Alisher Jumayev
Bio
Creative and Professional Writing Skill & Experience. The aim is to give spiritual, impressive, and emotional stories for readers.
Stories (21)
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SHADOWS IN THE LANTERN FOG
The City That Smelled Like Regret Ravenbridge never smelled like rain. Not really. The city smelled like wet concrete, burnt oil, and the kind of smoke that curls out of closed bars at three in the morning when no one remembers what burned. Neon signs flickered in puddles of black water, distorted into eyes that watched you as you walked. The fog settled in the alleys like a warning, thick enough to make even the bravest think twice before stepping too far. I had lived here my entire life—or at least, enough of it to know that nothing in Ravenbridge existed for the good of its citizens. Everything existed for its own amusement. You could call the city alive, if you didn’t mind that it was the sort of life that gnawed at your insides and whispered when you were alone. It was the city that chewed dreams and spat out regrets, and I was one of the few who had made peace with it—or at least tried.
By Alisher Jumayev30 days ago in Fiction
WHEN THE TIDES LEARNED OUR NAMES
By the time the ocean reached the fifth step of the old courthouse, no one bothered arguing whether the flooding was temporary anymore. Harborreach had become a city that survived not through denial, but through adaptation so gradual it felt like habit. Streets were re-mapped according to tidal charts. Homes wore stilts like sensible shoes. Boats replaced buses, and children learned to swim before they learned to read. The water didn’t arrive violently—it came patiently, season by season, salt creeping into foundations and memories alike. People still argued about the weather out of reflex, but they planned their lives around it now, checking sea forecasts the way their grandparents once checked calendars.
By Alisher Jumayev30 days ago in Fiction
THE TEAPOT THAT KNEW MY NAME
Willowfen was the kind of village that forgot the meaning of hurry long before I was born. It sat between a river that sang softly to itself and a meadow that smelled of honey even in winter, stitched together by cobblestone lanes worn smooth by centuries of unimportant footsteps. Nothing legendary had ever happened there—no dragons, no chosen heroes, no prophecies scribbled in fading ink. Instead, Willowfen specialized in the ordinary miracles: bread that rose perfectly every morning, lamplight that glowed a little warmer when someone walked home alone, and gossip that traveled faster than the wind but never meant any harm. It was the sort of place where people waved even if they didn’t know your name, and somehow, by the end of the week, they did.
By Alisher Jumayev30 days ago in Fiction
THE SILENCE BETWEEN LATIN VERSES
Blackthorn University did not rise from the earth so much as loom over it. Its spires pierced the fog like accusations, its stone corridors soaked in centuries of whispered ambition. Founded in 1649, Blackthorn prided itself on tradition, rigor, and an unspoken belief that mediocrity was a moral failure. The walls were lined with oil portraits of scholars whose eyes followed you as you passed, their painted gazes heavy with judgment. Students learned quickly that this was not a place to find yourself—it was a place to be reshaped. Knowledge here was not neutral; it was sharp, elitist, and alive. And like anything alive, it demanded something in return.
By Alisher Jumayev30 days ago in Fiction
THE CLOCK THAT REMEMBERED ME
The clock began as an apology. Dr. Mara Ellison built it in the basement of her childhood home, beneath the creaking floorboards that still remembered her mother’s footsteps. The house sat abandoned on the edge of Greyhaven, a town that had learned to live around grief instead of through it. The neighbors said the place was cursed. Mara called it unfinished business.
By Alisher Jumayev30 days ago in Fiction
THE LAST SANCTUARY OF NEON SKY
No one alive remembered the real color of the sky. Official history, as recorded by the Ministry of Perspective, stated that Earth’s atmosphere had always shimmered in neon hues—pulsing blues, electric greens, and streaks of violent pink that twisted like serpents across the heavens. Anyone who questioned it was, by definition, “Factually Distorted,” and removed for “Cognitive Rehabilitation.”
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
THE LAST LIGHT IN WILLOW CREEK
When I returned to Willow Creek after twelve years away, the town looked almost exactly as I’d left it—small, neat, peaceful—like someone had pressed “pause” on time. The wooden houses stood in rows like storybook cottages, the old bakery still filled the street with the smell of cinnamon buns, and the creek ran lazily beside the main road, singing its familiar whispering song.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
THE QUIET WOMAN ACROSS THE HALL
I first noticed her on a wet Tuesday morning, the kind of morning when the city felt permanently exhausted. She stood in the narrow hallway of our apartment building, staring at the wall as if deciphering invisible handwriting. A pale woman, tall and thin, with dark circles under her eyes that suggested she hadn’t slept in days.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
THE ART OF BEING SEEN
Aisha Rahim always believed that blending in was the safest way to survive senior year. Walk quickly. Nod politely. Keep your grades high and your expectations low. At Crownbridge High, where reputations formed faster than rumors and spread twice as far, being invisible felt like a shield.
By Alisher Jumayevabout a month ago in Fiction
