Maria Shaikh
Introduction
My name is Aria, and I am a passionate writer and co-author of Three anthologies, A Tough Day, Light After Dark and The Writers Write. With a deep appreciation for storytelling, I specialize in crafting thrilling and thought-provoking narratives. My ability to connect with diverse themes allows me to explore creative ideas that resonate and revolve around readers. I thrive in collaborative environments, combining my skills in communication and adaptability to achieve shared goals. Beyond writing, I am a keen observer of life, finding inspiration in everyday moments and challenges. My journey is driven by a commitment to personal growth and excellence, as I continually strive to refine my skills and expand my horizons in the literary world.
Works
The Whispering Woods
Deep in the heart of the forest lies a clearing untouched by time. Locals call it the Whispering Woods, where trees seem to murmur secrets. Legend says a traveler once ventured in and never returned, leaving only a notebook behind. The pages? Empty, except for a single line: “The forest sees what you cannot.” Some claim they hear voices calling their names from the shadows. No one dares to find out why.
The Clockmaker's Curse
The old clockmaker worked tirelessly, creating timepieces that never ticked. His shop reeked of age, dust, and something unspoken. One evening, he disappeared, leaving a single clock running. Its hands moved backward, whispering a haunting melody. Those who hear it report strange visions of the past—memories that don’t belong to them. Who did the clockmaker really make time for?
The Vanishing Train
Every year on the same night, passengers board the Midnight Express, a train with no destination. Tickets appear mysteriously on doorsteps. Witnesses claim the train vanishes into thin air as the clock strikes 12. Those who board are never seen again, except for one man who returned years later, whispering only one word: “Forgotten”
Another Year, Another Memory
The year fades into the past, slipping quietly into the vault of memories. It becomes another fragment—neither wholly forgotten nor entirely clear—just a mix of fleeting smiles, unshed tears, and echoes of conversations long ended. Each moment, once vivid, now softens into a distant haze, a reminder of choices made and paths not taken. The year is no longer a span of time but a feeling, a whisper of what was, etched into the fabric of who you are, waiting to resurface when the world grows still.