I’m gonna be starting a short story on here guys, about 3 chp. & I’m gonna go ahead & post each chp. once a wk
1st chp. will come tomorrow😁 make sure to tune in haha
I’m gonna be starting a short story on here guys, about 3 chp. & I’m gonna go ahead & post each chp. once a wk
1st chp. will come tomorrow😁 make sure to tune in haha
The Intellectual Devotional-Become a more well-rounded person by learning what would take you many semesters in college. All in one year! 5 stars! @DavidSKidder @HarmonyRodale #LifeLongLearning #devotional #review
The Intellectual Devotional presents 365 short chapters displaying what humanity has learned, created, and achieved during its time on Earth. The book covers seven subjects— one for each day of the week.
After taking every Appreciation class offered at my community college,…
Take a trip to the tiniest drive-in movie theater in the world; the one inside of our imagination. Admission is free. Bring your own popcorn. Each weekend (or episode) consists of a double feature of b-horror stories, written on a miniature scale. Hosted by Mycha and Mama Pryme.
Weekend #1: Eerie Encounters (coming Valentine’s Day 2021)
Weekend #2: Desolate Destinations (coming soon)
I sit in a cage above the sea.
My only connection to the kingdom above is the rope that suspends me. My legs hang through the bars, free to swing along with the tempo of the waves below. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can feel the ocean air as it travels to my lungs, taking my problems away momentarily, sending me down to the beach below. My eyes suddenly sting from the salt water, my skin burns from the sun. I flex my toes, moving the sand below me. I take a step, letting my feet be submerged. Walking forward, I feel every cell in my skin rejoicing. I go to dip my hands in the cool water, and suddenly a wave hits me. I go sprawling back, breaking the surface of the ocean, and finding that it seems to be getting farther and farther away from me. My lungs scream inside of me and my chest threatens to collapse as my hands desperately attempt to grip the air that is long above me. I desperately need to breathe, but I don’t want to. Against my own will, I gasp, air filling my lungs. I open my eyes, and my heart sinks. My feet are not wet. My eyes do not burn. I lean against the bars to catch my breath, so that I may return to the ocean below
Warning: Killing people by hitting them with stones :)
The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers
were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in
the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many
people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 2th. but in this village, where there
were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten
o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.
The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of
liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke
into boisterous play. and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands.
Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his
example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix– the
villagers pronounced this name “Dellacroy”–eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the
square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves,
looking over their shoulders at rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.
Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and
taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they
smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after
their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands.
Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came
reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother’s grasping hand
and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and
took his place between his father and his oldest brother.
The lottery was conducted–as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program–by Mr.
Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he
ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him. because he had no children and his wife was a
scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of
conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. “Little late today, folks.” The postmaster, Mr.
Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and
Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between
themselves and the stool. and when Mr. Summers said, “Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?”
there was a hesitation before two men. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter. came forward to hold the
box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.
The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the
stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr.
Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as
much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been
made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first
people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking
again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything’s being done.
The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued. had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers’ coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves’s barn and another year underfoot in the post office. and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there. There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up–of heads of families. heads of households in each family. members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory. tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this p3rt of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans. with one hand resting carelessly on the black box. he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins. Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. “Clean forgot what day it was,” she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. “Thought my old man was out back stacking wood,” Mrs. Hutchinson went on. “and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twentyseventh and came a-running.” She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, “You’re in time, though. They’re still talking away up there.” Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said. in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, “Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson,” and “Bill, she made it after all.” Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. “Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie.” Mrs. Hutchinson said. grinning, “Wouldn’t have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you. Joe?,” and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson’s arrival. “Well, now.” Mr. Summers said soberly, “guess we better get started, get this over with, so’s we can go back to work. Anybody ain’t here?"
Dunbar.” several people said. “Dunbar. Dunbar.”
Mr. Summers consulted his list. “Clyde Dunbar.” he said. “That’s right. He’s broke his leg, hasn’t he?
Who’s drawing for him?”
“Me. I guess,” a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. “Wife draws for her husband.” Mr.
Summers said. “Don’t you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?” Although Mr. Summers and
everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the
lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while
Mrs. Dunbar answered.
“Horace’s not but sixteen vet.” Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. “Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this
“Right.” Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, “Watson boy
drawing this year?”
A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. “Here,” he said. “I’m drawing for my mother and me.” He blinked
his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said thin#s like “Good fellow,
lack.” and “Glad to see your mother’s got a man to do it.”
“Well,” Mr. Summers said, “guess that’s everyone. Old Man Warner make it?”
“Here,” a voice said. and Mr. Summers nodded.
A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. “All ready?” he
called. “Now, I’ll read the names–heads of families first–and the men come up and take a paper out of
the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn.
The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were
quiet. wetting their lips. not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, “Adams.”
A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. “Hi. Steve.” Mr. Summers said. and Mr.
Adams said. “Hi. Joe.” They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached
into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went
hastily back to his place in the crowd. where he stood a little apart from his family. not looking down at
“Allen.” Mr. Summers said. “Anderson…. Bentham.”
“Seems like there’s no time at all between lotteries any more.” Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the
“Seems like we got through with the last one only last week.”
“Time sure goes fast.– Mrs. Graves said.
“There goes my old man.” Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.
“Dunbar,” Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said.
“Go on. Janey,” and another said, “There she goes.”
“We’re next.” Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box,
greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd
there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand. turning them over and over nervously
Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.
“Get up there, Bill,” Mrs. Hutchinson said. and the people near her laughed.
“They do say,” Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, “that over in the north
village they’re talking of giving up the lottery.”
Old Man Warner snorted. “Pack of crazy fools,” he said. “Listening to the young folks, nothing’s good
enough for them. Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any
more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about ‘Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.’ First thing
you know, we’d all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There’s always been a lottery,” he added
petulantly. “Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody.”
“Some places have already quit lotteries.” Mrs. Adams said.
“Nothing but trouble in that,” Old Man Warner said stoutly. “Pack of young fools.”
“Martin.” And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. “Overdyke…. Percy.”
“I wish they’d hurry,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. “I wish they’d hurry.”
“They’re almost through,” her son said.
“You get ready to run tell Dad,” Mrs. Dunbar said.
Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box.
Then he called, “Warner.”
“Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery,” Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd.
“Watson” The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, “Don’t be nervous, Jack,” and
Mr. Summers said, “Take your time, son.”
After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers. holding his slip of paper in the
air, said, “All right, fellows.” For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened.
Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving. “Who is it?,” “Who’s got it?,” “Is it the
Dunbars?,” “Is it the Watsons?” Then the voices began to say, “It’s Hutchinson. It’s Bill,” “Bill
Hutchinson’s got it.”
“Go tell your father,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.
People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at
the paper in his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. “You didn’t give him time
enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn’t fair!”
“Be a good sport, Tessie.” Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, “All of us took the same chance.”
“Shut up, Tessie,” Bill Hutchinson said.
“Well, everyone,” Mr. Summers said, “that was done pretty fast, and now we’ve got to be hurrying a little
more to get done in time.” He consulted his next list. “Bill,” he said, “you draw for the Hutchinson
family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?”
“There’s Don and Eva,” Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. “Make them take their chance!”
“Daughters draw with their husbands’ families, Tessie,” Mr. Summers said gently. “You know that as
well as anyone else.”
“It wasn’t fair,” Tessie said.
“I guess not, Joe.” Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. “My daughter draws with her husband’s family; that’s
only fair. And I’ve got no other family except the kids.”
“Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it’s you,” Mr. Summers said in explanation, “and as far
as drawing for households is concerned, that’s you, too. Right?”
“Right,” Bill Hutchinson said.
“How many kids, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked formally.
“Three,” Bill Hutchinson said.
“There’s Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me.”
“All right, then,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you got their tickets back?”
Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. “Put them in the box, then,” Mr. Summers directed.
“Take Bill’s and put it in.”
“I think we ought to start over,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. “I tell you it wasn’t fair.
You didn’t give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that.”
Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box. and he dropped all the papers but those
onto the ground. where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.
“Listen, everybody,” Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.
“Ready, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and
“Remember,” Mr. Summers said. “take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one.
Harry, you help little Dave.” Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up
to the box. “Take a paper out of the box, Davy.” Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and
laughed. “Take just one paper.” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you hold it for him.” Mr. Graves took the
child’s hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to
him and looked up at him wonderingly.
“Nancy next,” Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went
forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box “Bill, Jr.,” Mr. Summers said, and Billy,
his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. “Tessie,” Mr.
Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly. and then set her lips and went up to
the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.
“Bill,” Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand
out at last with the slip of paper in it.
The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, “I hope it’s not Nancy,” and the sound of the whisper reached the
edges of the crowd.
“It’s not the way it used to be.” Old Man Warner said clearly. “People ain’t the way they used to be.”
“All right,” Mr. Summers said. “Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave’s.”
Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and
everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr.. opened theirs at the same time. and both
beamed and laughed. turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.
“Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and
Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.
“It’s Tessie,” Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. “Show us her paper. Bill.”
Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on
it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company
office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.
“All right, folks.” Mr. Summers said. “Let’s finish quickly.”
Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to
use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with
the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to
pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. “Come on,” she said. “Hurry up.”
Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said. gasping for breath. “I can’t run at all. You’ll
have to go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.”
The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.
Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as
the villagers moved in on her. “It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man
Warner was saying, “Come on, come on, everyone.” Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of
villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.
“It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.
The Grandmasters – a short, short story
“We cannot go out to play,” said the boy looking out of the window as sheets of rain came down.“Let’s play chess,” his friend said.He had seen his father arrange the pieces.They took out the board and arranged the pieces.“How do we play this?” the boy said.“I don’t know!” his friend said, “I only know how to set the pieces up.”“What is this?” the boy said.“That is an elephant, and this is my…
The Fifth Science is a delightfully creative experience, spanning from the 1920s far into a hypothetical future of the human race. The author, exurb1a, has a philosophical youtube channel that is always great for some mind bending thought experiments but I’d hazard to say that this collection is their best work so far. The creativity and worldbuilding on display make for an endlessly enjoyable and thought provoking experience. Sci-fi short story compilations have been done many times before, dating back almost to the invention of the genre, but the way each of these stories are interconnected makes this book truly unique.
For those not in the know, The Fifth Science contains a myriad of short stories, with each one being further and further in the future than the last, and the subtle way these stories connect make me absolutely ecstatic when reading them. Technologies that are seen being invented in one story are commonplace, or even obsolete in the next, names that are nonchalantly mentioned in some of the latter stories take on a new meaning now that you know some part of the history that has taken place there. Aside from the connectedness, however, each story holds up on its own as a sublime and creative work.
I find myself repeating the word creative alot as I describe The Fifth Science, and that’s because it truly is. It may be the fact that I read the book after having read nothing but Brandon Sanderson’s Cosmere for the better part of a year and I needed a change of pace desperately, but I honestly believe that this book showcases a level of pure imagination and fun that makes it truly unique.
So there are my thoughts on The Fifth Science as of right now! This review was shorter than most, but that’s only because the elements that make the book so good are simple. It has my utmost recommendation if you’re looking for some quarantine reading material, and I hope that you enjoy your dinner very much!
The Awakening and Selected Stories – Kate Chopin
There was only three of us in the room for book club, the last in-person for the year. The short stories here weren’t worth much for me, but the title story was something else; elegant, poignant and surprisingly modern.
But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever emerge from such a beginning! How many souls perish in its tumult!
It’s the 20th of January, 2021. 5 years ago, on this day, I wrote a 500-word story, and told myself I’ll keep doing it every day.
After a year or two of knowing me, I’m sure they were both tired of hearing me lament how I can’t write, despite wanting to. I just can’t. My writing sucks.
Just five hundred words, then. Nothing to prove to anyone, nothing fancy, just five hundred words of fiction.
Their encouragement during that critical hour, 5 years ago, ended up working out well for me. Before I knew it, I’d spent a few days writing daily, and then a week, and then two weeks. Each milestone was an achievement.
I decided to put my writing on a public blog, and to update that blog as I went. I named it after a line from a Sylvia Plath poem. Sulfurous Dreamscapes.
A week passed, then two weeks, on and on they piled. A month, two months, and then even the number of months piled on.
It seemed absurd to me, because I could not imagine myself doing this every single day, without fail, without a break. Other people, sure. But I’m not the sort of person who can manage this, surely?
But I was. I was making this happen.
Eight months after the blog began, I had 100 followers. On my first anniversary(!) I had tripled that number. In another year(!!), I had tripled that number further.
It got easier with each milestone piling on top of another. If I can do one week, can I do two weeks? If one month, then two months? One year, two years? Three? Five?
After likes and commentless reblogs, I started getting comments and tags. Kind words. Excited words. People wanted to read more, because they were invested in what I was writing. This gratification is what I lived for, and now it was something I could wake up to.
For some 5 years, I woke up every morning excited to see what people thought about my work. The most unexpected stories would become popular and accrue hundreds of notes, sometimes over a thousand. Some of my stories even got plagiarised on Facebook a few times.
After a point, Sulfurous Dreamscapes became a part of my body’s functionality. The daily story had to be done, no matter what. I wrote when I was sick, I wrote when there was no power, I wrote when I was on vacation, I wrote when I was on an Indian Railways train.
The show must go on, and it certainly went on. If I hadn’t written for ‘the day’, I refused to go to sleep. Most of the time, this meant going to sleep at 1-3 am. Sometimes, it meant staying up until 8 am.
What this blog did for me, however, is beyond quantisation or words. It gave me a clarity of purpose I was lacking for the longest time in my life. It transformed how I saw myself, my life, the world, and just about everything else. It’s the greatest accomplishment in my life.
Now, it’s time to do more.
This post is getting a bit long, so I will stop here for now. I will share a bit about the future of my writing in another post.
Goals Summary 2021 – Wk# 2
The long weekend threw off my groove in a big way. It sucks to have your routine thrown out of wack when you’re just starting to stick to it. But I didn’t let that hold me back!
Write 1k words
Finish Harrow the Ninth
Finish listening to The Changeling
Read (at least) two parts from The Kick-Ass Writer
START READING TAVI
How’d I do?
Miss Perfectionist – Short Story by Wilfred Bright
I’m to perfect to get a B in my fifth grade
Written by Wilfred Bright ✍
🌹A short story🌹
The blaring of the alarm wakes Clara williams up, she off the alarm, then strecth a little bit sitting up on the bed.
“I could swear I placed my slippers 3 inches apart from each other, why are they joined together.” Clara frowns staring at the slippers that magically joined together even…
Watch पिग्गी मेरा पेट - PIGGY MERA PET Comedy Story | Hindi Funny Videos Moral Fairy Tales Hindi Kahaniya. #PIG #MajaDreamsTV #HorrorComedy #AnimatedStories #FunnyVideos #ComedyVideos #GhostStories Disclaimer: The Maja Dreams TV Channel and all of its videos are not “directed to children” within the meaning of Title 16 C.F.R. § 312.2 of CHILDREN’S ONLINE PRIVACY PROTECTION ACT (USA) are not intended for children under 13 years of age. Maja Dreams TV and its owner(s), agents, representatives, and employees do not collect any information from children under 13 years of age and expressly deny permission to any third party seeking to collect information from children under 13 years of age on behalf of Maja Dreams Tv. Thanks for watching and your support. Thanks for Watching For more updates please do subscribe to us: https://bit.ly/3eN4WUr Social Sites: Blogger: https://ift.tt/2YiTCcB Twitter: https://twitter.com/majadreamstv Instagram: https://ift.tt/2V0piS4 FB page: https://ift.tt/2YfqeUs #HindiStories #ChudailKiKahaniya #HorrorStories #HindiMoralStories #HindiKahaniya #Moralkahaniya #PanchatantraTales #LatestHindiStories #Kahaniya #Stories #Kahani #HindiKahaniya #Story #HorrorStories #SuspenseStories #MotivationalStories #EntertainingVideos #FunnyStories
She knew better than to runaway.
This was supposed to be horror but it can also be uplifting I guess depending on how you read it…
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