luna hart

Joined October 2025

63 stories

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Stories (63)

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Ink in My Veins
The first time the words appeared on paper, I thought it was luck. A fluke. A fleeting gift the universe had decided to give me, just to see if I’d notice. But by the third page, I realized something else: the words didn’t come to me—they came through me.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Writers
The Last Beat of the Night
The bass hit first. Not subtle, not polite, just a body-shaking thrum that rattled the floor and promised chaos. I had heard it before in dreams I couldn’t place, in memories I didn’t know were mine. But here it was, live, loud, and unforgiving. The club smelled of sweat, cheap alcohol, and ambition.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Beat
When Time Still Stands to Be Honored
They walk slower now, but they carry centuries in their spine. Every wrinkle is a road we did not have to walk, every tremor a price
By luna hartabout a month ago in Poets
Privacy Is the New Luxury
The first thing we give away is never our name. It’s our silence. We trade it willingly—tap by tap, scroll by scroll—until the quiet corners of our lives are filled with blinking notifications and invisible observers. Somewhere between posting our breakfast and tracking our steps, privacy stopped being a right and became a relic. Something quaint. Something expensive.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Wander
The Quiet Code of Broken Men
They called the place the Yard, though no grass ever grew there. It was a cracked rectangle of concrete behind an abandoned textile mill, fenced with rusted wire and watched by nobody who officially existed. To the city, it was a dead zone. To the men who gathered there after midnight, it was a community.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Criminal
Pyramids
The sun hung low over the endless sands of Egypt, casting long, golden shadows that stretched across the Nile. Here, in the cradle of civilization, human ambition met the eternal rhythm of time. It was along this river, where reeds whispered secrets to the wind, that the greatest monuments of antiquity would rise: the pyramids.
By luna hartabout a month ago in History
Ballots in Our Pockets
We don’t carry crowns anymore, we carry ballots— folded small, tucked beside receipts and unanswered prayers. Politics is not the man on the screen with a practiced smile, it is the mother counting coins at dawn, deciding which child eats first.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Poets
The Season That Listens
Winter arrived without knocking. It slid its hand under the door, quiet as a held breath, and by morning the world had changed its language.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Journal
I Am Not Quiet Anymore
I learned early that silence is polite, that pain should whisper, that survival should never make noise. So I folded my screams into my pockets, carried them like loose change, spent them only when no one was watching.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Poets
The Confession That Never Slept
By the time the city learned his name, he was already gone. The first confession arrived at 3:17 a.m., typed in clean paragraphs and sent from a public library computer that shut down minutes later. It wasn’t addressed to the police or the press. It was posted anonymously in an online forum frequented by insomniacs, night-shift workers, and people who believed the dark hours told the truth better than daylight.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Criminal
Love, Written Softly
Love did not arrive like thunder, it came the way dawn does— quiet, patient, asking nothing of the dark except permission to pass.
By luna hart2 months ago in Poets
Art Refused to Be Silent
Art never saved me in the dramatic way people like to tell stories. There was no moment where I stood before a canvas and suddenly understood my purpose, no lightning bolt of genius, no applause waiting on the other side of creation. What art did instead was quieter—and far more stubborn. It stayed when everything else learned how to leave.
By luna hart2 months ago in Art