Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Potent.
The Silence Between My Mother’s Words. AI-Generated.
The Silence Between My Mother’s Words My mother speaks in English like she’s walking on unfamiliar ground. Her words are careful, placed deliberately, like stones in a stream. In between them, there are silences—pregnant, loaded, shaped like the things she wants to say but doesn’t have the vocabulary for.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Potent
Stanislav Kondrashov Oligarch Series: Oligarchy and the Factory of Illusions
The Stanislav Kondrashov Oligarch Series has offered in-depth analyses of the concept of oligarchy and its evolution over the centuries, also examining the many social spheres affected by its ramifications. Political science has also frequently addressed this concept, examining its origins, evolution, and impact on modern societies, with a particular focus on its influence on governments and power structures.
By Stanislav Kondrashov6 months ago in Potent
A Love Letter to the Night
Some moments in life don’t speak in words—they shimmer. They blink gently in the dark like fireflies weaving secret messages into the air. I’ve spent many nights sitting beneath the weight of silence, listening—not with my ears, but with my heart—waiting for the night to speak back. It always does. Softly. Slowly. Like a whisper. There’s something sacred about darkness when it’s not filled with noise. In a world that never seems to pause, nighttime feels like the earth’s way of catching its breath. And in that breath, I’ve found something precious: peace. Stillness. And occasionally, a flicker of gold dancing through the shadows. Fireflies. Tiny lights pulsing in the air, asking nothing of me except presence. They don’t blaze like streetlights. They don’t demand attention like city neon. Instead, they glow in silence, modest and patient—inviting you to slow down, to see, to feel. I think that’s what I’ve needed all along. Not more sound. Not more answers. Just stillness. Just a reason to remember that beauty doesn’t always roar—it often whispers. We live in a loud world. Our heads are full of opinions, expectations, unfinished conversations, and alarms that go off before dreams can even begin. But fireflies? They don’t live like that. They remind me that light doesn’t have to be blinding to be powerful. That softness is strength too. That presence—just being here, fully—is its own kind of glow. There was a night not long ago. I couldn’t sleep. My mind was tangled in everything unsaid, everything undone. So I stepped outside barefoot, letting the cool earth remind me I was still alive. I didn’t go far—just to the edge of a small patch of trees near my home. And there they were. Flickering, rising, falling. Not in a hurry. Not in fear. Just… existing. Lighting up the dark, not to shine forever, but to make that single moment matter. I watched in silence. That’s when I realized: the night isn’t empty. It’s full of unspoken stories. The fireflies aren’t just insects. They’re reminders. Of every small joy I’ve forgotten to feel. Of every quiet miracle I’ve brushed past. Of every time I needed healing and didn’t know how to ask for it. They whispered: "You are still here. And you are still light." It felt like a lullaby written just for me. Not sung aloud, but hummed inside my bones. Since that night, I’ve come to love darkness—not as a threat, but as a canvas. A space where the soul gets to glow without competition. A place where you remember who you are, without needing to be seen. So this is my love letter to the night. Thank you—for not rushing me. For holding my silence without asking questions. For the stars you tuck above me like a blanket. For the fireflies that teach me how to glow quietly. For the breath I forget to take during the day. For showing me that some things don’t need fixing—they just need feeling. And thank you, especially, for reminding me that light still lives in me, even when I forget how to find it. Because sometimes, when the world becomes too heavy to hold, all it takes is a single flicker in the dark to remind us—we were never alone.
By Shoaib Afridi6 months ago in Potent
"Chair_Has_Four_Legs"
A chair has four legs. It’s a statement so basic, so ordinary, that most of us don’t give it a second thought. But sometimes, the simplest things in life carry the deepest messages. The chair — an everyday object — teaches us about balance, stability, support, and life itself. Let’s explore how this simple object reflects bigger truths about human life and the world around us.
By aadam khan6 months ago in Potent
Quitting Smoking Is Better Than All Anxiety Medications — A Detailed Look at Causes and Solutions
Anxiety is becoming more common in today’s busy, competitive, and stressful lives. Its causes can be many, including physical illnesses, hormonal changes, mental trauma, social pressure, and drug or alcohol abuse. Alcohol and smoking in particular have been recognized as major contributing factors in the development of anxiety.
By Echoes of Life6 months ago in Potent
He Disappeared 12 Years Ago. Last Week, I Saw Him at the Train Station"
I was never the type to believe in miracles—or ghosts. But that all changed last week. Twelve years ago, my best friend and cousin, Adil, disappeared without a trace. We were both 17, fresh out of school, and planning to move to Lahore to start college together. One day, we went to the market to buy books. I turned around for just a few seconds, distracted by a street performer. When I looked back, Adil was gone.
By Movies Channel6 months ago in Potent
The Best Food
The smell hit Maya the moment she opened the front door—a blend of garlic, onions, and something sweet, something warm. She dropped her backpack, kicked off her shoes, and followed her nose into the kitchen. There, as always, stood Grandma, apron tied neatly, wooden spoon in hand, her silver hair pulled into a tidy bun. A large pot simmered on the stove, and the kitchen table was a beautiful mess—dough dusted in flour, half-chopped vegetables, and a bowl of something golden and sticky. "You're just in time," Grandma said without turning. "Stir the pot for me, will you?" Maya grinned and took over the spoon. "What are we making?" "Something special. An old recipe from my mother’s mother. We used to make it during the monsoon season back home." Maya raised an eyebrow. Grandma had lived a lifetime before coming to this little house in the suburbs. Sometimes, she told stories about mango trees, rainstorms, and spice markets. But Maya had never tasted the food from those stories. Not really. "I thought we were making stew." "Stew, yes," Grandma said. "But not just any stew. This—" she tapped a handwritten note taped to the wall "—is tarkari. It's got lentils, yams, spices… and a little memory." Maya kept stirring, the scent growing richer. "What do you mean, memory?" Grandma chuckled. "Every good dish is part memory. We cook not just with our hands, but with what we remember. Who we cooked with, how it made us feel. Sometimes, you taste something and it brings back a whole afternoon from years ago." Maya nodded slowly. She thought of the cafeteria’s pizza, the stale kind, and how it reminded her of rainy lunch periods. Not quite the same, but maybe it counted. They worked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the bubbling pot and the occasional thump of a knife on the cutting board. Maya loved these afternoons with Grandma—just the two of them, no rush, no schoolwork. "What makes this the best food?" Maya asked, carefully dropping a pinch of cumin into the pot. Grandma paused. "It’s not just the taste. It’s the story. My mother made this when our house flooded, and we had only a few ingredients left. It fed six people for three days. She made it again when your uncle was born, and again when I left for college. Each time, it reminded us that we were still a family, no matter what changed." Maya looked into the pot. It didn’t look like much. But it smelled like home. "Want to know the secret?" Grandma asked. Maya nodded eagerly. "It's not just the spices. It's stirring slowly, thinking of who you love. Food listens. It carries feeling. So if you're angry when you cook, people taste it. But if you're kind…" She smiled, tapping Maya's nose with flour. "…they’ll never forget it." Maya kept stirring, slower this time, imagining Grandma as a girl, barefoot in a kitchen across the ocean. She pictured her great-grandmother, strong and warm, stirring the same stew. When the dish was finally done, they sat at the table with bowls in their hands. The stew was thick, fragrant, and golden with turmeric. Maya took a bite—and closed her eyes. It was unlike anything she'd ever tasted. Spicy but gentle. Sweet but earthy. It made her feel something she couldn’t quite explain—like she belonged to a story bigger than herself. “This,” she said, “is the best food I’ve ever had.” Grandma smiled. “Now you know. The best food isn’t found in restaurants or cookbooks. It’s made with memory, love, and someone to share it with.”
By Muhammad Saad 7 months ago in Potent
Tokyo’s Smart Farming Revolution: A Potential Solution to the Global Food Crisis
In the bustling metropolis of Tokyo, Japan, a groundbreaking smart farming initiative is capturing global attention as a potential blueprint for addressing the world’s looming food security challenges. By integrating cutting-edge 5G technology, advanced information systems, and innovative agricultural practices, this project is revolutionizing farming in a country grappling with a shrinking workforce and an aging population. As the world faces increasing pressures from climate change, population growth, and resource scarcity, Tokyo’s smart farming model offers a glimpse into a sustainable, tech-driven future for global agriculture.
By Muhib Ullah 7 months ago in Potent
The Lion and the Lamb
In the heart of the vast African savannah, where the sun painted gold across the tall grasses and the winds whispered through the trees, lived a lion named Kumo. He was the strongest and most feared creature in the region—his roar could silence the sky, and his shadow made even the boldest animals freeze.
By wilson wong7 months ago in Potent
How long do dtf transfers last before pressing
Key Takeaways: DTF transfers can last 6 to 12 months or longer before pressing if stored properly. Storage conditions (temperature, humidity, light exposure) significantly affect their lifespan. Following best practices helps maintain vibrant prints and adhesive strength.
By Robert Smith7 months ago in Potent
