Francisca

Joined August 2024

125 stories

Bio

Hi everyone my name is Francisca i am a writer and also I also love cooking.With a passion for exploring the complexities of life through fiction,I bring characters to life in a way that feels both relatable and profound.

Stories (125)

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In your eyes
In Your Eyes In your eyes, I see the dawn, A promise of each day reborn, Glimmers of our future dreams, In every twilight, sunlight gleams.
By Francisca about a year ago in Poets
Moon light dance
Moonlight Dance Beneath the moon's tender light, We dance in shadows soft and bright, Each step, a whisper in the night,
By Francisca about a year ago in Poets
An supplement symphony
An Unspoken Symphony In the quiet of our shared silence, A symphony plays softly, Notes of love, unspoken, In every touch, every glance.
By Francisca about a year ago in Poets
The library of the forgotten dreams
In a small, secluded village surrounded by dense forests, there was a library unlike any other. The library was an ancient building, its stone walls covered in ivy, its wooden doors carved with mystical symbols. It was known as the Library of Forgotten Dreams, a place where dreams that had been lost or abandoned found their way into dusty tomes and worn-out scrolls.
By Francisca about a year ago in Fiction
The last letter
In the quiet town of Eversfield, where autumn leaves painted the cobblestone streets in shades of amber and gold, an old man named Arthur lived alone in a creaky, ivy-covered cottage. Arthur was known for his reclusive ways and his habit of writing letters he never sent. His desk was a labyrinth of yellowed parchment and ink-stained quills, a testament to years of unspoken words.
By Francisca about a year ago in Fiction
The clock makers gift
In the heart of the bustling city of Eldergrove, there was a quaint shop tucked between towering skyscrapers: Harlan’s Clockworks. It was a place of timeless beauty, filled with the gentle ticking of grandfather clocks, the soft chiming of mantle clocks, and the intricate gears of pocket watches. The shop was run by Mr. Harlan, a meticulous clockmaker with a knack for crafting timepieces that seemed almost magical.
By Francisca about a year ago in Fiction
The watcher
The small town of Graymoor had always been a quiet place, nestled between dense forests and rolling hills. It was the kind of town where everyone knew each other, and secrets were hard to keep. But there was one secret that Graymoor harbored, one that was whispered about only in hushed tones—the Watcher.
By Francisca about a year ago in Fiction
The forgotten door
In the heart of the sleepy town of Ellington, there stood an old house, long abandoned and steeped in mystery. Locals called it the Harris House, after the family that had once lived there. Though the place was a shadow of its former self, with peeling paint and ivy strangling its stone walls, it held a secret that few knew—one that even the Harris family had never discovered.
By Francisca about a year ago in Fiction
The reluctant voyager
When the wind first whispered to Thomas Colby, he thought it was merely his imagination. It was the day after his fiftieth birthday, and he was sitting on the worn bench outside his cottage, sipping tea and watching the sun dip below the horizon. The breeze, cool and laced with the scent of pine, seemed to carry faint voices, as if the wind itself was trying to speak to him.
By Francisca about a year ago in Fiction
The clockmakers secret
In the heart of the old city stood a tiny, cluttered shop that seemed forgotten by time. Its windows were thick with dust, and the sign above the door, "Adelard's Clocks," had faded to near illegibility. Few people ever entered the shop, and those who did were usually turned away by its odd proprietor, an old man named Mr. Adelard, who was known more for his eccentricities than for selling clocks.
By Francisca about a year ago in Fiction
The last night of fireflies
Lina always loved the fireflies. Every summer, they filled the meadows surrounding her village, twinkling like stars fallen to earth. For the children of Greystone, they were more than just insects; they were tiny guardians, guiding them home after long days of play. But this summer was different. Fewer fireflies appeared each evening, and the villagers whispered that the magic of Greystone was fading.
By Francisca about a year ago in Fiction
Where the willows weep
Beneath the willow’s gentle sway, Where moonlight paints the night with gold, I found your heart, so far away, A tale of love yet to be told.
By Francisca about a year ago in Fiction

Francisca

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Stories .css-1svwz57-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-default-mute);}(125)

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In your eyes

Moon light dance

An supplement symphony

The library of the forgotten dreams

The last letter

The clock makers gift

The watcher

The forgotten door

The reluctant voyager

The clockmakers secret

The last night of fireflies

Where the willows weep

Stories (125)