Love

Those Who Survived the Flames
On the narrow street beside the old store in the center of the village stood a grand house — the home of Sotimkhon, the respected elder of Khurmoli village. Sotimkhon was a tall, broad-shouldered man, always wearing a waistcoat, a doppi on his head, and leather slippers on his feet. At every wedding or community gathering, he was the one to lead the people — firm, wise, and commanding.
By Izabella Johnson11 months ago in Fiction
December
It was December, and the cold was strong. Wahid often complained to me that I didn’t come to visit my friends. But today was Sunday, and I had decided to spend the whole day with Wahid. I had been in touch with him since the evening before. I planned to leave the house at ten in the morning and meet him at his shop.
By Syed Shahkar jalal 11 months ago in Fiction
Everything Will Be Alright. Top Story - October 2025.
It was difficult to go back into that room. My son had passed three Halloweens ago and I kept his room shut since then. But I had to. To put his things away for now at least. Thank goodness he has no pets in his room. No goldfish or other such animals that would require my rescue. That would have been…that wouldn’t have been easy.
By Raphael Fontenelle11 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Dream. AI-Generated.
The Old Man and His Clocks In the quiet heart of a small mountain town, there lived an old clockmaker named Elias. His shop was tucked between a bakery and a bookstore, its wooden sign faded by years of rain and sun. Inside, hundreds of clocks filled the room — from tiny pocket watches to grand pendulum clocks that echoed with deep, rhythmic tones. Elias had spent his whole life repairing time, but he could never repair what time had taken from him — his wife, Anna. She had passed away twenty years ago, leaving behind a silence that even the ticking of a hundred clocks could not fill. Every morning, Elias wound his clocks, not for customers, but for memory. Each tick was a heartbeat from his past — the rhythm of the life he once knew. --- The Stranger Who Didn’t Belong One misty evening, as Elias closed his shop, the bell above the door jingled. A young man stepped inside — tall, calm, wearing a long gray coat. His eyes gleamed like silver, and he carried no watch. “I heard you can fix anything that measures time,” the man said softly. Elias nodded. “I can try.” The stranger placed a strange device on the counter. It wasn’t a clock — it looked like a sphere made of glass and brass, glowing faintly from within. “This one doesn’t keep time,” the man said. “It holds it.” Elias frowned. “Holds time? What do you mean?” The man smiled. “You’ll see. Just wind it once… backward.” Something in the man’s tone stirred Elias’s curiosity — and something deeper, an ache he couldn’t name. He took his screwdriver, adjusted the gears, and carefully turned the winding key in reverse. At once, the air shimmered. The sound of ticking grew louder, faster — until the room itself seemed to breathe. --- The Moment Reborn When Elias opened his eyes, he was no longer in his dusty workshop. The smell of fresh bread and lilacs filled the air. Outside, sunlight painted the cobblestones gold. And there she was. Anna — young again, standing at the door of the shop, smiling the same gentle smile that had once lit his world. “Elias,” she said, “you promised we’d walk to the river today.” He couldn’t speak. His heart beat like a runaway clock. “Anna… how—?” She laughed, unaware of his confusion. “You always forget time when you’re fixing clocks.” He reached out, his trembling hand touching hers. Warm. Real. Time itself had bent to his longing. For a single perfect day, Elias lived the life he had lost. They walked to the river, talked about dreams, and shared bread and tea on the old bridge. Every moment felt endless. Every breath was a miracle. But as the evening light faded, Elias noticed something strange. The sky flickered, like a candle burning out. Anna’s voice began to echo, distant and fragile. “Time,” whispered the wind, “can be borrowed… but never kept.” --- The Final Tick Elias awoke in his workshop again. The stranger was gone. On the counter lay the strange glass sphere — now cracked and still. Tears filled his eyes. For a moment, he thought it had all been a dream. But on his hand, he still felt the warmth of Anna’s touch. He looked around the shop. Every clock was silent — except one. The small golden pocket watch that Anna had once given him still ticked softly. Elias smiled. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel the pain of loss. He realized something profound — time doesn’t take away love. It only hides it until we remember. He wound the golden watch gently, whispering, “Thank you… for one more day.” Then he placed it on the counter beside the broken sphere and let the silence of the room fill with peace. --- Epilogue: The Timekeeper’s Legacy When the townspeople came the next morning, they found the old clockmaker sitting peacefully at his workbench, eyes closed, a faint smile on his face. Every clock in the shop began to tick at once — perfectly in sync — as if the universe itself had bowed in respect to its timekeeper. And if you pass that little town today, you might still hear the echo of those clocks, whispering through the wind: > “Time cannot destroy what love remembers.”
By Gohar Ali11 months ago in Fiction
Just a Peek. Top Story - October 2025. Content Warning.
Madame Sylvie Revealer of your Past Teller of your Future Madeline, or Mad as she preferred to be called, studied the sign before her, wondering if it was really worth it to follow her unexpected urge. She had never once wanted to know her future, and even now, Mad still didn’t want to know. Mad had read enough Greek myths to know that it never ended well. Granted, she believed in herself enough to think that she wouldn’t go try to kill a baby or something like that, but still. Mad was content enough to live in the present and not stress about a future she may not be able to change, thank you very much.
By Rebecca Patton11 months ago in Fiction
Fostering Doubts
Author's Preamble: As noted above, this is my 22nd rejection, in my ongoing attempt to win something or have something published outside of Vocal. The following story was written for the 2025 Ligonier Valley Writers' Flash Fiction Contest. The prompt was simply, AI/robots, the light or dark side. 1000 words or less.
By Paul Stewart11 months ago in Fiction
She’s Ready for You
The old man sat in his chair, staring out the window. The olive trees were blooming, the delicate flowers having burst forth from their buds. He could smell the little white petals in the breeze off the Mediterranean. His small cabin was close to the water, but his neighbor had a sprawling grove that stretched between his home and the cerulean waves.
By Benjamin Whitaker11 months ago in Fiction
The Immortality Subscription
The ad was everywhere. “Aeterna Corp: Why Have an Expiration Date?” For a manageable monthly fee, the “Rejuvenation Stream” would flood your cells with nano-machines, repairing telomeres, purging toxins, and holding aging at bay. It wasn’t a one-time cure; it was a service. A subscription to immortality.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
The Shadows of Greenhall
_Part One: The Dance of Light and Shadows in Greenhall_ The autumn air of the outskirts carried the scent of damp earth and fallen yellow leaves, caressing the tall windows of Greenhall Manor. Its stone walls, once adorned with the grandeur of carved stones and vibrant paintings, now bore cracks and faded colors, whispering a silent tale of years steeped in solitude. Amid this heavy stillness sat Liovna, her golden hair shimmering like silk threads in the candlelight. Her white dress, with its delicate lace trim and voluminous sleeves, seemed to have stepped out of a distant dream into this cold room. The simple gold necklace at her throat—her only memento from her mother—trembled faintly with each breath. Beside her lounged Oliver, her young husband, his dark hair and gray eyes holding an unspoken story of their own. A physician by trade, he healed lives with his gentle hands, yet his pockets remained empty of wealth and a home of his own. Their marriage, just two months past, had been sealed in the small village church, the bells ringing through the autumn breeze. Liovna still heard the echo of his romantic vows: “You are the only home I’ve ever sought, Liovna.” She had smiled, her heart warming, and replied, “And you, Oliver, are the light of my life.” Yet Greenhall, the manor inherited from Liovna’s grandmother and now their refuge, bore no resemblance to a warm haven. Its walls were encircled by thorny vines, and its tall, stained-glass windows—cracked and dulled—seemed like watchful eyes peering into the past. As a child, Liovna had visited this place, but always felt an inexplicable pull, a shadow in her chest that kept her at a distance. Now, with Oliver by her side, she resolved to transform it into a home for their love—even if each night brought the faint sound of unseen footsteps echoing through the corridors. This evening, Liovna had retrieved an ancient book from the weathered wooden shelf. Its red cover, etched with faded gold lines, seemed to guard a secret. This tome, a relic from her enigmatic grandmother who never spoke of her past, now rested in her hands. As she turned the pages, the scent of old paper and ink filled her senses. Suddenly, a yellowed letter slipped from between them, fluttering to the floor. Her hands, still warm from Oliver’s touch, trembled as she picked it up. The shaky script of her grandmother’s hand read: “Liovna, my dear, my love for Robert led me to this fate. Beware, for Greenhall may call to you as well. Keep this secret, but know that the shadows are ever near.” Her heart raced. Who was Robert? A name that seemed carved from the depths of history. Her gaze shifted to Oliver, engrossed in his notebook, oblivious to her turmoil. Should she tell him? Before she could decide, the candle beside her flickered. A cold breeze, as if seeping through the sealed windows, swirled around her. She lifted her head and stared at the wall; a dark shadow, resembling a woman in a flowing gown, danced across it. Her breath caught in her throat. When she looked again, the shadow was gone, but the sensation of a presence lingered in the air. Oliver glanced up, his warm smile breaking the tension. “Liovna, why so troubled?” She forced a smile and tucked the letter beneath the book. “Just thinking of Grandmother,” she said, her voice unsteady. He rose, sat beside her, and took her hand. The warmth of his touch, as always, soothed her. “We’ll build a new life here,”he said. “Greenhall, with all its shadows, will soon be our home.” But Liovna knew the shadows—tied to that letter and the name that pierced her heart like a dagger—would not release them so easily. As night fell and Oliver drifted to sleep, she reopened the book. This time, the pages seemed to whisper to her. Faint images of a woman with sorrowful eyes flickered in her mind—perhaps the very woman her grandmother had hinted at. Liovna resolved to uncover the truth, even if it cost her the peace she so desperately sought. Greenhall, with every breath it took, drew her deeper into a past that still lived.
By Vafa Abbasi11 months ago in Fiction
Megara: The Mechanism of Madness
On the Mechanism Cebes and Atlas are enjoying themselves at their favorite coffee shop after a prodigious session of alcohol consumption. They are coming down from their drunken state but Altas is in a cheerful mood for more, while Cebes is in a melancholy mood questioning his thoughts and emotional state.
By G.A. Sebastián11 months ago in Fiction
The Girl by the Sea – Part 3. AI-Generated.
The days in Havenbrook began to blend into one another, stitched together by the rhythm of waves and the quiet companionship that neither Ethan nor Amelia fully understood. He would find her by the shore each morning, sketching in silence while the gulls cried above. She never asked him why he returned, and he never explained. Sometimes, he brought her seashells without meaning to, setting them beside her like apologies left unspoken. Other times, he simply stood behind her, watching the sea breathe and break. To anyone else, it was nothing—but to them, it was everything. A wordless understanding, fragile but real. Ethan had promised himself he wouldn’t stay, yet with every sunrise, his absence became harder to imagine. Amelia, too, began to feel the quiet tether between them tighten, though she pretended not to notice. Love, she realized, often begins in silence—growing roots beneath the things we never say.
By Yaseen khan11 months ago in Fiction
Revenge Is Best Served with Spite
Michael sat down at his laptop. This time, he was determined to go through with it. Unlike all the other times before, he now had someone to share his life with. Someone with whom he could find the happiness that he had been seeking for many years.
By Calvin London11 months ago in Fiction