Between Fame and Fate
A poetic reflection on ambition, struggle, and society’s harsh judgments.
They say that life is a blame
And a cause that will bring you near to a flame
Oh, this is a hopeful game
That will bring you name and fame
How fight for fame is fake
It is as if you are going closer to a flame
But if you succeed in getting the name
They say that life is fake
So don't wait for the support of fate
As the life moves through tit for tat
And forget about all the lame sayings
As from the sky, stones may come in the rain
And you may be the victim of the slang that my luck is bad
About the Creator
Zuzain Muhammad
I’m passionate about storytelling and creating worlds that spark curiosity and emotion.From mysterious moments to thought-provoking ideas, my goal is to write stories that entertain, surprise, and stay with readers long after the last line.
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The Clockmaker’s Secret
It was a rainy evening when Ayan first stumbled upon the little shop at the end of Maple Street. The sign read simply, “The Clockmaker”, in faded golden letters. Most people in town ignored it, dismissing it as another forgotten relic of the past. But something about the warm glow from its windows drew him closer, as if the shop itself was calling him. Inside, the air smelled of polished wood and old paper. Rows of clocks lined the walls—grandfather clocks, cuckoo clocks, pocket watches—all ticking in perfect harmony. Behind a cluttered counter stood an elderly man with silver hair, his eyes twinkling beneath thick spectacles. “Welcome,” the man said softly. “I’ve been expecting you.” Ayan froze. “Expecting me?” he asked, unsure whether to feel alarmed or amused. The clockmaker smiled. “Yes. Some gifts find their way to the right person. Come closer.” Hesitant, Ayan stepped forward. On the counter lay a small, intricately carved box, no larger than a loaf of bread. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. The carvings shifted subtly, almost like they were alive, telling stories of unknown lands and faces that seemed familiar yet unplaceable. “This,” the clockmaker said, “is not an ordinary box. It reveals what you need to see most, but only when the time is right.” Ayan reached out to touch it. The moment his fingers brushed the wood, the world around him blurred. The clocks stopped ticking, the rain outside ceased, and the room disappeared. He was somewhere else—a misty forest, dimly lit by a silver moon. A voice echoed softly: “The path you seek lies within. Choose carefully, for every choice carries a consequence.” Ayan blinked. Before him appeared two paths: one paved with golden leaves that shimmered even in the night, the other a dark, winding trail overgrown with roots and shadows. His heart raced. Something told him the golden path was tempting but perhaps misleading, while the dark path held a mystery he wasn’t yet ready to understand. He stepped onto the golden path first. The air smelled sweet, like honey and spring flowers. In the distance, he saw a small village. Children laughed and ran through cobblestone streets. Music floated from a tavern. It was perfect, serene… almost too perfect. And then he noticed the villagers’ faces. Blank. Empty eyes staring forward, smiling without joy. A shiver ran down his spine. Everything was beautiful, yet lifeless. He turned to leave, but the path had vanished. The golden leaves crumbled into dust under his feet. Panic surged through him. He ran, calling out, until the ground beneath him gave way. He fell into darkness. When he awoke, he was standing at the beginning of the dark path. The forest was silent, shadows stretching like fingers. Mist clung to the twisted trees, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear faint whispers—some pleading, some laughing, some crying. “Don’t be afraid,” a soft voice said again. He turned to see the clockmaker standing beside him, older somehow, as if the forest had aged him. “This path is harder, yes. But it shows truth.” Ayan took a deep breath and began walking. The shadows seemed to move around him, forming shapes: a little girl chasing a paper kite, an old man carving a wooden boat, a woman painting a window sill. Each scene shimmered like a memory—not his, but something close to it. A strange familiarity stirred inside him. At the heart of the forest, he found a lake so still it mirrored the sky perfectly. Floating above the water was a tiny key, glowing faintly. The clockmaker’s voice echoed again: “The key unlocks the box. But remember, what you unlock changes you forever.” Ayan reached out. The moment his fingers touched the key, a burst of light enveloped him. He was back in the shop, the clocks ticking once more. The box on the counter had opened. Inside lay a small, folded letter, written in a hand he didn’t recognize but somehow knew. “Courage is not the absence of fear. It is the choice to face what lies within. The life you seek is not in perfect beauty or fleeting pleasure—it is in truth, in every shadow you fear, in every joy you earn. Your journey begins now.” The clockmaker nodded. “Now you know. Every choice you make creates your story. Remember that, and never fear the dark, for it teaches what the light cannot.” Ayan left the shop that night with the box tucked under his arm. The rain had stopped, and the streets shimmered under the soft glow of lamps. But more importantly, something inside him had shifted. He understood that life was not about avoiding shadows, but learning to walk through them. And somewhere, deep in the ticking of the city’s clocks, he felt the whisper again: “Your story has just begun.”
By Zuzain Muhammadabout 22 hours ago in Fiction
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