cautious words, the weight of years between us. It wasnât perfect. But it was real. That drawer isnât forbidden anymore. Itâs a reminder â that the truth, no matter how heavy, is better than living behind locked doors.
By Straylightabout a year ago in Chapters
In A Circle Of Clouds Of Love
To be floating in a circle of heaven, clouds of love floating about you, bringing calm to your heart and spirit. You can lie hear for as long as you want, watching the rainbow coloured mists that you know are painted with love.
By Mike Singleton đ Mikeydred about a year ago in Chapters
Every Day Is Theirs: A Heartâs Tribute to Our Parents Beyond One Day
âď¸ By: Umair Ali Shah Yousafzai --- đ¸ Introduction: The Problem with âOne Dayâ In an age where love has been reduced to emojis and celebrations are confined to trending hashtags, itâs become common to see people dedicate just one day a year to their parents â usually in the form of a well-edited photo, a generic social media caption, or a short video clip. "Happy Parentsâ Day!" they declare, and with that, consider their duty fulfilled. But can one day capture the essence of lifelong sacrifice? Can a Facebook status outweigh a motherâs sleepless nights? Can an Instagram reel compensate for a fatherâs decades of toil? The answer â spoken by the heart â is a resounding no. Parents are not a seasonal celebration. They are the soul of our lives. They do not deserve a day; they deserve our every day, our every breath, our every success, our every prayer. --- đď¸ A Love Beyond Comprehension Parental love is not poetic â it is prophetic. The motherâs womb becomes a sanctuary before we even open our eyes. Her body breaks to give us life. Her nights shatter so our dreams can form. Her meals go cold so ours stay warm. She becomes our shadow, our comfort, our shield. And the father? He becomes the silent mountain who absorbs the storm before it reaches us. He ages behind the curtain so we can grow on stage. His shoes wear thin so ours stay new. His pockets empty so our dreams can fill. His hands become rough while ours remain soft. Such love cannot be compared. It cannot be counted, priced, or postponed. It is as eternal as the sky â silent but all-encompassing. --- đ From Cradle to Grave: They Gave Us Everything The truth is simple and painful: the very people who gave us everything, we give them the least. They carried us when we were weak. They taught us to walk, to speak, to eat. They encouraged our smallest achievements and bore our greatest failures. They forgave our rebellion, our rudeness, our rejection. They kept loving even when we didnât love back. And what did they ask for in return? Nothing â except a little time. A little respect. A little remembrance. And yet, many of us fail even in that. --- đ One Day is Not Enough â Itâs Almost Insulting Designating one day for parents is, in many ways, an insult wrapped in sentimentality. It suggests that gratitude can be scheduled, that love can be timed, that sacrifice can be acknowledged only when it's convenient. Do parents love only once a year? Do they support us only on Sundays? Do they pray for us only during exam season? No. Their love is relentless, their loyalty unconditional, their prayers eternal. Then how dare we give them just a day? --- đŻď¸ Real-Life Reflections: Forgotten Candles of Our Lives Visit an old age home and you will see forgotten candles flickering dimly, waiting for someone to relight their flames. Mothers who once carried their children now carry loneliness. Fathers who once stood tall now sit silently by windows, hoping someone might knock on the door. "I gave him everything," says one mother, staring into her fading memories. "And now he sends money, but not himself." What do we owe them? Not riches. Not luxury. We owe them presence. We owe them honor. We owe them time. And if we fail to pay that debt in life, we will spend the rest of our lives repaying it in guilt. --- đ The Islamic Perspective: A Duty, Not a Favor In Islam, honoring one's parents is not optional. It is second only to worshipping Allah. The Qurâan places âbeing good to parentsâ immediately after âworship none but Allahâ (Surah Al-Isra, 17:23). > âAnd lower to them the wing of humility out of mercy and say: âMy Lord, have mercy upon them as they brought me up [when I was] small.ââ â (Qurâan 17:24) The Prophet Muhammad  said: > âParadise lies beneath the feet of your mother.â âThe pleasure of Allah is in the pleasure of the father.â In a world that celebrates freedom, Islam reminds us: you are never free from the duty of loving and serving your parents. --- đ The Western Dilemma: Celebration Without Connection In many modern societies, holidays like "Mother's Day" and "Father's Day" are celebrated with great pomp. But beneath the flowers and fancy cards lies a bitter reality â many parents live alone, neglected. The market profits from emotional neglect. Capitalism sells love, but doesn't practice it. You buy a card, send flowers, click "like" on a photo â and you're done. But love is not a transaction. True love is in changing your schedule to be with your aging parents. True respect is in asking about their health â not for politeness, but from the heart. True honor is in making them feel needed, not obsolete. --- đ Stories That Break the Heart A man once left his father at a senior facility, promising to return in two weeks. The weeks turned into months. The father finally said, âI donât need your money. I need the child who once clung to my finger.â Another story tells of a woman whose son lives abroad. He sends money monthly, but hasnât visited in five years. She keeps his childhood toys clean, thinking he may come home any day. The question isnât whether these parents are physically alone. The question is: Why are their children emotionally absent? --- đĄ What Can We Do, Starting Today? Letâs stop thinking in hashtags and start living in actions. Here are real, practical ways to honor your parents â not just once a year, but daily: 1. Call them. Not just when you're free â call them often. 2. Visit them. Your presence matters more than gifts. 3. Sit in silence. Let them feel your calm. 4. Ask their opinions. Make them feel heard, respected, and needed. 5. Pray for them. Every prayer, every day. 6. Serve them. Bring water, massage their feet, feed them with your hands. 7. Share your life. Tell them about your joys and struggles. Let them be part of your world. --- đš To the Fortunate Ones: Donât Wait Until Itâs Too Late If your parents are still alive, know this: you are living in a blessed time. You still have the opportunity to make them smile, to ease their aches, to sit beside them and just⌠be. Donât wait for their graves to remember their value. Donât take their presence for granted. If you must celebrate something, celebrate their hands that held you. Celebrate their words that guided you. Celebrate their love that never expired. đż Closing Prayers: Words from the Heart to the Heavens As we close this column, we do not end with logic or poetry â we end with prayer, because only prayer carries the weight of what parents deserve. > Allah! Bless my mother with health, happiness, and peace. Forgive her mistakes and elevate her status. Place light in her grave, if she is gone, and joy in her heart, if she is alive. > Allah! Grant my father strength and serenity. Forgive him, reward him, and make his sacrifices a means of his success in both worlds. > Allah of the worlds! If I have ever disobeyed or hurt them, forgive me. And if I have ever pleased them, accept it as a seed of paradise. > The Most Merciful Allah! Keep my parents close to me in this life â and reunite me with them under Your shade in the next. Ameen. đď¸ Final Word: Love is Measured in Time, Not Days Remember: You donât need a âParentsâ Dayâ to honor your parents. You need a sincere heart, an open schedule, a little humility â and consistent action. Let us reclaim the lost beauty of honoring parents not with once-a-year posts, but with daily devotion. Let us teach the world that love is not in celebrating one day, but in cherishing every moment. Because in truth â Every day is their day. Every moment is a chance to love. And every breath we take⌠is because of them.
By Umair Ali Shah about a year ago in Chapters
