Shohel Rana
Bio
As a professional article writer for Vocal Media, I craft engaging, high-quality content tailored to diverse audiences. My expertise ensures well-researched, compelling articles that inform, inspire, and captivate readers effectively.
Stories (372)
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The Reader’s Haven
In the town of Frostvale, nestled in a valley where winter lingered like a guest who wouldn’t leave, books were a fading memory. Once, Frostvale had been a place of stories, its library a beacon for poets and scholars. But the mill closed, the trains stopped, and the library burned down in a freak fire when Esha was a child. Now, the townsfolk clung to routine—work, eat, sleep— their lives as gray as the snow that piled against their doors. Books were relics, stashed in attics or traded for firewood, their pages forgotten.
By Shohel Rana7 months ago in Fiction
The Bookbinder’s Promise
In the city of Kalimpur, stories were currency, but only if you could afford them. The streets thrummed with vendors hawking spices, silks, and secrets, while skyscrapers loomed like giants, their glass faces reflecting a world that moved too fast to read. Books were rare here, hoarded by the wealthy in locked libraries or sold in fragments at black markets. For most, stories were whispers, half-remembered tales told over tea stalls, fading like smoke.
By Shohel Rana7 months ago in Fiction
The Library of Lost Pages
In the village of Chandpur, tucked between rice paddies and monsoon-soaked hills, books were a quiet rebellion. The villagers worked from dawn to dusk, their hands calloused from plows and nets, their lives bound by the rhythm of seasons. Reading was a luxury, frowned upon by elders who saw it as idleness, a distraction from the labor that kept Chandpur alive. But for Lila, books were air, and without them, she’d suffocate.
By Shohel Rana7 months ago in Poets
The Clockmaker’s Daughter
In the village of Haverwick, time was not a suggestion—it was a law. Clocks ruled every corner, their faces staring from shopfronts, church towers, and parlor walls. The village square held a great iron clock, its hands black as wrought iron, ticking so loudly it drowned out the birds. Haverwick’s people lived by its rhythm, their days carved into precise segments: work at seven, supper at six, sleep at ten. To be late was to be suspect, and to be timeless was to be invisible.
By Shohel Rana7 months ago in Fiction
The Lantern Keeper
The town of Greyhaven clung to the edge of the world, where the land dropped into the sea like a broken promise. Its cliffs were sharp, its winds sharper, and its people the sharpest of all—worn down by salt and time into something unyielding. They didn’t talk much, the folk of Greyhaven, but when they did, it was about the lanterns.
By Shohel Rana7 months ago in Fiction
The Starling’s Song
In the heart of Cindersky, a city of soot-stained spires and cobblestone alleys, silence was a law. The bells of the great cathedral had not rung in a century, and music—once the city’s soul—was forbidden. The elders claimed it was for protection, that songs carried a power that had nearly destroyed Cindersky long ago. The people obeyed, their voices hushed, their lives gray as the ash that fell from the sky. But in the shadows, whispers spoke of the Starling, a figure whose melodies could wake the city or break it.
By Shohel Rana8 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Daughter
Nestled in the frostbitten valley of Glimmerfall, where the river sang beneath a crust of ice, stood a town that lived by the tick of its clocks. Glimmerfall’s heart was its clocktower, a spire of blackened stone that loomed over slate-roofed houses, its chimes marking every hour with unshakable precision. The townsfolk said the tower was a gift from the Clockmaker, a mysterious figure who’d built it centuries ago to keep time—and secrets—safe. But in Glimmerfall, time had a way of standing still, and secrets had a way of festering.
By Shohel Rana8 months ago in Fiction
The Weaver’s Thread
In the shadow of the Ironridge Mountains, where the wind carried whispers of ancient magic, lay the town of Threadhaven. Its narrow streets were lined with looms and dye vats, for Threadhaven was known for its tapestries, each one a masterpiece woven with threads that seemed to hum with life. The townsfolk believed their craft was blessed by the Weaver, a mythical figure said to spin the threads of fate itself. But blessings, as the people of Threadhaven knew, often came with a price.
By Shohel Rana8 months ago in Fiction
The Lantern Keeper
In the heart of the moorlands, where the wind howled like a grieving widow, sat the village of Eldermoor. Its cobblestone streets, worn smooth by centuries of boots and rain, wound through rows of stone cottages, their thatched roofs sagging like tired shoulders. The village was a relic, forgotten by time, its people bound by stories older than the hills. Among these tales was one of the Lantern Keeper, a figure both revered and feared, whose light was said to guide lost souls—or lead them astray.
By Shohel Rana8 months ago in Fiction
Eid Mubarak: A Tapestry of Joy
Eid Mubarak! The words alone carry a melody that resonates deep within, a call to celebration that transforms ordinary days into moments of profound connection. Eid-ul-Fitr, the festival marking the end of Ramadan, is a symphony of faith, family, and festivity. For me, this year’s Eid wove a tapestry of memories that I’ll carry in my heart forever, each thread vibrant with love, laughter, and the warmth of togetherness.
By Shohel Rana8 months ago in Poets
The Lantern Keeper
The Lantern Keeper The sea was restless that night, its waves crashing against the cliffs like a song that couldn’t find its rhythm. I was Lila, sixteen, with salt in my hair and dreams too big for our tiny coastal village. Every evening, I’d climb the winding path to the old lighthouse, where my father, the lantern keeper, tended to the light that guided ships home. The lighthouse was our family’s legacy, its beacon a promise to sailors that they’d find safe harbor. But to me, it was more—a gateway to stories of the world beyond the horizon.
By Shohel Rana8 months ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Old Banyan
Whispers of the Old Banyan At the edge of our village, where the golden paddy fields melted into the shadows of a dense forest, stood an ancient banyan tree. Its gnarled roots sprawled like the arms of a wise old giant, and its canopy whispered secrets to anyone who dared to listen. Every full moon, my grandmother—whom we called Ma-Thakuma—would sit beneath it, her silver hair glowing under the lunar light, and weave stories that made the night come alive. I was Rimi, barely ten years old, with wide eyes and a heart hungry for wonder. Those nights were my sanctuary, where the world felt bigger, softer, and full of magic.
By Shohel Rana8 months ago in Fiction
