As soon as Qing Liqing opened her eyes, she found herself in the master bedroom of the villa she had purchased at a low price before the end of the world.　　The shock and anger after being betrayed by his most trusted friend lingered in his heart for a long time, the　　Hatred made him lose his usual composure, and he lost control of himself and swatted away the things on the bedside table.　　Then he heard a man's emotionless voice: You hurt me.　　Qing Liqing: ???!　　Zhen Li stretched out his arm, a small red mark on it.　　Qing Liqing: Wait, just now here ...... someone ......?　　Zhen Li expressionless: I'm not a person, I'm this villa you're living in right now.　　Qing Liqing: I'm sure either you're crazy or I am.

All of my contest entries I have done for various competitions across Penana.

Each will be an issue on thier own, with awards won.

The Tragedy in the Bakery

It was the night of negotiations when I saw my guest off. With a weariness in my body, I sat on the cushion on the floor and gazed at the candles flickering softly in the corners of the house. The snacks on the plate still sparkled, my head was heavy and my heart full. I started crying, as if every time a guest comes or goes, I wait for a (different) someone to open the door for them or close it for their sake. The sound of the news came from my phone, and every few minutes, the word (negotiation) was repeated. I pick up my phone and write to him:

“Mr. so-and-so, indirect negotiations between Iran and the US took place, but there was no message from you for negotiations, communication, sending smoke, whistles, shots, sounds, bells, bangs, or any kind of news. If you think you're clever, you're not. I'm still on the cold wooden stairs, watching with my head tilted right toward you. You in the hut, and I in the narrow house. I am sweet, you are the good Khosrow. I cried a lot... I mean really a lot. If I'm alive, it's just because I want you to be less and for your fears to fade into the ground. Otherwise, I've been pulled back into the Adenosine injection again! I was in the hospital. See, I'm going to die! Don't feel bad, okay? If my letter reached you, how could you be so cruel not to write a single line in reply? Since (so-and-so date), I've been missing you like lightning struck me. Why, man? Why did you hurt me? Why did you break my heart?

‘We’ve washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer!’

I am the stone of the kick,

Your production."

I sent it, thinking how I wish I could ride on the wings of technology and send it into his phone or into his ears at that speed! I remember Saadi’s poem: "There is peace between infidelity and Islam, yet you still fight with us."

My head is dizzy, I pick a piece of cheese with my fork and eat it. I light my cigarette, go to the window, and as I puff on the cigarette, I think to myself: why did I send this message? Didn't the doctor tell me: 'You, my sweet, perfect lady, a fragile glass, a pearl of mine, why are you even thinking of him? This man has no existence outside, no life, no soul. You're imagining him. He doesn't even have a heart. He is not alive! His lack of response means nothing to you.' I hear the doctor's voice in my head, and I remember telling him, 'You, who have no existence, something has settled in my bones...'

Dr. Hiz's eyes always lingered on my hennaed hands. Once he asked me where else I apply henna besides my hands, and I said, "On my feet, a little above my ankles, on my chest, my lips, my hair, and on both hands a little above the wrists..." And he said, "How has this man not been enchanted by a woman as ethereal as you?" I replied, naïvely like Baytai Hejiri, "Well, he likes whiskey." The doctor said, "In your letter, you called him a superman, but he's not even made of clouds, cotton, or sponge. He's just a joker. Forgive him." I replied, "I won't forgive him." All of these conversations paraded in front of me, and I struggled within myself because, as Mokhtari said, a human being’s bag is not milk; it leaves a place for pain.

The ash from my cigarette fell to the floor and crumbled. I crushed it under my shoe on the tiles. Without paying attention to this mess, I reached for the bowl on the table and ate the remaining chips. When I came to my senses, my face was wet with tears. The blue flickering lights in my home slowly turned off and on again, inviting me to sleep. "Oh woman, come, sleep, you’re so tired." But "What’s sleep to the eyes of a lover?" I am a servant of long nights. I am a woman of the night. If there is any light in life, it's a tiny spark that warms my heart during these nights, insomnia, and madness.

The bruises on the skin of my left hand, where the veins from the IV needle had been connected, were still visible. A bruise like a violet flower had made its mark on the whiteness of my skin. I thought of deleting my message, as I’m a writer in this country and being left without a response crushes my heart. But I was too tired to do anything, so I told myself, “To hell with it! One day, I will die, and everything will be read all at once. A day when it’s too late, and the tea has gone cold.”

The next day, I wake up. I feel weak, and my blood pressure is low. The air is turning dark. I quickly get out of bed, eat a quick breakfast so I don’t faint from weakness. In the hallway, the smell of fresh bread fills the air, and even though I haven’t eaten bread for years, I crave going to the bakery to buy a piece of hot, oven-fresh bread. I put on my cotton jacket and tightly fasten my belt so my pants won’t fall down from my thin waist. I angrily check my phone, and I see my message still unread... I curse myself. I walk out of the house with firm steps. I tell myself, tonight I won’t let my feelings control me. I’ll open my ears and let myself be humiliated as much as he wants. Maybe I’ll become a better person. As he said, “Maybe you haven’t been humiliated enough yet.” No... the traces of the important men in my life have been so deep that I haven’t been humiliated enough.

I run my hand along the springtime hedges and breathe in the scent of blossoms. My hair is tied up in a cherry-colored bun, and for a piece of bread, I’m going out of my way, hoping my soul doesn’t melt from the craving for fresh, hot bread. The night falls. The call to prayer sounds, and I find myself in the bakery with my shoulders slumping in the dusk. I want to call him from there and tell him, “Mr. so-and-so, stranger, good-for-nothing, you left me behind. Is this how you treat people?”

But his voice rings in my ears:

"Ah, I saw you called, but when my photo pops up on my phone, I just turn it off. Ha ha ha."

I think of my face. How seeing my photo bothers him or how easily he opens his mouth to lash out at me. I tell my guardian angel, "You are my witness." This man, like those who have drunk magic water or locked their seven bonds, did everything in his power to torture me. The thought of the tears I’ve shed, the nights I stayed awake, and the cigarettes we never shared together disgusts me. I wish I could scoop all these ruthless words from my memory and throw them into the well, but alas...

I’m in the bakery now, and the heat from the oven touches my face. I think my heart is burning like the oven, and I miss him terribly. The kind bakers with smiles on their faces, far from the weakness of the wealthy and obsessed with money, invite me to sit with them. I’ve seen one or two of them before. I had brought them sweets, and we had kneaded dough together and talked about flowers. The bakery, where life flows among the pure-hearted people, I turned to them and said, “I came for a fresh, hot loaf, but first, can someone lend me their phone to make a call?”

Like in gangster movies, five phones appeared in front of me. They said, “Call anyone you want, say whatever you need. Go ahead.” I laughed. It felt like an old film. I chose the oldest phone and said, “I want to call my teacher who’s mad at me.”

The baker said, “My phone is yours, sister.”

I turned my back on them and dialed his number. My hand trembled as if connected to electricity. My eyelid began to twitch. On the second ring, he picks up, cheerful and carefree, waiting to talk to an unknown number. Without saying hello, I say, “We washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer... I won’t wait to see what he says. I continue, ‘Not a moment passed without me thinking of you, not a page of the calendar turned without me writing about you...’” It seems he’s starting to understand. He falls silent and greets me, saying he’s been busy, very busy. I say, “Everyone’s busy, I wrote to you, you didn’t reply. I called, you didn’t answer. Is this how it works?”

He shoots me down, a professional marksman, saying, “Nothing happened, we only met twice.”

It feels like snakes twisting inside me. I get sick thinking of those nights, of all the laughs we had, and suddenly he looked at me and answered my question about whether he truly didn’t love me with a laugh: “Ha ha, no, I really don’t love you. Ha ha ha.”

My hand shakes, the juice of my soul pours out, and I can’t look at the bakers. Suddenly, he asks, “How are you?”

What should I say? That I’m dying? Does it even matter to someone who doesn’t make time for you? For someone who doesn’t care? So I censor the truth and only, relying on my latest test results, say, “You could have prevented this from happening with my test results!” And I remember my grandfather and continue, “I never thought after my grandfather, a great sorrow would knock me down. But you did. You turned your back on the light.”

I don’t continue. To someone who has fallen asleep, talking about energy, karma, dharma, and how tomorrow is too late, how tea is cold, and how indifference to others' suffering is useless – it wouldn’t help.

I want to hang up the phone abruptly, but to my surprise, the baker holds up a large frying pan with an omelet and offers it to me. He says, “It smells good, come eat with us. Don’t go, we’d feel indebted.”

I think about how the people here, with hearts as pure as crystal, embody nobility without attending philosophy or mysticism classes. In the same sacred bakery attire, with their white aprons, they are a true example of grandeur.

Months ago, I had wished to break my vegan diet on the Chalous road and treat myself to a couple of eggs or a roadside omelet. Now, why would I want to interrupt this moment for a little bread? From the other side, the phone asks, “Did you take the baker’s phone – and of course, laughing, like a gazelle in a pasture – ?”

I say, “I don’t know...” I turn to the bakers and ask, “Who is the baker here?”

My mind starts spinning. I feel like I could burst from joy. It’s like I have wings on my shoulders. Wow, I’m someone important enough to be asked!

I say, “Learn from these bakers, who are people of heart and purity...”

I hang up the phone, feeling braver than ever. As always, I’ve never owed or been indebted to my heart and feelings. I take the fresh bread in my hand and leave, thinking how much I want to go to that place where we smoked together and I sent my birthday balloon to the sky for him.

_______________________________________________________________________

sanaz seyed esfahani

When I look into the mirror

It is me, I guess

A girl looking back

Who is drowning in the mess

​​​​​​​

When I look into the mirror

I smile big

Because if I don’t

I can never win this

The following story contains real events that I've personally experienced or seen happen. Each Issue contains a real event that has been altered a bit for privacy reasons and to add depth to the story. Certain Issues might be written by @Nora13, @lishyyy<3 and others, (the writer will be mentioned on the Issue) so not all credit goes to me.

Hope you enjoy it!

This story is an unusual concept. Each chapter is a short story that takes place in each of the 50 states. The states are selected in the order they joined the Union

Following the execution of her father, Norah Chamberlain's life turned upside down. Her impoverished mother to a position as a governess in faraway Romania. Travelling from England across the European continent, they come face to face with a dilapidated castle perched high on a crag. The eerie occupants frightened Norah. Nevertheless, her mother immediately falls under the thrall of Baron vonHelfin. Soon, Norah finds herself in his sights. Will she fall under the same spell as her mother? .

When the plague hits San Francisco's LGBTQ community, it is up to Lt Col Oliver Talbot to stop it. Unbeknown to him, his brother--formerly known as Ivan Talbot--has already succumbed to the rapidly spreading disease. With his team of experts, Oliver must penetrate into the Middle Eastern hideout of a fanatic who is on path to destroy not only the LGBTQ community but the entire Western Civilization.

We fell apart,

Like fallen leaves in October,

Even though we were from the same branch,

Our foolish promises and words spoken at whims couldn't anchor us to the tree,

So we flew apart with low blow of wind,

Now that I think,

Perhaps it was foolish of us,

To give our hearts to someone unknown,

But now so deep in love,

I wonder if we can call it a mistake,

Even though it only lasted for a season,

Perhaps it could sum up our lives.

----x----

My first poetry collection.

Some of the poems here are free verses.

I hope you like it. Thank you kind stranger or friend for reading!

SYNOPSIS

In the forgotten town, the crumbling Willowridge Orphanage looms, shrouded in a suffocating silence that conceals dark secrets. Among its lost children is Elias, a boy straddling the line between reality and fantasy, drawn to whispers that beckon him from the shadows. As he endures the harshness of Miss Grayson, the tyrannical caretaker, his curiosity leads him to the forbidden garden—a wild, overgrown realm harboring an ancient malevolence eager to ensnare him.

As Elias delves deeper, he becomes entangled in a web of manipulation spun by a restless spirit, promising freedom and revenge. The once-innocent whispers transform into a nightmarish reality, blurring the lines between innocence and corruption. "Whispers in the Ashes" is a chilling tale of longing and the perilous cost of listening to the wrong voices, where silence reveals more than it conceals.

In a corrupted world full of superficial and greedy people, in a world driven by lust and desire, Regan's thoughts and actions are alien to most. She feels like an outsider amidst a blur of faces that mirror the very disdain she holds for society. But she's not naive. And what will happen when she's thrust into the heart of the very system she despises?

[Read full story on wattpad > https://www.wattpad.com/story/346332221?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details_button&wp_uname=izabelgamer1234]

On Lunareth, a planet where magic flows like liquid stardust, love is written in the stars—literally. The celestial beings known as Celestaraare bound by the Starborn Oath, ensuring that every soul has a Luminis, a fated counterpart destined to complete them.

But Elysiawas born under a shattered star, a girl with no destined bond, an anomaly in a world where love is preordained.

Wandering through Lunareth’s glowing forests, she encounters Kaelith, a boy unlike any she has ever seen. His presence flickers like an echo, his touch both real and fleeting—because he was never meant to exist. Kaelith is a being born from the dying wish of a fallen star, a soul without a place in the cosmos.

Drawn together by an unexplainable force, Elysia and Kaelith uncover a prophecy hidden in the constellations—one that speaks of a love so powerful, it could unravel the very fabric of fate. But when the cosmic forces governing their world threaten to tear them apart, they must make an impossible choice: obey destiny or rewrite the stars themselves.

Luminis: A Love Written in Lightis a breathtaking tale of celestial romance, cosmic fate, and the defiant power of love against all odds.

Copyright © 2025 by INKELLEAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, reproduced, or distributed in any form without the express written permission of the author, except for brief quotes used in reviews or critical discussions.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons, places, or events are purely coincidental. The story, characters, and world are original creations inspired by themes of cosmic romance, fate, and magic.