Excerpt
Personal Stories That Feel Like Secrets . AI-Generated.
Personal Stories That Feel Like Secrets I still remember the night I hid in my bedroom closet, heart pounding, tears soaking my pillow. I wasn’t running from a storm or a monster under the bed. I was hiding from myself—the part of me I was too afraid to face. This wasn’t a story I shared with friends or family. It was my secret, locked away behind whispered apologies and forced smiles. But that night, in the quiet darkness, I realized something important: secrets don’t protect us. They hold us captive.
By The Last Loveabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Healer’s Burden: Faith, Legacy, and the Weight of Divine Gifts"
The Healer understood her gift far better than the Apprentice ever could. To be *Blessed* was not about skill or effort—it was simply *being*, carrying a selfless faith so profound that it shaped the world without intent. Though she healed with her hands, sometimes the Divine intervened, mending what mortal ability could not. "It’s not a choice," the Healer murmured. "What happens through me defies understanding. If I tried to dissect it, I might destroy it." The Apprentice bit back her frustration. "Then what *can* you teach me?" "Everything I know," the Healer replied. "The wisdom from my first master, the lessons of High Valley. You could even go there—I’d give you a letter. But don’t chase a Blessing. That path will poison your joy and corrupt your craft. Some things *are*. Some *aren’t*. And some *never will be*." With a tired sigh, the Healer shifted, rubbing her lower back. The Apprentice immediately kneaded the stiff muscles, wondering what toll the Blessing truly took. She’d never know—but while her master remained, she would learn. To be Blessed seemed miraculous. Yet, watching the Healer’s weariness as she guided the Apprentice’s hands, it was clearly a burden too. The magic came unpredictably. Rarely did the Healer *know* it would work—except with the boy, when green light had flared beneath her fingers. Even then, she couldn’t claim it as her own, couldn’t replicate it, couldn’t pass it on. As she worked the knots from her master’s shoulders, the Apprentice wondered how much time they had left. The Blessed were wanderers at heart; this village might not hold her forever. Then she caught herself—*scheming again*. Trying to manipulate, to *force* understanding. The Healer was right. If the rules were as she said, the Apprentice could never be Blessed. But there’d been a hint in her words: *faith alone moves magic*. Perhaps, if she planted the seeds now, generations later, a new Blessed might rise in this village. Another farm boy might cheat death because of her unseen hand. That future healer would eclipse her own legacy. Her name would fade, remembered only as a woman who’d once mended wounds. She was content with that. Healing was enough. Unseen, a wisp of green light seeped through the Healer’s dress, settling into the Apprentice’s fingers. "Never to be Blessed" didn’t mean the gods would refuse her all grace. As her master said, even mortals could heal—*with their own hands*. --- **The Weight of Blessings** The Healer knew her gift in ways the Apprentice could scarcely fathom. To be *Blessed* was not a matter of study or will—it was a state of being, a surrender to a faith so profound it moved through the world like wind through grass, unseen but undeniable. She healed with her hands, yes, but sometimes—only sometimes—something greater stirred within her, mending what should have been beyond repair. "It isn’t something I *do*," the Healer said, her voice quiet but firm. "It passes through me. If I tried to hold it, to dissect it, I fear I would lose it entirely." The Apprentice clenched her fists, frustration simmering beneath her skin. She had so many questions, so many *whys* and *hows*, but the answers slipped like water through her fingers. Swallowing her impatience, she asked instead, "Then what *can* you teach me?" The Healer’s expression softened. "I can teach you all I know—the remedies passed down from my first master, the secrets whispered in High Valley. If you wish, I will send you there with my blessing. But listen well: Do not seek the Blessing itself. That path leads only to disappointment. Some things cannot be claimed. They can only be *received*—or not." With a weary sigh, the Healer set aside her cloth and shifted, wincing as she pressed a hand to the small of her back. The Apprentice moved without thinking, her fingers finding the familiar tension in her master’s muscles. She had seen this weariness before, the way the Healer’s body bore the cost of her gift. *What does it feel like?* the Apprentice wondered. To be a vessel for something so vast, so beyond comprehension? To never know when—or if—the magic would answer? The Healer had spoken of faith, but faith was a slippery thing. The Apprentice had seen miracles—like the boy and the scythe, the way emerald light had knit his flesh back together as if the wound had never been. Yet the Healer refused to take credit, refused to call it her own. *That* was the hardest part to understand. How could she not want to *own* such power? To wield it with certainty? As she worked the stiffness from her master’s shoulders, the Apprentice’s thoughts wandered. The Blessed were said to be wanderers, never staying long in one place. Would her master leave someday? Would she wake to find her gone, with only memories and half-learned lessons left behind? The thought sent a pang through her chest. There was still so much to learn. Then she caught herself—*scheming again*. Always trying to shape the future, to control what could not be controlled. The Healer was right: If the Blessing demanded surrender, then the Apprentice’s very nature worked against her. She was a creature of plans and puzzles, of *making* things happen. But perhaps… perhaps there was another way. The Healer had spoken of faith moving through generations, of seeds planted long before they bloomed. If the Apprentice could not be Blessed herself, maybe she could prepare the ground for someone who *could*. A descendant, a student yet unborn—someone who might one day stand in this very house and mend wounds with hands that glowed like spring leaves. The thought should have saddened her. To be forgotten, her name lost to time while another’s shone bright… and yet, it didn’t. The work would remain. That was enough. Unnoticed by either of them, a single spark of green light drifted through the fabric of the Healer’s sleeve, settling into the Apprentice’s palm. "Never to be Blessed," the Healer had said. But the gods, it seemed, had their own ideas.
By Nasir Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Thirsty Crow
Once upon a time, in a small village surrounded by green fields and dense forests, there lived a clever little crow. His feathers were glossy black, and his eyes shone like tiny beads. He was known throughout the village for his wit and intelligence. While other birds would often act foolishly or get into trouble, this crow always managed to find a way out of tricky situations. One particularly hot summer afternoon, the sun blazed mercilessly in the sky. The air shimmered with heat, and not a single cloud floated above to offer shade. All the ponds, rivers, and wells in the village had either dried up or were reduced to muddy puddles. It was a difficult time for every living creature in the area. Birds sat panting on the branches of leafless trees, and animals hid in their burrows and caves to escape the unbearable heat. The little crow had been flying around for hours in search of water. His throat was parched, his wings felt heavy, and his beak was dry. He desperately needed a drink, but wherever he went, he could find no water. He flew over the fields, hovered near the village wells, and searched around the edges of the forest, but all in vain. Tired and exhausted, the crow finally landed on the branch of a tall, old tree at the edge of the village. He sat there for a while, catching his breath and wiping his beak against the rough bark. Just then, his sharp eyes caught sight of something glinting in the sunlight below. Curious, he flew down to investigate. To his great joy, he discovered an old earthen pot lying near a small hut. The pot looked weathered and cracked, but when the crow peered inside, he saw a small amount of water collected at the bottom. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to quench his thirst. The crow eagerly tried to reach the water with his beak, but the neck of the pot was too narrow, and the water was too low. He tried tilting the pot, but it was too heavy for him to move. He even tried dipping a stick inside, hoping it would bring some water up, but the stick was too thick to fit. For a moment, the crow felt frustrated and hopeless. He was so close to water, yet he could not reach it. But being clever and quick-thinking, he didn’t give up. Instead, he looked around carefully to see if there was something nearby he could use. Suddenly, an idea struck him. He noticed that the ground around the hut was covered with small pebbles and stones. The crow recalled something he had seen before: when stones are dropped into water, the water level rises. Maybe, just maybe, he could use this trick to bring the water within his reach. Without wasting any time, the crow picked up a small stone in his beak and dropped it into the pot. Plop! The stone sank to the bottom, and the water rose slightly. Encouraged by this, the crow quickly picked up another pebble and dropped it in. Plop! Again, the water rose a little higher. The crow worked tirelessly, flying back and forth, picking up pebble after pebble, and dropping them into the pot. With each stone he added, the water level rose a little more. Though it was hard work, and the sun beat down on him relentlessly, the thought of finally quenching his thirst kept him going. After many trips and much effort, the water level finally reached the brim of the pot. The crow could now easily reach it with his beak. With great relief, he dipped his beak into the cool water and drank deeply. The water tasted sweeter than anything he had ever known. His dry throat felt soothed, and the coolness revived his tired body. Feeling satisfied and proud of his cleverness, the crow looked up at the bright blue sky and let out a loud, happy caw. He had not only quenched his thirst but had also proved once again that intelligence and determination can overcome even the toughest obstacles. The crow then flapped his wings and took to the sky, feeling refreshed and joyful. As he soared above the village, he noticed other birds still struggling in the heat. Remembering his own struggle, he decided to share his newfound trick with them. He flew to the tallest tree and called out to the other birds, telling them about the pot and how he had raised the water with pebbles. The birds, grateful for the crow’s wisdom and generosity, followed his advice and soon found relief too. From that day on, the crow became a symbol of cleverness and resourcefulness in the village. The villagers would often tell their children the story of the thirsty crow, teaching them that with a little bit of thought and perseverance, any problem can be solved.
By Muhammad Naeemabout a year ago in Fiction
Of Chaos and Consequence. Top Story - May 2025.
Consequences, mapped, spread, and stretched across the chaos they so deftly served in their given time, are ordered by unseen forces. We grasp at straws to find reason and rhyme, some semblance of "the why" when the seemingly random shatters our steady ground.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Restoration. Top Story - May 2025.
The healer’s hands glowed slightly as she moved them over the child’s head. Her fingers danced in the air, matching the rhythm of her humming like she was playing an instrument. Her dress was a pale blue, and she wore her hair tied back in a low bun, safely out of her face. She was spotless, despite the blood on the boy’s face.
By Alexander McEvoyabout a year ago in Fiction
Hunger
Hana sat in the kitchen, a cool breeze laced with fragrances from the rūtos and daffodils below rolling in from the open window above the washbin. She stood on the chair watching over her grandmother’s shoulder as she rolled the potatoes reduced to paste for the cepelinai.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
The Camel and the Fox
A tale of mischief and clever revenge Once upon a time, in a desert near a green village, lived a camel and a fox. They were not the same kind of animals, but somehow, they became friends. They often went out together in search of food and fun.
By Imran Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
When Dreams Remember
Elira had always felt the quiet pull of something just out of reach. It began in dreams—glimpses of a place she had never seen. A field of golden grass beneath a violet sky. The haunting sound of a melody carried on the wind. A boy with storm-grey eyes who looked at her as if she were the only thing that mattered. At first, they were fleeting. But soon, the dreams returned night after night, growing more vivid. The boy’s voice called her a name she didn’t recognize. And every morning, she woke with a deep ache in her chest, like mourning something she’d never had. When her grandmother passed away, Elira returned to the creaking old house where she'd spent her early childhood. The attic hadn’t changed. Dust lay thick on every surface, the air heavy with time. She didn’t know what she was looking for—only that the dreams had begun again the day her grandmother died. While digging through a trunk of faded letters and brittle photographs, her fingers brushed something cold. A silver locket, smooth and ornate, etched with unfamiliar symbols. She held it up to the dusty light, and as soon as it touched her skin, something pulsed inside her—like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers. The attic vanished. She stood in the golden field. The sky rippled like silk, violet clouds drifting above. Wind tugged at her hair, whispering her forgotten name. And there, just ahead, stood the boy. Kaelen. “You’ve returned,” he said softly, his voice trembling like a secret too long held. “But… you don’t remember me.” “I don’t know you,” Elira whispered, but her voice betrayed her. Part of her did. His eyes—grey like storms—did not accuse. They only mourned. “You were mine. And I was yours. Before the world broke us apart.” Each night after that, Elira returned to the dream. And Kaelen waited. He never begged her to remember. Instead, he told her stories—of a world torn by war, of a people called the Valeans, and of a Keeper who had sealed away her memories to protect dangerous knowledge. “You were the Keeper,” he told her once. “You chose to forget… to save lives.” In the waking world, Elira sought answers. She brought the locket to the library, where she met Callen, a quiet archivist with a scholar’s eyes. “These symbols are Valean,” he said, brushing dust from a heavy tome. “A lost language. A lost people. Wiped out in the Cataclysm War over two hundred years ago.” “That’s impossible,” Elira said. “I’ve seen them. I’ve… been there.” Callen stared at her. “Sometimes the past doesn’t die. Sometimes it waits—carried in blood, in dreams.” They searched together, uncovering forgotten texts, crumbling maps, and whispers of the Valean Keeper who vanished with the knowledge to end the war. All signs pointed to one truth—Elira hadn’t imagined the dreams. She was remembering. One night, as the wind hummed in the field, Kaelen took her hand. “You asked me once who you were.” She nodded, heart pounding. “You were the Keeper of Truth. You held the secrets that could stop the war. But others tried to take them. So you hid them—even from yourself. You left me… to save everything.” Pain sliced through her. “I left you alone.” He shook his head, gently. “You saved us all. But the world is waking again. And this time, you don’t have to carry it alone.” Following a hidden map found in the ruins of an ancient temple, Elira and Callen traveled to a forgotten mountain. At its peak, half-buried in snow and stone, stood a sealed chamber, humming with ancient energy. The locket glowed in her hand. As she pressed it into the carved indentation in the door, stone groaned and shifted. Inside, murals lined the walls—images of Elira in her past life, standing beside Kaelen, leading others, protecting a silver-bound book. The pedestal stood in the center, humming with power. She touched the book. And memory returned. The war. The betrayal. The moment she chose to forget. The love she left behind. Kaelen’s voice begging her not to go. She turned to Callen, tears streaking her cheeks. “This knowledge… it could save us. Or it could destroy everything again.” Callen met her gaze. “That’s not a burden you should carry alone.” Her fingers tightened around the book. “Then I won’t. I remember now. And I won’t forget again.” Kaelen’s voice echoed within her, soft and sure: “You’re not alone.” Elira stepped out of the temple, silver book in hand, the wind lifting her hair like a banner. The Keeper had awakened. This time, she would fight. This time, she would remember. And this time, love would not be lost to time.
By Kaleem Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
What Happens to Your Body if You Walk Just 20 Minutes a Day, According to Doctors
Walking is one of the simplest, most accessible forms of exercise—yet many people underestimate its power. You don’t need intense workouts or expensive gym memberships to improve your health. In fact, research shows that walking for just 20 minutes a day can lead to remarkable changes in your body, from boosting heart health to enhancing mental well-being.
By Niranjon Chandra Royabout a year ago in Fiction
