Poeticprose Stories

In a place unreachable by maps, where the wind howls and no one answers... there is an oasis. No water in it for the thirsty. No shade in it for the lost. Only fire... and a woman. They say she appears at night and vanishes with dawn. They say she leaves no trace upon the sand. They say whoever sees her... never returns the same. And Aws... Aws saw her. But the question is not what he saw. The question is: what did he forget?

Love is a strange season. It arrives warm, hungry, and full of promises. It settles into empty parking lots, borrowed cars, sleepless nights, and the quiet spaces between two people. But winter has never been as simple as cold. The Four Seasons of My Love: Act I - Winter is a theatrical memoir of desire, devotion, uncertainty, and the beautiful things that begin to decay beneath the snow. The scenes are arranged according to feeling rather than time. The memories do not always enter from the proper wing. The heart does not always remember its lines. The curtain has only just risen. Take your seat. Winter is beginning.

Some journeys begin with a destination. Others begin with a feeling. And then there are journeys that begin with a voice only the heart can hear. A vast ocean stands between you and the shore you dream of reaching. You enter it carrying faith, hope, illusion, and the warmth of those you believed would never leave. But oceans have a way of revealing what shores conceal. One by one, the companions disappear. The boat begins to break. The strength begins to fade. And eventually, there is nothing left to hold on to- except the will to keep moving. This is not merely a story about losing people. It is about losing the versions of yourself you once thought you needed to survive. It is about Mohabbat / Love-the kind that makes you cross an ocean for someone. And Ishq-the kind that makes you cross it until there is no one left to reach... not even yourself. Because perhaps the greatest love story is not the one where you find someone at the end. Perhaps it is the one where, after losing everything, you finally find what was left of you.

A quiet genius, a red haired girl. It's not a love story, it's what love does when we don't say.

Words left unsaid.

The ancient and tragic journey of the vampire Vittoria de Luca Bonenfant as she so vividly recalls. The struggles of an immortality she deems to be forsaken by God. A Christian who is loath to see her faith wain. A vampire with the profound inability to take mortal life and allow the warmth of human blood to make florid her pallor skin so that she might not be, in her view, this grotesque and perfect vision of conscious death. A vampire at a loss as she wanders the grey twilight- » » With you I leave my confessions, as in those wretched wooden rooms. Do with it as you like; tell it to your one, or to many, or burn it with my rosary, which I surely have blasphemed. How long ago the mortal soul in me was lost, I do not know. How long ago since I said, "Take me," with such hatred in my eyes. "Take me now from this cruelty!" But non, He would not. I know He has left me, my God, my Savior, my Abandoner, turned His crystalline gaze from my ruin. But with nervous hands and nervous breath did I pray to Him still, my breast cracked asunder as I strained to hear Him. But lo, that I heard the cold laughter of the Morning Star, and was blinded by the Son of Dawn. I said the words, "I will not go with you, Devil," and the Devil, who became the serpent of my rosary, and like a strange stigmata, bit my praying palm, pressed my fingerstips to his pallid lids, as though he felt a pull at his heart like so many strings. I loath him and do unto him cruel things. I like to do it. Because it is I, alas, who had become the Devil in the end, a savage Devil with sweet, ruddy tears at the rending of mortal flesh. Now, I daresay, no earthly living thing binds me to gracious mortal empathy, that mortal beating heart in its miserable rhythm. I have not eyes for their mourning visage, nor ears for their desperate cries. No heart for them. No heart. No heart that He may never forgive. #1 Poetic Prose #1 Musing photo credit: Laura Makabresku

Silent Chaos is where my pain finds its voice. A quiet sanctuary of poetry and prose shaped by chronic illness, survival, and the storm beneath the surface. Sometimes, all I have are words - bleeding quietly from wounds no one can see. Welcome to my journey - I'm still writing the ending with every breath I take.

Aya should only have one pin - one that represents her one soulmate. Polyamory is a dirty, illegal word. Stupid, stupid girl doesn't know what is wrong and what is right. --------- A short story set in a world where soulmates carry pins that represent their soulmate, Aya's supposed to have one, and instead she has two. Poetic prose.

In a quiet winter village, wrapped in snow and filled with memories, an old house becomes the final refuge for a man who returns to the roots of his childhood. Creaking gates, smoke from chimneys, and the aroma of baked bread bring the past to life, but beyond reality, something more begins...

Fragments of love ~ A whimsical world to reflect,relate and escape.A collection of imaginations, scenarios,short stories,poems and conversations that paint vivid pictures of the heart's deepest desires and dreams.

What if the universe could think, and didn't understand itself? Dreamer of the Void follows a cosmic consciousness as it becomes aware of motion, change, and the strange tension of containing everything while belonging nowhere. Told as a quiet inner monologue, this story explores existence from the inside of infinity.

In the spaces between breath and silence, where light fractures and shadows gather, there is a place that refuses to be named. lingering, bleeding through cracks in memory and time. This is a place of unspoken grief, of sorrow that twists and folds until it becomes something else: a pulse beneath the skin, a weight that no hand can lift. This book does not seek to explain, to heal, or to comfort. It is a reckoning, a slow unraveling of the threads we thought were meant to hold us together. It speaks in riddles and half-truths, in the language of broken things and fractured souls. If you enter, listen closely. The echoes may not answer, but they will ask everything.

"On Courage" is a lyrical prose that captures the raw truth of bravery-not as the absence of fear, but the persistence to move forward despite it. In a world that often rushes past the quiet battles we fight within, this piece stands still-just like the man in the rain-resolute, unnoticed, yet unyielding. It is a tribute to every trembling step taken with a burning heart, to those who carry storms inside and still choose to rise. This is not a tale of heroes, but of endurance. Of courage

Not every thought becomes a novel. Some arrive quietly-as a single paragraph, a fleeting feeling, a forgotten memory, or a moment that simply asks to be written down. The Writer's Vault is my little collection of poetic prose, reflections, POVs, letters, and fragments of stories that found a home before they found a book. Some of these pieces may remain exactly as they are. Some may one day bloom into chapters of my novels. And some... are simply here to make you pause, feel, and reflect. Welcome to my vault. I hope somewhere between these pages, you find a piece that feels like it was written just for you. __Bushra.💌 ⚠️ DO NOT REPOST OR REUPLOAD MY WORK.

A novel based on a true story of being beautiful when no one's looking She's the middle child. Not the loudest. Not the favorite. Just.. there. Expected to be okay. Expected to stay quiet. Expected to carry the weight of everything and everyone - without making a sound. But in the spaces where no one's watching, she aches. She questions. She grows. Told through raw, journal-like prose, this is a story for the ones who feel like too much and not enough - all at once. For the middle children. The overthinkers. The invisible hearts. The ones who know what it means to be everything and nothing at the same time. Because even when no one's looking, you're still glowing

In every forest, every wild place, there is a story waiting to be told-one of survival, fear, and the search for meaning. This is not just a story about wolves and humans. It is a story about loneliness, hope, and the quiet courage to keep walking when the world feels empty. Alpha Wolf: The Misunderstood explores what it means to feel lost even when surrounded by your own kind. It asks what happens when the life you've always known no longer feels like yours. Through the eyes of a wolf named Soren and a young ranger named Mira, you will discover that sometimes, the greatest battles are fought not with teeth and claws, but within the heart. This story is for anyone who has ever felt like they don't belong, who has struggled to find purpose, or who has dared to hope that understanding can come from the most unexpected places. Welcome to their journey.

A quiet, devastating myth about how fear creates monsters, how power is shaped by those who worship it, and how innocence is erased not by evil intent but by certainty. It reframes angels and demons as symbols rather than absolutes: Magnificence embodies light that becomes weaponized through public fear and moral outsourcing, while Doom represents darkness that learns to see, stay, and bear witness. At its heart, the story contrasts domination disguised as order with survival practiced as restraint, showing how persecution hardens into tradition and how violence perpetuates itself through "reason." The winged people are not redeemed or saved; they are believed, and that belief becomes the most radical act in the world. Ultimately, it is a tragedy of translation. how good intentions, once turned into symbols, escape their owners, and a meditation on the quiet courage of choosing patience, discretion, and presence over conquest.

let it be quiet if just for a moment. not silent just quiet. listen to your breathing and your heartbeat and the world outside the window close your eyes and take a breath. appreciate the puddles of silence as much as the street of sound. appreciate the hush. Read my first poetry book, "where the bluebirds aren't," and my second poetry book, "misty." I'm rather proud of them and how far I have come. ⚠️Unedited⚠️ This is my poetry. Please don't copy it! Thank you for your support.