Imran Pisani
Bio
Hey, welcome. I write sharp, honest stories that entertain, challenge ideas, and push boundaries. If you’re here for stories with purpose and impact, you’re in the right place. I hope you enjoy!
Stories (18)
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What Is Love?
The train station always smelled like rain and unfinished goodbyes. Mara loved it for that exact reason. She came there when she needed to feel small—when life felt too loud, too demanding, too sure of itself. The station didn’t expect anything from her. Trains arrived. Trains left. Nobody asked why.
By Imran Pisani2 days ago in Fiction
Raindrops and Stolen Glances
The city smelled of wet asphalt and blooming jasmine. Raindrops tapped rhythmically against the café window where Mr. Goggles sat, scribbling in his notebook. He had been coming here for weeks, drawn by the aroma of strong coffee and the soft hum of jazz, but today was different. Today, she walked in.
By Imran Pisani6 days ago in Fiction
The Skyforge Chronicles
In the village of Larkspire, where the rooftops were stitched with copper and the cobblestone streets hummed with ancient magic, young Elian lived a life far quieter than he wished. Most boys his age chased sparrows or kicked stones into the river, but Elian chased the sky. He’d climb the tallest hills, stretching his arms toward the clouds, imagining he could pluck a star and bring it down like a fallen leaf.
By Imran Pisani16 days ago in Fiction
A Sky Remembered
The sky was breaking. Not gently. Not beautifully. It tore itself open like a wound that refused to stay closed, blue clashing violently with flame as clouds spiraled into a burning ring above Cindervale. The air shook with every pulse of heat, and people fled the streets, screaming, praying, clinging to doorways as stone cracked beneath their feet.
By Imran Pisani16 days ago in Fiction
The Fire That Refused to Burn
Kael did not wake to light. He woke to silence so complete it rang in his ears. For a long moment, he couldn’t feel his body. No pain, no warmth, no fire. Just emptiness, like the space left behind after something essential had been torn out. Panic rose in his chest, sharp and sudden.
By Imran Pisani16 days ago in Fiction
The Fall of Cindervale
The rain did not bring peace. At first, people stood stunned beneath the open sky, letting water soak through ash-stained clothes and cracked stone. Some laughed. Some cried. Some simply stared upward, afraid the blue would vanish if they blinked.
By Imran Pisani16 days ago in Fiction
Fire That Chooses
The lower city did not celebrate the Pyre Lord’s fall. It braced. Kael felt the tension everywhere he walked—through the terraces, across the bridges, along the glowing channels of water that cut through the stone. The city that remembered rain had survived by hiding, not by hoping. And hope, now, burned brighter than the Heartwell itself.
By Imran Pisani16 days ago in Fiction
The Pyre Lord’s Crown
The Pyre Lord felt the shift long before the bells rang. He stood alone at the highest balcony of the Obsidian Spire, where the Ash Sky pressed so low it felt close enough to touch. Below him, Cindervale stretched outward in jagged layers of stone and soot, its people moving like ants beneath the weight of his rule. The air trembled faintly, a sensation only those bound to fire could sense.
By Imran Pisani16 days ago in Fiction
The City That Remembered Rain
Kael felt it the moment his foot crossed the threshold. The air changed—not warmer or colder, but cleaner, sharper, like it had never known ash. The spiral staircase ended in a vast chamber where roots as thick as watchtowers broke through the stone ceiling, their surfaces glowing faintly blue. Water slid down them in steady streams, gathering in channels carved into the floor.
By Imran Pisani16 days ago in Fiction
The City Beneath the Ash Sky
The sky had not been blue for as long as anyone could remember. It hung low and gray, like a ceiling built by angry gods, shedding ash instead of rain. The people of Cindervale called it the Ash Sky, and they lived their lives beneath it with bowed heads and quiet voices, as if speaking too loudly might make it fall.
By Imran Pisani16 days ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker's Secret
In the heart of the city, down a crooked alley where the sun barely touched, sat a tiny shop that looked like it had been forgotten by time itself. Its windows were dusty, cluttered with gears, springs, and half-finished clocks. The sign above read Harlan’s Horology, faded gold letters almost invisible against the gray brick.
By Imran Pisani17 days ago in Fiction
