Sanchita Chatterjee
Bio
Hey, I am an English language teacher having a deep passion for freelancing. Besides this, I am passionate to write blogs, articles and contents on various fields. The selection of my topics are always provide values to the readers.
Stories (58)
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The Judas Tree of Willow Creek: When Roots Run Deeper Than Trust:
Chapter 1: The Uninvited Guest The first time Clara Bennett saw the Judas Tree, she thought it was beautiful. Its twisted branches sprawled like skeletal fingers against the twilight sky, and its blood-red leaves rustled secrets to the wind. The townsfolk of Willow Creek warned her to stay away—“It’s cursed,” they said, “born from betrayal.” But Clara, a freelance photographer fleeing a fractured life in the city, didn’t believe in curses. She believed in fresh starts.
By Sanchita Chatterjee10 months ago in Fiction
The Symphony of Shattered Trust: A Conductor’s Final Note and the Silence That Followed
Part I: Crescendo of Lies The applause thundered through the grand hall of the Newhaven Symphony, but for Elias Voss, the sound was hollow. At 57, he stood at the podium, baton trembling in his hand, staring at the sea of faces glowing with admiration. His eyes lingered on Clara—his protégé, his confidante, the woman who’d spent a decade by his side, transcribing his "masterpieces" into reality. Her smile tonight was sharper than a violin’s crescendo.
By Sanchita Chatterjee10 months ago in Fiction
The Unspoken Critique: When Silence Speaks Louder Than Words.
The Room That Breathed The fluorescent lights hummed like a chorus of disgruntled bees. Clara’s fingers trembled against the crumpled pages of her manuscript. Around the table sat six strangers—Critiques members, their faces unreadable. No one spoke. No one even blinked.
By Sanchita Chatterjee10 months ago in Critique
The Shadow in the Crayon Box: When Childhood Imaginations Bleed into Reality.
Lily’s crayons smelled like burnt sugar. She didn’t notice it at first, not when Mrs. Harlow handed her the dusty box on the first day of third grade. “A gift from the lost-and-found,” the teacher had said, patting Lily’s shoulder. “No one claimed them all summer.” The crayons were stubby, their wrappers peeling, but Lily didn’t care. She loved how the colors glided across paper, how the waxy scent clung to her fingers.
By Sanchita Chatterjee10 months ago in Horror
