#mirakeetales

847 posts
  • pujaparmar 1w

    Apna nazariya tab tak dusro ke sath na bato jab tak aap uski haqeekat tak na pahucho.. ho skta hai Jo apki nazar me galat hai dusre ki nazar me sahi ho..
    ©pujaparmar

  • smitradhe7 1w

    चुप रहकर भी जो इतना कुछ कह जाते हो,
    पेहलु में होकर भी जो इतने दूर हो जाते हो,
    क्या समझू मैं इन्हें, जो,
    नफ़रत जताकर भी इतनी सारी मोहब्बत दिखा जाते हो ।
    ©smitradhe7

  • pujaparmar 4w

    Aaj kal har insan khud me ek filter hai..
    Bure bhav mann me rakh ke bas ache shabd muh se nikalta hai.
    ©pujaparmar

  • neuralnomad 7w

    An unpredictable sway diffused in the air of that silent mansion.
    Chateau de Emeraude felt octaves of passion, that made its very foundations want to dress anew.
    Her moans gave way to relieve notes of vigour like Beethoven's 5th. He pumped, in union of some obscure love, revived in radiance. They felt one in climaxes of his lips to her petals, of their skin to skin, brushing touches of their hair to hair, to the very roots. But only the lustful flesh did not rush anew in this union. They felt something of a greater oneness, that which permeated to the very depths of their Huxlian 'Not Self's.
    Thus their love of Old had become sacred in baptism in this last reunion. He would soon pass and remain. She would just remain.

    The chandeliers of Chateau de Emeraude silently co-conspired in this last supper of passion. They had witnessed their growing together from childhood sweethearts to companions in a life of tales untold. Thus the epilogue too, unfolded in front of them. Mostly silent they were, with mere occasional approvals in gentle tingles of the emerald-green lamps.
    Yes he must go. He must play messiah for his family. The curse must go to the grave with him.


    Only on this day would one ever feel a faint change of aura from Chateau de Emeraude. It came once in the lifetime of a de Emeraude, unless the current family head died in an attempt. It had happened once or twice, though centuries ago.
    Juillard de Emeraude was not an old man. But his mane had playfully indulged in shades of grey. Last night he had made love to his love. They had never been in wedlock, but had remained in promise. That their coffins would lie beside each other. She had been crying all morning. His coffin would precede hers.


    That evening found him slightly anxious. That silly maid was taking too long. The evening itself had slowly begun to speak only one tongue. One of a fear, the feeling of which, only the Emeraude household had ever felt. This evening would normally have been the torch passing, when the current heir passes the curse to the succeeding heir, like some dreadful seed, which only grows to eventually wilt. But tonight, would hopefully, be different. Oh! that stupid maid! Always late!
    Juillard shared an almost fatherly bond with the silly lady in question. He would often scold her, and she would shout, 'Tu es un Tyran! Un Tyran!'. That would always make him smile. Footsteps in the hallway. That must be her.


    The servants were ready. In case of an emergency, they would step in with frightening expertise. The emerald was a fine one. The silverware it lay on, only served to enhance its beauty. Juillard closed his eyes and gulped. He could feel the sweat-beads trickling down his forehead in immaculate detail. Could almost count them. He closed his eyes, and swallowed. At first the gem stuck in his throat. But he swallowed some rice dumpling and large gulps od water in succession. A crackshot agility steered the whole act.
    The booming silence in the room immediately relaxed, into relief only felt after a storm passes.
    Juillard was alive. But somehow he knew the morning would not see him. It was amply clear in his forefather's diary. 'Death by emerald poisoning upon disrespecting shaman's cure'.
    But Juillard would escape the inescapeable. His heir would not share the fate which hung over the Emeraudes so far. Juillard's hand would not touch the forehead of his successor as his father's had touched his. For his heir was yet to be born. The curse would no longer be transmitted.
    It would die with him.

    image credits - Barton Fink by Coen Brothers
    #writerstolli #writersnetwork @writerstolli @writersnetwork @mirakee @mirakeeworld #thriller #mirakeethriller #mirakeepoetry #pod_wt #shortstory #mirakeetales #weirdfiction #horror

    Read More

    The Men who ate Emeralds
    ( a thriller)


    ©neuralnomad

  • neuralnomad 9w

    She hadn't stopped sewing.

    She who?
    Only two sounds could be heard inside that room on the second floor of the house in which Émit Wes lived.

    One was her constant muttering, almost in whisper.
    And the second was the string making a swishing sound each time it was being dragged through a button. Émit's sewing had been a subject of popular discussion amongst the neighbours for quite some weeks now.
    It had begun from the second week since she had moved in. The house had been put up for rent just a month or two earlier. At first she did not attract any attention. It all started since Pissog's visit. Pissog was a young boy and the 'odd jobs' fellow of the neighborhood. And he had always something interesting to say.
    It invariably was about someone doing something new in the neighborhood. Before the sewing, it had been Daor laying new and improved bricks on the pavement. It had been a hard-earned contract, so Pissog had announced in victorious gesture, to the eager folk. In this manner, the lives of the people of Backyarns Street kept themselves entertained. No helping there was really. Most of them were poor and could not afford much in the way of entertainment. The kids busied themselves in outdoor games while the grownups, after a hard day's work, sat with tea, or something stronger, and waited for Pissog. Pissog always had an invitation for evening tea at someone's house or other. Very often it extended to dinner. In this manner, Pissog's tales earned him free food and rations very often. He slept in the shed behind Émit Wes' place. That was how he came to know about the matter in the first place.

    The first few days he hadn't noticed. Nor had bothered to. The woman had looked a rather docile type, with very few words, coming out of those pursed lips. Most of the time, he found that money had been kept for him on the table in the groundfloor drawing room. It would be accompanied by a to-do list. He would finish his chores and leave the balance on that same table. Next morning would find his tip separately, with a new list and more money. One morning he found money, but no list. The money had been too much for a tip, so he had called out to the old lady. The second time he had ever done so, since first introductions. And first introductions had been awfully boring. Must have been why he hadn't feigned interest in this new occupant of number 43.
    After waiting for a few minutes, he had almost decided to leave that day. But had changed his mind at the last moment, and quietly crept up the stairs to the second floor.
    The door to the room on the second floor, though open, hadn't been quite left ajar. Ms. Wes was sitting diagonally facing the window, which faced the street in front. Sunlight had filled the front portion of the room.

    As he entered the room, Pissog called the old lady again. And just before he had called, he had noticed.
    Ms. Wes sat in her chair like a lifeless corpse with only her hands moving. It had taken him a few more minutes, before he had noticed her lips were in motion as well. The rest of the room had been giving off an air of deathly stagnation. No ordinary stillness, but one that had prevailed for far too many year. More, than Pissog knew how to count.
    She was constantly muttering some scarcely audible gibberish. And sewing buttons, on what appeared to be a piece of woollen cloth. What had actually struck Pissog as odd, was the number of buttons. Must have been more than fifty by his count. And she was still going. This had, henceforth, become the talk of the times.
    But there was an irony, no one knew about. Only Ms. Wes knew.
    And it lay in what Pissog hadn't noticed.
    The object spoken about, and that had, in a way, transpired this tale, lay on a stool that stood opposite Ms. Wes' chair. It had passed incognito, because it was relatively small, and lay on the dark side of the stool, nearly touching the wall. It was a broken pocket watch. The balancing wheel had stopped.

    Ms. Wes smiled upon seeing Pissog and quietly handed him the list. He too, left without a word. Then she stood up from the chair, walked upto the stool, and picking up the watch, set its hands in a particular way. The watch immediately started keeping time again. The chain of events, from her getting up, to the watch working again, took a few minutes at most. But outside the house, several days had passed. Ms. Wes and her sewing had kept mouths busy. But that was only until the watch had started working again.
    In a week's time, the balancing wheel would malfunction again. And Pissog would come again calling her, because she had left the money and not the list. Yes, she hadn't left the list on purpose. Émit Wes will remain the talk of the neighborhood. Forever.

    image credits - My name is Sara by Steven Oritts
    #writerstolli @writerstolli #writersnetwork @writersnetwork @mirakee @mirakeeworld #mirakeethriller #thriller #weirdfiction #macabrefiction #scifi #shortstory #mirakeetales #story

    Read More

    Yarns and Back (a thriller)

    ©neuralnomad

  • nishakattikulam 12w

    He stood beside me, and we gazed outside the window not knowing what to speak.
    Trembled my body with a simple touch of our hands.
    Silence is all we could listen to.
    I wished time to stay still, that was just the beginning of a whole new dream.
    That day it rained like never before...

    ©nishakattikulam

  • nishakattikulam 12w

    I touched the edges of pain hoping not to bleed.
    ©nishakattikulam

  • hudanabi75 14w

    On the intervening night of 23th and 24th February 1991...Indian Armed forces Raped over 100 of women in the twin hamlets of Kunan and posh pora.(Northern Kashmir).
    One by one they raped me ,my 5 year old son was Forced to watch,Weeping beside the bed.
    #Kunanposhpora.
    Small Childrens of 13 years old were raped
    #Neverforget
    #Mirakeepoem #Mirakeequotes #Mirakeetales #Mirakeeenglish #writernetwork #Weremember #hudanabi #Kashmir #rapevictimstory #Mirakeewrites

    Read More

    Kunan Poshpora

    I was born as a Girl,
    I was born as a Daughter,
    I was happy and Fine,
    I was living and alive,
    Till the date 23 February 1991,
    I was born again but this time As a girl who was Assaulted,
    A daughter who was destroyed,
    I was Traumatized,Injured shocked.
    I was forced,or i can say I was Raped.
    The Harsh Winter night of "KuNan Poshpora"{Kashmir}
    The chilly Gusts of that Black Night,
    The Frightening voices of women is still lingering there,
    I am still waiting for my justice here,
    I was not Alone,There were many more,
    Our situation was sore,
    They were enjoying our condition,
    I was Crying for Every one over there,
    Some of us were Small,Married,Mothers,Teenagers.
    But!
    They didn't stop,
    What was our fault?
    They!The So called protectors of {Bahrat Mata}(Mother land}
    Destroyed our lives on this Mother land!
    BUT NOW AFTER 29 YEARS,I still remember that night!
    Every painful memory lingering in my mind,
    I am living but not Alive!




    ©hudanabi75

  • words_of_mine_anjali 16w

    (Everytime)
    Me to Life : Now what?
    Ok! I will deal with this one too!


    ©words_of_mine_anjali

  • pujaparmar 17w

    Teri mohabbat meri adaa ban gayi..
    Lipti rahe mujhse Jo ye wo ab rida ban gayi..
    ©pujaparmar

  • pujaparmar 17w

    Jab bhi kuch likhne bethti hu aksar ye panna adhura reh jata hai..
    Shayad ye dil ab tujhe yaad karna nahi chahta..
    ©pujaparmar

  • brokenwings_yetpowerfulbeing 17w

    Forget the rest
    and do your best,
    Forget the bad
    and remember the good,
    Forget the mistakes
    and remember the learnings from them,
    Forget the rest
    and keep on doing your best,
    Remember the good and capture
    good memories instead of looking
    at the bad things,
    Remember the learnings
    so that you won't repeat your mistakes,
    Forget the rest and
    keep on doing your best
    till you succeed!

    ©brokenwings_yetpowerfulbeing

  • words_of_mine_anjali 18w

    Dear Me,

    Just wanna say.....
    " I love you! "


    ©words_of_mine_anjali

  • pillow_talk_quotes 18w

    To my dearest dear friend,

    Hey, I miss you. Yes, yes I actually do. I don't why but it is happening. There is nothing strange in this because you know how much I got used to you a lot from past few months. I sometime got astonished about how can I use Facebook this much nowadays. Believe me, Facebook sucks me before I found you. And also I sometimes feels blessed to join that group where you were like the star member among all.


    I must say, you are the only person in my live with whom I smiled through my soul. I don't know why you called yourself 'buddhu' about your behaviour but trust me I love every little sarcasm of yours. Dude, it always make my day better. I love the way you write songs for everyone (including me). I love the way you cared me each and everytime. I love your voice a lot. But, I hate you wearing caps all the time and yes I admit, I hate it. Hehe!



    You are truly a gem I got in my 20s. Every so often, I thought that I should keep you in my almirah, so that no one will ever be snatch you from me. Ahh! I'm getting possessive now. STOP! STOP! Hehehe!


    I think, you are like my Sunday's evening coffee and my Monday's morning motivation because you always hold me up in every situation of my creepy life. I think, you are like hoodie or sweater for me in a winter evening who keeps me warm eternally. I found my cosy little space on you that I love the most.



    I want to rechristened your name to 'Bugs Bunny' because Bugs never leave his lady luck 'Lola' at any cost. Haha! You are such an interesting person I got or I can say "The Most Weird Yet Wonderful Person" I got in my life. Or I can call you the converter of my loneliness to solitude and to laughter. There is always fun to talk with you. There is always interesting stuffs you brought to me. I got curious whenever you said, "Tumhe pata hai!", I honestly never know what to expect. Did you get a haircut? Did you kill someone? Who knows? Hehe!!



    I'm sorry for all the things I told you. I know, you were hurt. Please! Forgive. Love me as always you do. You are the need of an hour for me throughout my life, My stupid friend. Toodles!



    Forever yours,
    Meow
    ©pillow_talk_quotes

  • words_of_mine_anjali 21w

    ......
    Talking to an artist of any field,
    makes me feel so relaxed & comfortable.
    And it also feels like...
    "I am totally normal" ,
    such crazy people for different artforms just like me...
    actually exist!


    ©words_of_mine_anjali

  • words_of_mine_anjali 21w

    कितना मुश्किल है ना!
    ज़िंदगी अपनी शर्तों पर जीना।
    लेकिन सच कहूँ तो अगर आपको ये मौका मिल रहा है
    तो आप बहुत खुशनसीब हैं,
    क्योंकि ज़िम्मेदारियों के बोझ तले,
    कुछ लोगों को ज़िंदगी का दिया
    ये मौका भी sacrifice करना पड़ता है।


    ©words_of_mine_anjali

  • shanaparween 21w

    LOVE or SOMETHING other
    Whatever it was.......
    but
    it's really hard to breathe without you.
    ©shanaparween

  • pillow_talk_quotes 23w

    We can. We should. We must.

    Yesterday, I saw one of my friend celebrating Christmas with those children who are dumb and living in a "Kopal vani" (a charitable trust). I messaged her immediately and blessed her with so much love. Her these beautiful steps always fills my heart with warmth and joy. I feel blessed to have such people on my surroundings who are responsible as a human. I feel happy to see people helping others and putting smiles on those who really needs that. These peoples are like gem who are the needs of this generation.



    Okay! We are humans. We are humans who have two hands, two legs, two eyes, two ears yet useless. We are humans who have a capacity to speak but yet speechless. We are the humans who can hear and see this beautiful world but yet deaf and disparately sightless. We always follow trends and fashion. We outlay on these things so very much that we forget to spent on needful people.



    It pinches my heart when somebody extremely spends on gifts and at parties just to show how they are rich and fashionable. It may sounds orthodox but things when goes off limit it becomes hazardous.



    Everyone needs attention. Every child have right to be happy, to be educated. Our parents educated us but what to them who don't have guardians? There are thousands of people who are aged and dont have anyone to help them, who are not even physically able to survive. What to them? We are humans. We can help others.
    We have this body to give hands to someone. We can help others. We can lit their life. We should and we must. All you need spare just few minutes of your life.
    ©pillow_talk_quotes

  • pujaparmar 23w

    Suno meri udasi..
    Tum roz yu mujhse milne aya na karo..
    Main har raat naye hauslo ko gale lagake sota hu..
    ©pujaparmar

  • neuralnomad 24w

    His skin unwrinkled, youth's tightening grasp
    but that mind of his has aged too far
    for boatman he is, yet no boat he has
    with life for hire on river boats,
    fishing his way to day's stomach full
    until it sinks, new search begins
    his pages of life, just sinking boats
    where he stands on one, till submersion
    then jumps to next, yes, some holes it has,
    thus too will sink, someday's setting sun,
    such story's told, while he jumps on
    from boat to boat, only clothes on back
    nothing more he carries, well he knows?
    with one such boat, that he'll sink too?
    below a river where no bodies float?
    Yes, since birth on a sinking boat
    he knows, neither boats nor he,
    the river's the master, so it shall have
    one day,
    his weary corpse, in sinking rest.

    #writersnetwork#writerstolli#life#mirakeepoetry#mirakee#mirakeetales#mirakeeworld @twt_official
    Image credits - Pendulam by Soukarya Ghoshal

    Read More

    ©neuralnomad