Poetry
Whispers of the Heart
It all began with a message. Just one. Sent on a rainy evening, when the sky cried quietly and the world felt still. Jay had always been quiet, a man of few words. But when it came to her—Aisha—his heart was loud. He loved her in silence for years, carrying his feelings like secret letters in an invisible envelope. They had been friends since college, always close but never crossing the line. Until that one rainy evening.
By Tahir khan9 months ago in Chapters
The Day the Sky Changed
No one else seemed to notice when the sky changed. Maybe that was because it didn’t shift from blue to red, or drop lightning bolts like in the movies. It was subtle, quiet—like the difference between a smile and a sigh. But to Ellie, it was everything.
By Storyteller9 months ago in Chapters
A Girl and Her Dog
The morning sun filtered through the trees, casting a golden hue over the sleepy town of Everpine. On the edge of this quiet village stood a small cottage, where eleven-year-old Clara lived with her grandfather. It was a simple life—fresh eggs in the morning, dusty library books in the afternoon, and endless skies to dream under at night. But Clara’s heart carried a quiet ache: a loneliness she didn’t know how to name.
By Storyteller9 months ago in Chapters
Echos from an empty heart
Time is a lie, you live as though the future is promised, as though every second must be hoarded. But death knows. It knows that, there’s no before nor after. Only now slipping through your fingers. There are grave yards filled with people who thought they had more time.
By Blessing chukwu9 months ago in Chapters
CHAPTER I:The Well of Unspoken Melodies
At times, late into the night, just before dawn arrives, I find myself standing at the brink of the well behind my apartment, which is but the lame remains of a stone opening from which an unwelcome dampness and an inexplicable nostalgic odor egress. The woman I have fallen in love with exists in the silence of the well, although she has never visited, lived, or moved into this space. She could reside in the negative spaces: the interval between the drops of water, the shadow that hugs the bricks, the remembered laughter of a laugh I dreamed once. I have made a secret of her name even to myself.I met her in a jazz bar in Shinjuku, Tokyo, while the saxophone's vapid breath fogged the windows and the ice in my whiskey would freeze in time. She sat two barstools down from me and was reading from an old edition of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, her fingers slowly stroking the book's spine as if it were an artifact of divine significance. Her hair settled as a curtain of protection between us, and every time she turned a page, the sound rumbled like nearby thunder. I made myself order another drink that I didn't want, to remain comfortable to the warm silence while she had not left. She left before the set was over and left a hair clip, which was shaped like a small sparrow.I concealed it within my pocket, where it buzzed against my thigh like a caged cicada.The hairpin now rests upon my poor, sad desk next to an unwanted stack of letters that regretfully, I have never sent. Of an evening, when the pulse of the city becomes somewhat relaxed, I will press it to my ear and imagine I can hear something—a jazz standard played backward or a train running on tracks too far out of the imagination to fully comprehend. I write her about these oddities; “The well is deeper than it seems,” I scrawl once, and crumple the paper. The language fails. It lays claims to the canted shape of desire.The dreams started in October. I am trapped in a hotel with a winding labyrinth of a space; a corridor might break into the sky without stars, an elevator opening into a field of wheat, not a cloud, or an elevator. She is always there, just out of reach type of way; a shadow out of a window, and a voice, somewhere down a corridor. At one point, a cat, a black stray that seemed to be unchanged in my likeness was about to meet me like a time traveler. Flicking its tail like a pendulum, I made eye contact, finding my girl's reflection on the solid blackness of its iris. “You are chasing a ghost, you know,” it said, though it had no working mouth. “The question is, isn't that the point of the story, for you to chase a ghost?"
By LUCCIAN LAYTH10 months ago in Chapters
Echoes of the Forgotten
Echoes of the Forgotten A Journey Through Memory and Regret The rain poured down in sheets, casting the old town in a cold, gray haze. The streets were slick with water, the cobblestones reflecting the dim glow of street lamps that flickered weakly against the storm. In the heart of the town stood a crumbling mansion, its once-proud facade now covered in ivy and years of neglect. The windows, dark and empty, seemed to stare out at the world with an expression of quiet sorrow.
By Afia Sikder10 months ago in Chapters
