Pocket Storytime

  Aarohi had always been the girl who arrived late. Late to speak. Late to walk. Late to be heard. She was not slow―just different. At school, when others gathered friends and gold medals, tales in the margin of note-books were all that reassured her. When all drove ahead in affairs of loving, working, and children, Aarohi quietly waited at the far end of life's long queue, clutching on to such tenuous dreams which could not be confided. Her twenties passed in a blur of rejection—job interviews ended in polite refusals, stories published unread as far as page five, and a broken heart when the only man she ever loved married another. Others called her unlucky. Lazy. “Too sensitive.” She smiled the whole way. But on some nights, the quite hollered. She was still living in her parent's home at thirty-five, worked on a part-time schedule in a library, and refined novels for writers whose style was all that she was interested in writing. But she refused to give up. She sat...

  Every night, when the world closed its eyes, Elira stepped through the silver doorway at the edge of sleep. Beyond it lay the Aetheris Realm—a sky suspended in hues of violet and rose-gold, where stars drifted like dandelion seeds and clouds curled like ribbons. Elira was the Sky Weaver, born to braid dreams into constellations. Her fingers spun moonlight into threads, laced with quiet laughter, forgotten lullabies, and whispered wishes. Each star she created carried a dream—some soft and hopeful, others fierce and wild. Tonight, a hush covered the realm like velvet. The Dream Winds were gentle, guiding her hands as she wove a star for a little girl who wished to fly. Feathers shimmered into shape. Wind hummed its secrets. And just like that, a new constellation blinked awake— The Soaring Girl —lighting up the night. Elira smiled. This was her favorite part—not the weaving, but the knowing. Knowing that somewhere, on Earth, a child would awaken with wide eyes and a racing h...

  In a hushed town between hills and memory lived an old balloon vendor called Ravi. Every morning he would sit beside the iron gate of the park with his wooden chest of colorful balloons attached to delicate strings. Children loved him, but it was not just the balloons that won their hearts, it was the tales he murmured with each hue. A small girl called Tara rushed to him one windy afternoon with wide-opened eyes and flushed cheeks. "Can I have the orange one, please?" she requested. Ravi smiled. "Why orange?" "Because it resembles the sun. today, the sun is being kind to us." He gave it to her carefully. "Grasp it firmly. It could try to take flight." She skipped away with a chuckle, the balloon trailing behind her like a tiny sunset on a string. That night, Ravi failed to turn up at his customary location. Nor the following day. Or the following one. Word traveled quietly throughout the town. Ravi, the balloon man, had died in...

  Elin resided in a crooked, creaking cottage on the outskirts of the village of Elderglow, where the gales whistled lullabies and flowers changed color to reflect the mood. She was not talked about for her, but for her paintings. Her paintings glimmered softly, as if they were half-whispering something beyond range to the human ear. Children would occasionally push their ears against her completed paintings and report that they heard laughter, music, and even secrets from the stars. But Elin heard absolutely nothing. Never from her paintings, never from the world. She painted daily, not for acclaim, but simply because it was the one way she was seen. Her fingers seemed to dance by habit, painting where she'd never traveled, faces she'd never met, and skies that were not her own. As the night poured over her studio, infusing it with pale silver from the moon, Elin was seized by an inexplicable tug in her chest — as if memory was struggling to be born. She picked up her ...

  At the centre of a sleepy little town stood The Enchanted Mug—a strange little cafe where latte art sometimes winked at you in a knowing glance. The regulars knew the secret: this café was ever so slightly magical and completely and utterly unrepeatable. Juno, a perpetually curious barista who sported a streak of teal hair, enforced a single rule: Never order the "Mocha of Misunderstandings" unless Mercury is in retrograde. Enter Leo—flustered charming and devastated. He collapsed onto a window seat, grasping a paperback copy of Love, literally . Juno came over with a smile and a menu rimmed faintly with glitter. "I'll take… whatever will correct this," Leo sighed melodramatically. Juno looked up at the sky. Mercury wasn't in retrograde. However, her cat the unofficial café manager meowed and knocked the recipe card for the” Mocha of Misunderstandings “off the shelf. “Well,” she whispered, “close enough.” Soon enough, the drink appeared—heart-s...

  Elowen always sensed she did not fit in in the actual world. Whilst the rest were hurrying through traffic, frantically scrolling through their phones, and ticking off lists, Elowen strolled through antique bookshops, whispered at flowers, and fantasized about cities without clocks. One night spent lying awake with a blanket wrapped around her and a novel in her hands, she whispered to the night skies, "Take me somewhere I belong." The stars obeyed The next day, she awoke not in her small flat but in a velvet cloud bed. The atmosphere was scented with sugared roses and honey wind. As she emerged outdoors, she gasped. Lavender painted the sky above. Silver and pink leaves glimmered on the trees. Waistcoats adorned rabbits. Butterflies sang lullabies. The sun yawned and blinked like a sleepy cat. She landed in the Lavender Realm. People painted rainbows for a living here, danced on weekends with dragons, and made cupcakes that sang you a compliment as you ate th...