Noor

Joined January 2026

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The Silent Melody
Once, there was a small town nestled between rolling hills, where the sky seemed endless, and the air was always filled with the scent of blooming flowers. In this town lived a young girl named Eliza, who had a gift that made her special—she could play the violin in a way that made even the hardest hearts soften. Her music was a language of its own, a melody that spoke to the soul. Eliza’s life was filled with music and happiness, but all that changed one fateful day. Her mother, the person who had taught her to play, suddenly fell ill and passed away. The grief weighed heavily on Eliza’s heart. For weeks, she couldn’t bring herself to touch the violin, the one thing that had always connected her to her mother. The melodies she had once played with ease now felt foreign, like a part of her had been lost forever. Months passed, and the once vibrant town seemed quieter. The town's people noticed Eliza’s sorrow, and while they respected her grief, they also missed the sweet notes that once floated through the air. But Eliza remained silent, withdrawn, her violin tucked away in its case, hidden beneath her bed. One rainy afternoon, Eliza walked to the edge of the town and sat by the old stone bridge. The sound of the rain against the water mirrored the storm in her heart. She thought about her mother, the moments they had shared, the lessons learned through music, and the way her mother’s gentle voice would encourage her to keep playing. As Eliza stared at the water below, a gentle breeze whispered through the trees, and a thought struck her. Maybe the music wasn’t gone. Maybe she could find it again, not by trying to play the same notes, but by playing the music that now lived within her. She stood up, wiped her tears, and walked back to the house with renewed determination. That night, she pulled the violin from its case. The familiar weight of the instrument in her hands felt like a small comfort. She closed her eyes and thought of her mother, of the love they shared through music. Slowly, tentatively, she began to play. The first notes were shaky, uncertain, but something inside her clicked. She wasn’t trying to recreate the past. She was playing her grief, her love, her healing. As the bow moved across the strings, Eliza felt a transformation. The music didn’t sound like it used to, but it was hers—her own expression, a new kind of melody. It was a silent melody that spoke of loss, but also of hope. The sound filled the room, and for the first time in months, Eliza felt alive again, as though the music had been waiting for her to return. The next day, she went to the town square. She hadn’t planned to perform, but something inside her urged her to. She began to play, her music a mixture of sadness and joy, a reflection of her journey. The townspeople stopped in their tracks, mesmerized by the raw emotion that poured from her violin. It wasn’t a perfect performance, but it was real. It was a story told in every note. By the end of the song, Eliza’s eyes were filled with tears, but they were no longer tears of sorrow. They were tears of release, of healing. The crowd stood silent for a moment, before applauding, not just for the music, but for the courage it took to play. From that day on, Eliza’s music became a part of the town’s heartbeat. She played not to escape her grief, but to live with it. Every note was a step toward healing, a bridge between the past and the future. And though her mother was no longer there, Eliza knew that in some quiet way, she was still playing alongside her—through every bow, through every string. The Silent Melody was no longer a sad song. It was the sound of life moving forward, of learning to carry love even after loss, of finding beauty in the things that seem broken. And in that town, every time Eliza played, the sky seemed a little brighter, the air a little sweeter, and the world, though imperfect, a little more whole.
By Noorabout 7 hours ago in Horror
The Line and Rat
In the vast savannah, where the golden grasses waved in the wind and the sun stretched lazily across the sky, there lived a lion named Zuri. Zuri was known throughout the land as the king of the jungle. His roar could be heard for miles, sending a clear message that none dared challenge his reign. He had power, strength, and the respect of all who lived within his domain. Yet, despite his might, there was something missing—a connection to something beyond the routine of dominance and survival. One bright morning, as Zuri patrolled the edges of his territory, he noticed something unusual. A tiny, grey rat darted out from behind a bush. Zuri paused, his golden eyes narrowing. The rat, though small and seemingly insignificant, was neither frightened nor intimidated. It stood in front of him, its tiny whiskers twitching. "I have come to speak with you," the rat said, its voice surprisingly clear and confident. "You, King Zuri, have ruled over this land for many seasons. But your reign is... incomplete." Zuri raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, little creature? You dare to question me?" The rat’s eyes gleamed, though it showed no fear. "Not question, my king—simply suggest. There is a power far greater than strength or might. It is the power of connection. The strength of many, working as one." Zuri growled lowly, but his curiosity was piqued. "What is this nonsense you speak of, rat? The only thing that matters is strength. I have the strength to rule." The rat's small eyes twinkled with a knowing look. "Strength alone will not bring peace, nor will it build lasting relationships. True power is in knowing when to seek help, and when to offer it. You may be the strongest, but you are not invincible." Zuri, despite his pride, could not deny there was truth in the rat’s words. But still, he scoffed. "You, a rat, presume to teach me? If you have such wisdom, then show me what you mean." The rat nodded calmly and scurried off into the grass, beckoning the lion to follow. Intrigued, Zuri padded behind, and before long, they arrived at the edge of the jungle. There, the rat stopped in front of a thin, glowing line stretched across the sky. The line pulsed with an ethereal glow, stretching from horizon to horizon, impossibly thin yet radiating power. Zuri stared at it, confused. "What is this?" "It is the Line," the rat explained, his voice reverberating with a quiet awe. "It connects all things. It is a bond that no creature can break. Not strength, not speed, not even time itself. Every creature, great and small, is linked by it." Zuri stared at the Line, feeling an odd tug in his chest. It was as though the Line was calling to him, urging him to understand its significance. The rat continued, "The Line does not distinguish between the mighty and the weak. It unites them all." Zuri, despite his towering frame, felt small under the vastness of the Line. "But how does this help me rule? I cannot command something like this." The rat smiled. "No, but you can learn from it. The Line is not about control—it is about balance. The lion that roams alone may dominate, but it will never thrive as the lion who understands the power of partnership." As Zuri pondered the rat’s words, something remarkable happened. The Line began to shimmer, and from its glow, a brilliant bird appeared—its wings shimmering with the colors of the sky. The bird flew down to Zuri’s side, landing gently on a branch nearby. "Is this part of the power you speak of?" Zuri asked, his voice tinged with awe. "Yes," said the rat. "This bird, the one you see before you, is known as the Sky Herald. It embodies the spirit of unity, of diverse creatures working together. Alone, each of us is but a part of something greater. But when we unite, we can achieve the unimaginable." Zuri had never been one for partnerships. In the jungle, alliances were fragile—built on fleeting needs or convenience, and they often ended in betrayal. But as he gazed at the bird and then at the rat, a feeling stirred within him, something unfamiliar yet undeniable. Maybe this wasn’t nonsense. Maybe the rat’s words held the key to something he had never considered. Just then, a deep rumble shook the earth. Zuri’s head snapped up, his sharp senses on alert. From the shadows of the jungle, a pack of wild hyenas emerged, their eyes gleaming with malice. They were known for their cunning and ruthlessness, and their leader, Kuro, was one of the most feared predators in the region. Kuro’s sharp laughter echoed in the air as he circled Zuri. "Well, well, if it isn’t the mighty lion, playing with rodents and birds. How pathetic. You’re growing soft, Zuri." Zuri’s instincts screamed to fight, but something inside him held back. He looked at the rat and the glowing Line, feeling the weight of the moment. The hyenas may have been cunning, but they were scattered—alone, each vying for dominance. Perhaps it was time to test the rat’s words. With a mighty roar, Zuri called out to the bird. "Sky Herald! Will you help me?" The bird chirped in response and swooped down, flying alongside Zuri. The rat, too, joined the lion, standing tall and confident beside him. Together, the three faced the hyenas, not as one lone predator, but as a united force. The hyenas, seeing the alliance before them, hesitated. The strength of Zuri, the wisdom of the rat, and the power of the Sky Herald created a bond that could not be easily broken. In the end, the hyenas, outmatched and outwitted, retreated back into the shadows. Zuri stood tall, but now, he felt a different kind of power—the power of connection, of trust, and of alliances built not on fear, but on understanding. As the sun set on the savannah, casting its warm golden light across the land, Zuri turned to the rat and the bird. "I understand now," he said quietly. "True strength lies not in ruling alone, but in knowing when to join forces and protect what is most important." The rat nodded, his eyes filled with satisfaction. "You have learned the lesson, my king. The Line connects us all, whether we are mighty or small." And from that day forward, Zuri ruled not just with strength, but with wisdom. His reign was marked by alliances, not only with the creatures of his jungle but with all who shared in the great Line that united them all.
By Noorabout 8 hours ago in Horror
The Hunter and Doves
The forest was still, save for the rustling of leaves stirred by the soft autumn breeze. The trees, old as time, stood like silent sentinels, their branches bare but for the occasional bird that flitted past. In the clearing, hidden in the shadows, a hunter knelt by the tall grass. His bow was taut, his eyes trained on a flock of doves in the distance. They were beautiful creatures—fragile, peaceful, the very picture of freedom as they cooed among the trees, unaware of the danger just beyond their reach. Eamon had been a hunter for most of his life, raised by his father to be as silent as the wind, as deadly as the strike of a lightning bolt. His days had always been defined by the chase—the thrill of the hunt, the smell of the forest, and the sharp release of the bowstring. To him, it was a simple matter: the hunter must kill, and the prey must fall. It had never been more complicated than that. But today, something was different. The doves fluttered in the sky above him, their wings fluttering like the softest whispers. Eamon tightened his grip on his bow but did not release the arrow. There was a hesitation in him, an unfamiliar weight that made his fingers tremble. He had seen doves countless times before—often a fleeting presence in the trees, a few moments of peace before the kill. But these doves seemed different. They moved with a grace that unsettled him. It was not their beauty that made him hesitate—it was the silence in their flight, the way they seemed to soar not from fear but from a desire to be free, to be alive. The longer he watched them, the harder it became to follow through with the task before him. Eamon exhaled slowly, his breath catching in his throat. He had taken lives before, with little remorse. Yet, the thought of bringing his arrow down on these birds felt like an unforgivable act. Was it that they were simply too beautiful? Or was there something more—something that called to a part of him he had long buried? The doves settled onto a nearby branch, their feathers glowing with the last rays of the sun. It was almost as if they were inviting him into their world—a world where the only sound was the gentle hum of the earth and the song of the wind. Eamon felt a strange pull within him, a pull that tugged him toward the birds, toward the quiet, delicate beauty of the moment. He lowered his bow, feeling the tension in his body release. It was the first time in years that he had felt the weight of peace instead of the sharp sting of violence. He wanted to approach the doves, to sit among them, to understand what they knew that he didn’t. But before he could move, he heard a rustle behind him. It was the sound of another hunter. “Are you going to stand there all day, Eamon, or are you going to make your shot?” a voice called from the woods. Eamon turned to see Brannick, a fellow hunter, stepping from the shadows. His eyes were cold, as always, and his hand gripped a bow similar to Eamon’s. Unlike Eamon, Brannick had no hesitation when it came to the hunt. His world was one of arrows and blood, where the only law was the kill. “I’m waiting for the right moment,” Eamon replied, his voice steady but laced with uncertainty. Brannick chuckled. “The right moment? There is no such thing. You take your shot when you have it. Doves are easy prey. What are you waiting for?” Eamon glanced back at the birds, who had now begun to preen themselves in the fading light. They seemed at ease, unaware of the two men watching them. The contrast between the doves’ peaceful existence and Brannick’s relentless hunger was jarring. Eamon felt a pang of something—regret, perhaps, or guilt—that had no place in his world. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I can do it.” Brannick’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “You’re serious, aren’t you? It’s just a bird. You’ve killed countless creatures in the forest, Eamon. Why should this one be any different?” Eamon didn’t answer immediately. He wanted to explain, to tell Brannick that this wasn’t about the bird. This was about something deeper—something he had been pushing away for years. But the words didn’t come. Instead, he looked up at the doves, watching as they fluttered their wings and prepared to take flight once more. Without a word, Eamon slowly stepped back, his bow still in his hand. The temptation to let the arrow fly was strong, but something within him was stronger. For the first time in his life, he realized he was not defined by the hunt, by the arrow, by the kill. He could choose not to take the life of these creatures. “I’m not going to do it,” he said, his voice firm. “Not today.” Brannick stared at him for a long moment, the silence between them thick with tension. Then, with a snort, Brannick turned on his heel and walked off, muttering under his breath. “A fool’s choice,” he called over his shoulder. Eamon didn’t care. His heart was still racing, but not with the adrenaline of the hunt. It was the kind of racing he only felt when he was close to something he couldn’t explain, something that felt like the truth. The doves took flight, soaring higher into the sky, their wings beating in unison, as if carrying the weight of Eamon’s decision with them. They flew far into the horizon, leaving Eamon standing in the clearing, the setting sun casting long shadows across the earth. As the last of the light faded and night descended, Eamon stood there, watching the stars begin to appear one by one. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring or whether he would ever be able to let go of the hunter’s instincts that had defined him for so long. But for tonight, he was free from the need to hunt. For tonight, he could simply be. And in the quiet, as the wind whispered through the trees, he understood. Some moments, some creatures, were meant to be left untouched.
By Noorabout 8 hours ago in Horror
The Lion Humble Friend
In the heart of a vast, golden savanna, where the sun dipped low each evening, casting a fiery glow over the grasses, there ruled a mighty lion. His name was Mufasa, and his roar could be heard for miles, a powerful sound that sent chills through the creatures of the plains. With his thick mane shimmering in the sunlight and his piercing eyes that seemed to see through the very earth, he was the undisputed king of the savanna. No creature dared to challenge his reign, and all who lived in his kingdom respected and feared him. One afternoon, as Mufasa strode through the tall grass, his powerful paws leaving imprints in the soil, he was suddenly caught by a strange, squeaky sound. At first, he paid it no mind, thinking it was merely the wind rustling the grass. But as he continued walking, the sound grew louder, closer—until he felt something small scurrying against his great paw. Startled, Mufasa looked down and saw a tiny creature: a rat. The little animal was trembling, its eyes wide with fear. Mufasa narrowed his gaze, his deep voice booming, "What is this? A rat, bold enough to cross my path?" The rat, whose name was Rafi, shook in fear, his tiny body quivering beneath the mighty lion’s gaze. "Oh, great king, please forgive me! I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just trying to find some food. The fields are scarce today, and I... I got lost." Mufasa’s laughter rumbled across the plains, echoing in the stillness. "A rat, lost in the fields? How pitiful. You are lucky I am not hungry." Rafi, feeling his heart race, looked up at the lion. He had heard of Mufasa’s power and feared the worst, but something about the lion’s voice softened his fear. "Please, mighty lion, I beg you to spare me. I am small and weak, but I mean no harm." For a moment, Mufasa studied the rat, his golden eyes glowing with a mix of curiosity and amusement. A lion like him didn’t often consider the struggles of smaller creatures. "You are lucky," Mufasa finally said. "But next time, be careful. The savanna is no place for small animals like you." With that, the lion turned and began to walk away, his enormous paws stirring up the dry earth with every step. Rafi, still trembling, exhaled in relief. As the lion's massive figure disappeared into the distance, Rafi couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to Mufasa than just his fearsome exterior. Days passed, and the seasons shifted, bringing with them a dry spell. The rains had not come for weeks, and the once-abundant savanna was now barren. Food was scarce for all the creatures, from the smallest rodents to the largest herbivores. Even Mufasa, despite his strength, found it increasingly difficult to find prey. One afternoon, while Mufasa was prowling the outskirts of his kingdom, searching for food, he stumbled into a trap. A group of poachers had set a massive net, hidden beneath the dry grass. The mighty lion, in his hunger and frustration, did not notice it in time. Before he could react, the net tightened around him, its ropes pulling him down to the ground. Mufasa roared in anger and struggled, but the more he thrashed, the more tangled he became. His powerful legs were trapped, and his claws could not reach the ropes. He was stuck, helpless, and for the first time in his life, the mighty lion felt true fear. It was then that a small voice pierced the air. "Mufasa, are you in trouble?" Looking up in disbelief, Mufasa saw none other than Rafi, the rat, standing a short distance away, his tiny form barely visible against the grass. Mufasa, furious and embarrassed, growled, "What are you doing here, rat? Can’t you see I’m trapped? Stay away, or you’ll be caught too." But Rafi did not run. Instead, he scampered closer, his tiny paws moving with purpose. "I may be small, Mufasa, but I’ve seen things that can help. Let me try." Mufasa stared at the rat. "What could you possibly do? You are nothing but a speck compared to me. Do not waste your time." But Rafi did not listen. He darted under the net and began nibbling at the ropes with his sharp teeth. It was slow work, and at times, Mufasa could hardly believe it was making a difference. But little by little, the rat chewed through one rope, then another, until the net loosened enough for Mufasa to move. Finally, with a final tug, the net came undone, and Mufasa was free. Breathing heavily, the lion stood, his massive form towering over the tiny rat. "I... I don’t know how to thank you, Rafi," Mufasa said, his voice softer than usual. "I never thought that a rat could help a lion." Rafi smiled, his whiskers twitching with pride. "Sometimes, even the smallest creatures can make the biggest difference. You helped me once, and now I’ve helped you. We all have something to offer, no matter how small." Mufasa stood in silence for a moment, contemplating the rat’s words. The great lion, who had ruled the savanna with strength and fear, realized that perhaps true power wasn’t just about size or strength, but about the kindness and courage that lived within. From that day forward, Mufasa and Rafi became unlikely friends. Mufasa, though still the king of the savanna, would often find himself listening to Rafi’s advice, valuing his wisdom in ways he had never considered before. And Rafi, the humble rat, became a trusted companion to the mighty lion. In the vast savanna, the story of the lion and the rat spread far and wide, reminding every creature—big and small—that courage and kindness often come in the most unexpected of forms.
By Noorabout 8 hours ago in Horror
Kan Theory
‎With the technological advancements seen in any given field over the last few decades I often question why certain things still exist. For the average citizen of course, places like hospitals and engineering firms are constantly phasing older tech out to bring in the best possible equipment available. What I find most surprising is not only are things like revolvers and carburetors are still widely loved, but the fact they are still being mass produced. ‎ ‎Ease of use is always going to be a factor of course, while we’ve gotten incredibly good at manufacturing auto loading handguns to the point jamming almost never happens, they still have more moving parts and a more complex design than a revolver. The same goes for cars, while there are discrepancies in some modern vehicles, they are far more efficient and powerful than old muscle cars. An old car is still incredibly easy to work in comparison, which also leads to the question of why do I like something more that breaks more often, because it’s easy to work on. ‎ ‎Yet when you turn your tv on and see the main character pull up in and old ford, light a cigarette with a zippo, and tuck a .357 into his waistband there is still something incredibly appealing about that visually and audibly. One could argue that pulling up in a super car or a black SUV full of guys sporting automatics is still an aesthetically pleasing shot, but to many it lacks some of the raw mechanical components, as if it’s almost too perfect. That brings me to why I think we like old things. ‎ ‎Visually is quite obvious, there’s more lines, bright colors and chrome, there is just more of an art when it comes to making a lot of these things. Let’s be honest an EFI system costs about the same as a carburetor at this point, but the carb looks so much cooler sitting on top of the engine. The body on a 60s mustang looks like it was chiseled like a sculpture compared to any new consumer vehicle. ‎ ‎Audibly the hammer being pulled back on a revolver or the cap clicking back on a zippo are sounds anyone can immediately recognize. Flint striking and the metallic click of the lighter paired with the clunk of the hammer driving the pin forward on the revolver pair in a beautiful way in comparison to the silence before a semi auto being discharged. The hard crack of an old door closing vs the soft muffled thump of a new door, or even the closing of a solid wooden door vs a hollow mass-produced piece of pressboard that make most doors in newer homes. ‎ ‎I think a great deal of this goes back into the general input these older items give you; they stimulate you in a way many newer products cannot. An old car is uncomfortable, slow, and if you’re lucky enough to have power steering still a pain to handle yet driving one is truly a wonderful experience that can be hard to explain. The feel of a hundred year old wooden stock in your hands speaks to you more than a synthetic one can, it has stories and a history the same as running your hand down the long hood of a Mustang or Camaro. ‎ ‎Old machines are loud, inefficient, and generally underwhelming in comparison to the things we can produce today, yet there’s beauty to them that can’t be denied. In a world that seems bland and cheap, the weight of old steel objects and the sight of an Augusta Green Mercury Cougar sitting at a gas station on a Sunday afternoon reminds us not to rush through life too quickly.‎
By Noor2 days ago in Horror