The Child
The Girl Who Never Grew Up
Once upon a time, in a small town kissed by fog and daisies, there lived a girl named Leonora. She wore puff sleeves and floral dresses, her laughter as light as the wind that danced through the Glasgow hills. She was known for her afternoon tea parties with porcelain cups, her love of dress-up gowns, and the way she sang musicals as though the whole world were her stage.
Leonora’s kingdom was not made of stone and iron but of fields and fantasies. Her best friends were her cats—soft, purring guardians of her secret world. Alex, a chestnut horse with kind eyes, was her chosen prince, galloping beside her through meadows of daisies and wildflowers. Together, they imagined castles that touched the clouds and fairytale endings that never faltered.
She was Daddy’s little girl, the perfect picture of sweetness and light. She believed in happy endings, in the goodness of strangers, and in the magic of “once upon a time.”
But like all stories, Leonora’s fairytale held a dark twist.
Her curse was cruel: from a shock so deep, her body continued to grow while her mind remained frozen at six years old. At first, her childlike energy seemed a breath of fresh air, a rare kind of purity in a fractured world. But soon, the cracks began to show—her naivety no longer charming but a haunting echo of unhealed wounds.
She wasn’t just playful. She was trapped.
The Victim
I wasn’t born invisible.
I was made this way.
Voiceless. Disposable. Forgotten.
I was made this way.
Voiceless. Disposable. Forgotten.
I wandered the halls of a haunted house—
Lingering memories of an absent father,
Hovering over a broken mother,
Drowning her pain in a pipe full of crack.
Lingering memories of an absent father,
Hovering over a broken mother,
Drowning her pain in a pipe full of crack.
I roamed the dark alleyways of rejection, loss, and neglect.
The stench of shame clung to me like piss in the air—
No matter how hard I scrubbed, it wouldn’t wash off.
The stench of shame clung to me like piss in the air—
No matter how hard I scrubbed, it wouldn’t wash off.
That was me. A ghost.
Watching. Mourning. Longing.
Fading into the background,
Until Lucifer whispered, “I see you.”
Fading into the background,
Until Lucifer whispered, “I see you.”
So I jumped off the porch and turned into a demon.
The Seeker
Fatima was never taught to choose—only to comply.
Her desires were dismissed, her opinions silenced, her dreams buried beneath layers of modesty, virtue, and duty.
Her desires were dismissed, her opinions silenced, her dreams buried beneath layers of modesty, virtue, and duty.
Suffocating under an imposed identity, she withdrew into her own bubble, mourning the girl she left behind and daring to imagine who she might become.
She wandered art galleries and city streets like a ghost, searching for something sacred—something lost.
A stage where a girl once danced fiercely.
But the past is a country she can never return to.
The Seeker becomes a wanderer without a destination.
She drifts—physically, emotionally, spiritually—unable to commit, unable to return.
She drifts—physically, emotionally, spiritually—unable to commit, unable to return.
A soul in exile.
The Rebel: Young Wild & Free
Dirty Diana is a firestorm in heels—unapologetic, untamed, unforgettable.
Born to be wild, her fire-sign energy (Sagittarius to the core) drew both admiration and caution. When she stormed out of a room—closet doors flung open, clothes strewn across the floor—it felt as though a tornado had passed.
Raised between cultures, she always felt like an outsider. But instead of trying to fit in, she embraced her status on the margins, sharpening her edges and nurturing her inner fire. Her early acts of rebellion were small but defiant: lighting cigarettes in secret, sneaking out after curfew, attending forbidden parties. She thrived on danger, clinging to a false sense of freedom. For her, rebellion began as a silent protest against exclusion and rigid expectations.
She grew louder—defiant, curious, testing rules and pushing boundaries. Her outspokenness clashed with the conservative culture around her, and her eccentric nature was often misunderstood.
Loud and fierce, she shouted to be heard, but her noise was fleeting—dissipating like the rumble of a Harley blasting “Highway to Hell” as it fades down the street. With no constructive outlet for her rebellious energy, the chaos she unleashed inevitably backfired.
Curiosity killed the cat.
The Diva
Donia is the dark glitter of the psyche—a dazzling, dangerous alter ego born from suppressed desire. With cinematic precision, she orchestrated every encounter, casting herself as the elusive star. Men were spellbound by her charm, wit, and allure, idolizing her as an enigma—a true diva in her own right. Yet she remained emotionally detached, rejecting their attempts to play a larger role. Once they fulfilled their parts in her carefully constructed drama, she discarded them with ease—mere pawns in her femme fatale narrative.
She was brilliant, beautiful, and broken—her power rooted in performance, not presence. Beneath the glamour lay a wounded child, hungry for revenge against the patriarchal forces that betrayed her. But her obsession with freedom curdled into seduction and manipulation, and her pursuit of independence slipped quietly into addiction.
Her descent was operatic: Donia became her own downfall. And in her final act—shattered and sobbing in a Dubai hotel room—she fell to her knees. Not for applause, but for mercy.
That moment marked her first unscripted scene.
The Convict
Don’t hate the player— hate the game.
The Convict wasn’t born—he was built in blood and concrete. Years in the joint didn’t break him; they sharpened him like a shank scraped against a cell wall. He went in young, green, thinking hope was a lifeline. But hope don’t last long in the pen—it gets stomped out quick.
Prison schooled him fast: eat or get eaten. Predator or prey. Lil’ G kept his head low, ears wide open. He soaked up game from lifers—men who spoke like philosophers but moved like killers. Chess, not checkers.
He bunked with Latif, a seasoned convict with a short fuse and a long game. Latif played mentor—teaching him how to dodge predators, hustle contraband, and run prison politics. But every favor came with a price. Latif never planned to leave—and he damn sure wanted his protégé locked in for life.
But in that cell, all a man has is time—to think. To plot. Months in the hole flipped a switch. In the darkness, he faced his demons—and slaughtered them, quiet and clean.
When he stepped back on the yard, Lil’ G was gone. Lord Jackson stood in his place.
When he hit the streets, Latif tried to flex—calling from prison, barking threats like he still ran something. Lord Jackson hung up mid-sentence, ice cold. The script was flipped. He’d learned from the real ones—the OGs. Money. Respect. Real power whispers.
But even law abiding citizens wear chains. And deep down, he knew—some prisons you never escape.
The Hero
The call came, as it always does for heroes—soft at first, then impossible to ignore.
Edinburgh the Magical — a city that blurs the line between past and present, reality and legend. It’s not a place you visit; it’s a spell you fall under.
In Edinburgh’s old library, Sara met Andrew—a scholar cloaked in mystery, a wizard in all but name. “Apollo and Dionysus,” he said. “Order and chaos. Reason and passion. This,” he whispered, “is the cure to the ills of society. You must spread its truth.”
She spent days in the library, decoding the book’s secrets. And then it happened. Goosebumps rippled across her skin as memories surged like waves.
Flashbacks: her younger self in the back seat of the car, her father at the wheel, her brother beside him, driving to Oakgrove Primary School. She had once declared, with childlike certainty, that she would grow up and dye her hair blonde. Her father had smiled gently in the rearview mirror. “Your dark hair is beautiful,” he said.
Now, in the library’s dim reflection, Sara’s hair shimmered blonde.
She was staring into a dream-symbol—an illusion, a construct of the unconscious.
She was staring into a dream-symbol—an illusion, a construct of the unconscious.
The dream, vivid moments ago, collapsed under the weight of its own unreality. The world dissolved into abstraction. Distinctions blurred. Subject and object, self and other—gone.
The mask of Apollo fell. The self—deconstructed, all boundaries between inner and outer, self and cosmos erased. There was no “I.” No name. No form. Only pure awareness. Oneness with the eternal Will.
She was infinite. Indivisible. A fragment of the primordial unity.
The Soldier
Love is what moves a soldier. Not duty. Not vengeance. Love.
Love for country. Love for a wife waiting by the window. Love for children who may never know his face. Love for God, whispered into the darkness of a foxhole.
Love for country. Love for a wife waiting by the window. Love for children who may never know his face. Love for God, whispered into the darkness of a foxhole.
Around his neck hangs a locket—inside, her smile. A quiet tether to a world that feels so far away.
On the battlefield, amidst smoke and sorrow, the greatest love stories unfold. Not in grand gestures but in small, holy moments:
A little girl pressing an apricot into his scarred hand.
An old woman hiding weary fighters beneath her floorboards.
A nurse cleaning a wound with hands so gentle it feels like absolution.
A nun serving bread and milk to strangers in a shattered church.
A prostitute offering warmth—not judgment—to the lost and broken.
Even an enemy general turning a blind eye, choosing mercy over orders.
These are the memories he carries—not medals, not victories. Fragments of love stitched into his soul like shrapnel.
But when the war ends, and the flags are lowered, a new battle begins. The world outside feels too soft, too slow. He searches for something—someone—he left behind. A love lost to the fog of war.
He wanders streets, markets, and crowded stations, scanning faces for a flicker of recognition. He isn’t sure if he’s looking for her… or for himself.
Because some soldiers never truly come home. Even when their bodies do.
The Warrior Princess
The Lady of the Palace is the embodiment of the perfect wife—graceful, intelligent, socially savvy, with a deep-rooted Arab pride and a Middle Eastern mentality that commands admiration across generations. She knows how to host. She knows how to cook. She knows how to rule—without ever raising her voice.
But for all her allure, she remains untouched by matrimony. Her dowry? The price of killing your ego. And even if a prince proves his worth by slaying the dragon, he soon discovers—
it is still not enough for a woman who has already slain her own.
it is still not enough for a woman who has already slain her own.
The Healer
The Healer walks softly through life, her eyes reflecting the ache of the unconscious and the wisdom of battles she has fought within her own soul. Her gift is empathy so deep it feels like a calling—an urge to mend broken wings, soothe wounded hearts, and light the way for lost souls.
But in her urgency to heal, she forgets: not every wound seeks her touch. She offers help before it’s asked, trying to “fix” people who were never hers to repair. She struggles to accept others as they are—messy, unfinished, still becoming. She resists trusting that life itself will be their mirror, that their trials and tribulations are sacred teachers meant only for them.
The Healer’s true work begins when she turns inward. Here, she discovers that healing isn’t about saving others, but about holding space for them to save themselves. She stops imposing cures and starts embodying wholeness.
And in doing so, she inspires—not through intervention, but through quiet example.
The world doesn’t need her to fix it.
It needs her to heal herself.
And in her healing, others will find their reflection.
It needs her to heal herself.
And in her healing, others will find their reflection.
The Lover
The Lover lives with his heart wide open, raw and unguarded. Passion is his gift—and his curse. He falls not just for people, but for the dream of them. The idea. The illusion. The way their presence feels like a message from the universe, a symbol whispered in his sleep. Again and again, he mistakes reflections for rivers, shadows for soulmates.
He loves deeply, recklessly, wholly. And yet, his greatest longing is not for the women who stir his body or the friendships that stir his mind—it is for something vaster. The divine. The Source. The Lover is not meant to pour his devotion into temporary vessels. His calling is to pour into God. To drink deeply from a love that is unending.
But all great love stories are tested.
Even his.
Even his.
The devil knows his weakness—the seduction of beauty, the hunger for ecstasy, the longing to feel whole in another’s arms. The apple made Adam leave heaven. The Lover must face his own Eden and his own fall.
To awaken, he must see beyond the illusions and return to the Real. When he learns to pour his love into the Infinite, he becomes something greater than a man in love—he becomes love itself.
Intoxicated on God’s love.
The Queen
The Queen was born of a matriarchal civilization—abundant, radiant, and sovereign. Hers was a kingdom that worshipped the sun, its people bowing to the golden disc that warmed their lands and fed their caravans of myrrh, frankincense, and spices. She ruled not with fear but with wisdom, her throne encircled by the counsel of wise men who yielded to her sharp mind and gracious command.
But her story truly began the day a small bird—a hoopoe—brought an invitation. A letter from a king unlike any other. Solomon. Born to rule, gifted by Allah with a kingdom beyond human comprehension. He spoke the language of animals, commanded armies of jinn and men, and prayed for wisdom so vast that even the ant’s voice reached his ears.
The Queen accepted the summons, seeing it not as a threat but as a sacred duty. She traveled with her legendary caravan, laden with treasures and knowledge, crossing deserts and seas—not for conquest, but for enlightenment. Hers was a pilgrimage of mind and spirit—a journey to test and be tested.
She stood before Solomon not as a supplicant, but as an equal—an exceedingly rare moment when a queen and a king recognized one another’s sovereignty. Over a banquet, they matched wits in riddles and words. Yet her deepest trial came not from him, but from within. For all her power, her abundance, her intellect, she was asked to bow—not to Solomon, but to the King of All Kings. To God Himself.
When she returned to her kingdom, she was transformed—still a queen, but now a servant of a higher throne.
