Love
Red Top Hat
She dated a man named Jack and was lost when he left her. The world didn’t look the same or feel the same anymore. Although Sally, had gone through break ups this wasn’t like the rest of them. Sometimes she would feel stuck in the past or the present or in time.
By Lisa Pulliamabout a year ago in Fiction
The City of Almost
The City of Almost When Mira first moved to the city, she thought the locals were joking. “You’ll see them,” her landlord had said while handing her the brass key with its strange, crooked teeth. “Don’t stare too long. That’s the trick.”
By Timothy A Rowlandabout a year ago in Fiction
The Message That Never Left
Elena typed the words three times before erasing them. The first draft was too blunt. We’re done. Don’t call me again. The second too sentimental. I’ll always care for you, but this isn’t working. The third hovered somewhere in the middle, but still her thumb trembled above the glowing blue arrow on the screen.
By Timothy A Rowlandabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the crown 👑. AI-Generated.
The dawn broke over the kingdom with a quiet splendor, gilding the marble towers of the royal palace in shades of gold. Yet within those walls, Prince Alaric felt only the cold press of duty. The crown that gleamed on his father’s head was destined for him, but to Alaric it felt less like an honor and more like a chain. "A crown does not rest on the brow," he often thought, "it presses upon the heart." One morning, disguised in plain garments, he slipped into the village. The air smelled of fresh bread and tilled earth, far freer than the suffocating incense of the palace halls. That was where he saw her. Her name was Elara, a poor girl with patched sleeves and bare feet, carrying a basket of wildflowers she had gathered to sell. Though her life was hard, her eyes shone with a light unbroken by poverty. When Alaric accidentally brushed past her and her flowers spilled onto the dusty road, their hands touched as they knelt to gather them. For the prince, that touch was lightning. For Elara, it was a moment she could not explain. "You have the hands of a dreamer," she said softly, looking at him as though she could see beyond his disguise. From that day, Alaric returned to the village, drawn by the simplicity of her world and the warmth of her laughter. They walked by the riverbanks, shared bread under willow trees, and spoke of life beyond the palace gates. "Freedom," Elara told him, "is not the absence of chains, but the courage to love despite them." But the palace has ears, and whispers travel faster than rivers. Soon, the king and queen learned of Alaric’s secret visits. Behind heavy oak doors, courtiers whispered of disgrace. "A prince does not marry a peasant," one lord declared. "He marries for the kingdom, not for his heart." When Alaric was summoned, the crown was set before him on the throne. His father’s voice was stern, edged with disappointment. "A ruler’s heart must beat for his people, not for a girl with empty hands." Yet Alaric’s reply was quiet but unshaken. "And what is a ruler worth, Father, if he wears a crown but loses his soul?" The kingdom soon felt the storm of his defiance. The queen wept for her son’s rebellion. Nobles whispered of betrayal. And Elara, caught in the tide of royal scandal, feared she would be the reason for the prince’s ruin. On a moonlit night by the river where they had first spoken freely, she tried to let him go. "Your path is lined with marble and gold," she told him, tears trembling in her eyes. "Mine is lined with dust. Do not stain your destiny for me." Alaric took her hands, his voice steady though his heart ached. "Elara, I would rather walk a dusty road with you than sit alone on a gilded throne." The choice weighed heavier than iron, but the prince made it. Before the court, with the crown glittering at his feet, he declared: "I will not wear this if it means forsaking the love that makes me human." The hall fell silent. The king’s rage burned, but so did his pride—quietly, secretly, for a son who chose love with the courage of a ruler. Elara, waiting at the gates, trembled as she saw Alaric approach without a crown yet freer than she had ever seen him. The kingdom, at first divided, learned in time that a heart true in love could be truer in rule than one shackled by tradition. Alaric was no longer just a prince—he became a man the people could trust, for he had chosen them as surely as he had chosen her. Years later, as they walked together through the palace gardens where flowers bloomed freely, Alaric whispered: "Beneath the crown, I found nothing but weight. Beneath your love, I found my wings." And Elara smiled, her hand entwined with his. For the kingdom, the story was legend. For them, it was simply life—lived not beneath the crown, but beyond it.
By Muhammad Rahatabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letter in the Library. AI-Generated.
Maya loved the quiet corners of the old town library. For her, the creak of wooden floors and the faint scent of yellowed pages felt like stepping back in time. On stormy days, when the rain lashed against the windows, the library was her sanctuary. One such rainy afternoon, as she flipped through a thick book of forgotten poetry, something unusual slipped out from between the pages. At first, she thought it was just a scrap of paper, but when she picked it up, she saw it was an envelope—yellowed with age, the edges frayed, yet still sealed. Her heart raced. She glanced around, half-expecting someone to stop her, but the library was nearly empty, except for the old librarian who was quietly stamping returns at the desk. After a hesitant pause, curiosity got the better of her. Carefully, she slid her finger beneath the fragile flap and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. It was a letter. The handwriting was elegant but slightly faded with time. She read slowly, the words hitting her with unexpected weight. "My dearest Anna, I have carried these feelings for too long, and tonight, I cannot leave them unspoken. If you feel the same, meet me by the willow tree at the park on Friday evening. If you do not come, I will never speak of this again, but know that my heart will always be yours. —James" Maya read it twice, maybe three times, her heart thudding louder with each line. The date at the top stunned her—it was written over thirty years ago. Questions crowded her mind. Who was Anna? Did she ever read this letter? Did she go to the park that evening? Or had this fragile confession of love been lost forever, hidden inside a book no one opened for decades? The thought haunted her. In the days that followed, Maya couldn’t let go of the mystery. She visited the library again, hoping for clues. She asked the librarian, who after some thought recalled a young man named James who used to sit for hours at the reading tables, always scribbling in notebooks. “He was quiet, polite,” the librarian said. “Then one day, he just stopped coming.” But there was no mention of Anna. Maya’s curiosity grew into an obsession. She spent hours scrolling through old town records and archives, even posting the story of the lost letter online. Dozens of people replied with guesses and theories, but no one knew for sure what had happened. Every clue only deepened the mystery. At last, while speaking to a retired librarian, Maya got her answer. James had moved to another city shortly after the letter’s date. He never married, the librarian recalled with a sigh. And Anna? She was still alive, now in her late seventies, living quietly in a small house on the edge of town. Maya’s hands trembled as she held the letter again. Should she disturb Anna’s peace after so many years? What if the letter reopened wounds that had long since healed? But deep inside, Maya felt the truth: this letter was never hers to keep. The next afternoon, she found herself knocking on a small wooden door. An elderly woman opened it, her silver hair framing a face softened by age. Her eyes, though tired, still held a quiet spark. Maya introduced herself gently and explained the story of the letter. With trembling fingers, Anna unfolded the fragile paper and began to read. As her eyes scanned the words, her lips quivered, and tears slipped down her cheeks. “James,” she whispered at last, her voice breaking. “I always wondered why he disappeared. I thought… maybe I had imagined his feelings. I never knew.” She clutched the paper to her chest, as if afraid it might vanish. After a long silence, she looked at Maya and smiled through her tears. “It’s never too late to feel loved. Even if the years have passed, the heart remembers.” Maya left Anna’s house that evening with a lump in her throat. The sky had cleared, the golden light of sunset spilling across the quiet street. She felt as though she had carried not just a letter, but a piece of someone’s soul back to where it belonged. That night, as she replayed the moment in her mind, Maya realized something powerful: even stories left unfinished carry meaning. Love, even unspoken, leaves ripples that reach far beyond time. As she stepped out into the evening air, the scent of rain still lingered. The world felt different, as if whispering a gentle truth: every word, every feeling, and every untold story matters.
By Tariq Jameelabout a year ago in Fiction
If X = Y
I have this fantasy in my head where I marry my childhood sweetheart. We met when we were 12. Still had the baby fat in our cheeks and the twinkle of innocence in our eyes. We were forced to sit next to each other in Maths. I was more annoyed than he was, I think. It was the last class before lunch, so I wanted to be next to my best friend. Make the class an early start to our lunchtime chat sessions. But alas. The teacher put me next to him. Neither of us were Maths whizzes. But we both got by.
By Sarah O'Gradyabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Rain
Chapter One – The First Rain The first drops of rain always reminded Aaliya of beginnings. They smelled like earth cracking open to breathe, like pages of an old diary rediscovering their ink, like something alive stirring after a long silence. On that particular June evening, standing at the window of her small apartment in Paris, Aaliya thought of how rain had once rewritten her life.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Daughter
He promised to come back from the war. The river kept the secret of whether he did. Every dawn for three years I walked to the banks of the Liriope, where the fog hung low and the water whispered like a confidant. I carried his last letter in my coat pocket, creased and soft from being read so often the words were fading: “I’ll return with the spring floods, Mara. Wait for me.”
By Tariq Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lost Ring of Porthcurno Bay
Hi everyone! I'm so excited to share my very first story here on Vocal. This one comes straight from the heart. If you enjoyed it—or even if you didn’t—I’d truly love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Your feedback means the world to me as I start this writing journey. Thanks for reading, Sullivan
By Sullivan Davisabout a year ago in Fiction
