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The Moon That Chased the Sun
For eons, their dance was the clockwork of the universe. The Sun was a king of fierce, glorious light, painting the world in bold strokes of gold and blue. The Moon was his quiet queen, softening his harsh edges with her gentle silver, weaving dreams into the night. But they were never together. The cosmos, in its infinite wisdom, had decreed they must forever be apart, their love a constant, heartbreaking near-miss.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
The Silence of Ranjha
Not a day goes by in the village, whether young or old, men or women, that the name of Gunga is not mentioned, and there is no one, young or old, who does not visit Gunga at least once a day. Gunga is famous throughout the entire region because she has a large and famous shop selling Peew Masto in the village market, and Peew Masto is a daily necessity for everyone.
By shahkar jalal11 months ago in Fiction
Through the Keyhole
The old keyhole was small, almost invisible to an untrained eye. But to Lina, it was a window into a world she was never meant to see. Every night, when the moonlight slid through the cracks of her grandmother’s house, she’d kneel before that ancient wooden door—the one everyone said led to nothing. A room sealed for fifty years. Her grandmother warned her, “Never look through the keyhole, child. Some memories are locked away for a reason.” But curiosity is louder than fear. And that night, as the clock struck midnight, Lina pressed her eye against the cold brass circle. At first, she saw nothing. Only darkness, dust, and silence thick as sleep. Then—a flicker. A candle. And beside it, a figure in a long white dress. Lina froze. The figure wasn’t still—it was moving, swaying, as if caught in a dance. A slow waltz. To no music. She wanted to scream, but her throat tightened. Her breath fogged the metal. She blinked—and the candlelight vanished. The next morning, Lina asked her grandmother, “What’s inside that room?” Her grandmother’s hands trembled. “Ghosts of the past,” she whispered, her voice distant. “And one that wears a white dress.” Lina’s stomach turned. She wanted to ask more, but the old woman’s eyes had drifted to the window—lost somewhere far beyond time. Days passed, but the door kept calling to her. Like a heartbeat behind the wood. Like whispers in her dreams. Then one stormy night, lightning flashed—and the door creaked open. Just a little. Enough for Lina to slip inside. The room smelled of wilted roses and rain. Dust floated like snowflakes in the candlelight. And there, in the corner, stood a mirror. Not just any mirror—this one was draped in lace, the fabric yellowed with age. Lina lifted it. And gasped. Inside the mirror, she didn’t see her reflection. She saw her grandmother. Younger. Laughing. Spinning in a white dress. A man’s hands held hers. A man with sharp eyes and a tender smile. Then, suddenly, the man turned—and his expression shifted to something darker. He whispered something Lina couldn’t hear. Her grandmother in the reflection began to cry. The image flickered. The man disappeared. The grandmother fell to the floor, clutching her chest. And the mirror cracked. Lina stumbled back, heart pounding. Then, from behind her, came a soft voice: “You looked through the keyhole… didn’t you?” Lina turned slowly. Her grandmother stood at the doorway. Pale. Shaking. Eyes filled with tears. “I told you never to open that room,” she said. “I—Grandma, I saw you! I saw him! Who was—” Her grandmother raised a trembling hand. “He was the reason I locked this room. The reason I kept the key hidden for fifty years.” Lina swallowed. “What happened to him?” For a long moment, the old woman said nothing. Then she whispered, “He was the man I loved… and the man who left me the night before our wedding.” Her voice broke. “I locked everything away. The dress. The memories. The mirror. I thought if I sealed it, he’d vanish from my heart. But pain,” she looked up, “doesn’t disappear through a keyhole. It waits for someone to open the door again.” Lina’s eyes filled. “I didn’t mean to—” “I know,” her grandmother said softly. “But perhaps it’s time I opened it myself.” She walked slowly to the mirror, running her fingers over the crack. “Do you see this?” she whispered. “This is what happens when love breaks before time does.” Then she smiled faintly. “But maybe you helped me remember the good, not just the grief.” Lina stepped closer. “You can let it go now, Grandma.” Her grandmother nodded. “Yes. And when I do, promise me something.” “What?” “Never be afraid to look through the keyhole of your own heart. What’s hidden is often what heals you.” That night, Lina watched her grandmother take the white dress from the closet and hang it by the window. The moonlight kissed the silk, making it glow. By morning, the old woman was gone—peacefully, in her sleep. The door stood open. The keyhole, empty. Lina placed the cracked mirror beside her grandmother’s photograph and whispered, “I looked through the keyhole, and I found your story.” She smiled through her tears. “Now it’s mine to tell.”
By Fazal wahid 11 months ago in Fiction
The Hut That Breathed in Silence
In a valley forgotten by time’s loud feet, Where the mountains dream under clouds of wheat, There stood a hut—small, crooked, and kind, A whispering witness to humankind. Its roof was stitched with straw and rain, Its walls wore scars of sun and pain. But when the wind passed through its door, It hummed old songs forevermore. The villagers called it “the lonely one,” For none had lived there since the son Of the blacksmith left for a city’s call, Leaving behind his mother’s shawl. She had died one winter, soft and still, Wrapped in silence upon the hill. And so the hut became her grave— A keeper of love the storm once gave. Years fell like petals from an unseen rose, Snow covered its heart in layers of prose. The seasons spoke in tongues of grace, But no one dared approach the place. Yet one dawn, as the mist turned gold, A traveler came, young yet old. His boots were torn, his breath was deep, And in his eyes, the stars lost sleep. He saw the hut with a pilgrim’s gaze, As if he'd known it in other days. He touched the wall, and felt it sigh— A soul remembered, though time went by. He lit a fire, soft and small, Its warmth danced gently across the wall. The hut, like a heart long turned to stone, Awoke and whispered, “You are home.” He stayed for days, he stayed through rain, Through thunder’s cry and sparrow’s chain. Each night he dreamt a mother’s face, Each dawn he wept in her embrace. He mended the roof, he painted the door, He planted flowers along the floor. The hut began to glow again, As if reborn from loss and pain. Villagers whispered, “The spirit’s back—” “Or maybe the lost son’s found his track.” No one knew his name or tale, But the air grew sweet, the nights less pale. Sometimes, at dusk, a child would hear A lullaby drift, faint yet clear. It was the hut that sang again, In rhythm with the traveler’s pain. One morning, smoke no longer rose, The fire slept, the world froze. They found him there, still and mild, Holding the shawl—like a child. The villagers buried him under the tree, Beside the stream, where hearts run free. And when the sun set low that day, The hut exhaled, then melted away. They say the earth reclaimed her son, That grief and grace became as one. Where the hut once stood, now lilies bloom, Fragrant ghosts of love and gloom. And travelers still, when twilight bends, Hear songs the wind from the mountain sends. The tale of the hut that dared to feel, That carried love when hearts couldn’t heal. Epilogue: Some stories aren’t written, but breathed— Through wood and wind, through souls that grieved. The hut was never just a home, But proof that even ruins roam. It lived for love, it died in peace, Its silence spoke of sweet release. And somewhere beyond the mortal stream, The hut and mother still dream their dream. Themes & Tone: Genre: Poetic narrative / Reflective realism Themes: Love, memory, grief, rebirth, silence, nature Tone: Nostalgic, emotional, spiritual Perfect for: Vocal Media readers who love deep, imagery-rich poetry that tells a story.
By Fazal wahid 11 months ago in Fiction
A Message Written in Moon Dust
Dr. Aris Thorne was a geologist, a woman of rock and reason. The first human mission to the lunar farside was her life's work. As her lander settled into the dust of the Mendeleev Basin, a place of eternal Earth-shadow, her heart beat with a purely scientific thrill. She was here to read the moon's oldest stories, written in stone.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
Letters From The Room That Doesn't Exist. AI-Generated.
Aarav had always been fascinated by old buildings, especially the abandoned Willowcrest Manor — a weather-beaten mansion at the edge of town, wrapped in vines like nature was trying to bury it. Locals said it was cursed, swallowed by time and sorrow.
By shakir hamid11 months ago in Fiction
The Sound of Rain That Never Falls. AI-Generated.
No one in Hollowbridge could remember the last time it had rained. The clouds gathered every evening, dark and heavy, but no drop ever touched the ground. People called it The Dry Storm, a strange curse that made thunder echo but never bless the soil.
By shakir hamid11 months ago in Fiction
I am Bexley The Bloodletter’s Scourge chapter 32 “Bhoot Chaturdashi”
Bhavna showed us what she had been writing. She was secretive for so long about her calligraphy. Now, she laid it out for Shadow, Jake and I to look at. Her letters were so delicate, elegant and looked surreal to me. My human mother who gave birth to us would tell us human history, biblical history and principles of life. Bhavna, who took us under her zombie wing, as she called it teasingly, taught us of her lost Bengali culture. Her Indian roots were all lost as zombies typically did not celebrate anything or mark dates for things. There was no markers for time.
By Melissa Ingoldsby11 months ago in Fiction
Matilda
Silence struggled to take hold over the constant clinking of silverware against ceramic plates. Ron had said a brief prayer, which came out as more of a mocking than a devotion. Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub. The silly phrase danced around within Emily’s brain as she savored bite after bite of the cheesy chicken and crispy Brussels sprouts. Even though she and Ron had played a little bit too much with the potatoes, they were still smooth, creamy, and delicious. The spinach was perfectly tender and well salted. Being Emily’s favorite vegetable, Ron made sure that her plate had an extra scoop.
By Kale Sinclair11 months ago in Fiction
