Young Adult
The Recluse
I sit in the closet with the skeletons. It’s dark here. Grayscale. A single candle lights the room—a flame that I’ve been trying to snuff out for years, but it keeps coming back, like a trick candle on a birthday cake, its only purpose to remind me that I’ve spent another year smothering my dreams. Each time I blow it out, it takes longer and longer to return.
By Aura Starling11 months ago in Fiction
The Pale Blue Door
I walk past the pale blue door every single day. It is locked, I think, but I haven’t ever tried to open it. Somehow, I sense that I’m not meant to go in there. My Grandma won’t even look down the hall at it. It’s right by my room, and she never goes there either. I had to move in with her six months ago when I finally left my husband. Randy had hit me one last time and that was it. I decided I had to leave. I had to get out of there. I waited until he was on his business trip, packed everything and left. I had told him all my family was gone, because they were essentially. All except for my grandma, Sylvia. I hadn’t seen her since I was sixteen, at a funeral. My parents moved across the country and didn’t see their parents but a couple of times a year on holidays. Once I turned thirteen and could stay home with my older brother, I hadn’t gone back east to visit family at all. My other two grandparents died, my parents had no siblings. So, it was the four of us and Sylvia out here in West Virginia all alone in her little yellow cottage. Then when I was sixteen and hanging out with my boyfriend Randy at home, my parents and my brother went out to pick up pizza for all of us. They wrecked and all of them were killed. Randy was the only person in my life; he was a football player and a mechanic. His parents took me in and then we moved out and got married, his family was mine. And that was how he kept me trapped so easily.
By Raine Fielder11 months ago in Fiction
The Boy Who Sold His Dreams to Feed His Mother
At the edge of a small town, in a tiny, old house, lived a young boy named Ayaan and his kind mother, Mariam. Their house was very old and weak. The walls had big cracks, and the roof would leak whenever it rained. To anyone passing by, the house looked broken, but inside it was full of love and care. Even though they did not have much money and sometimes had little food, Ayaan always laughed happily. His cheerful voice could be heard in the streets, like a bright light in a gray world, bringing hope and happiness to everyone who heard it.
By Bilal khan 11 months ago in Fiction
Publicity Gains Since The Maiden Claims
Defending firm turf Hal and Dale, made a point, arriving near the intersection between a swelling gulf and the tranquil stream. Rumor mill spinning, creating energy stating, blossoming Cherokee warrior representative, Adsila began claiming, hinting the two affluent South Floridians, the verbal assault was serious.
By Marc OBrien11 months ago in Fiction
Audrey and Brandon
One afternoon on her way home from school, Audrey decided to stop by the library. She had a few hours of alone time each weekday now that her mom started a new job. It was nice to have the house to herself, but it was getting boring, so she wanted to find a new hangout place. She went to the second floor and sat down at a table to do her homework. The quiet, relaxing environment made it easy for her to focus, and before long, her work was finished.
By Leah Flesher11 months ago in Fiction
The Window Everyone Forgets. AI-Generated.
When Rehan moved into the quiet hill cottage, he wasn’t looking for magic — only silence. After years of city noise, heartbreak, and a life that felt too heavy to carry, he wanted peace. The cottage was old, wrapped in moss and forgotten flowers. Locals told him it once belonged to a writer who disappeared without a trace.
By shakir hamid11 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
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
