LUNA EDITH
Bio
Writer, storyteller, and lifelong learner. I share thoughts on life, creativity, and everything in between. Here to connect, inspire, and grow — one story at a time.
Stories (245)
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The Stories That Shape Us
Before there were books, before there were screens glowing in the night, humans relied on each other to remember. We sat in circles, huddled near flickering fires, and listened. Every tale told was a thread woven into the fabric of memory, a lifeline connecting the living with the past. Stories of gods and spirits, heroes and tricksters, warnings and wonders—these were the first schools, the first libraries, the first teachers. Memory was sacred, and storytelling was survival.
By LUNA EDITHabout a month ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Child Within
There’s a peculiar quiet that descends when the world expects us to be “grown.” I find myself searching for it in the spaces between responsibilities, in the forgotten corners of my mind where the child I once was still lingers. The days when a treehouse was a castle, a stick could be a sword, and running barefoot across the grass meant freedom—not fear, not schedules, not expectations.
By LUNA EDITHabout a month ago in Writers
The Room Where Silence Learned My Name
There was a time when my life fit inside a single room. Not metaphorically—literally. A narrow room with a desk pressed against the wall, a chair that wobbled if you leaned too far back, and a window that faced another building so close it felt like the world had folded inward. I did not own much then. What I had was time that stretched strangely, like late afternoon light refusing to leave.
By LUNA EDITHabout a month ago in Poets
Dear Younger Me, I Didn’t Betray You
Dear Younger Me, I Didn’t Betray You I’m writing to you from a place you once dreamed of but could not imagine clearly. Not because you lacked vision, but because you were busy surviving. I know you thought the future would arrive like a rescue—loud, obvious, triumphant. I’m sorry it didn’t. I’m sorry it came quietly, carrying both relief and loss. But listen to me carefully now: I did not abandon you. I carried you until I could finally rest.
By LUNA EDITHabout a month ago in Poets
The Christmas We Forgot to End. Content Warning.
December descended like a thief in snow, wrapping the small town of Ashwood in a cloak of white. For Emma, it was the kind of winter that smelled like fresh cookies and forgotten dreams. She’d spent the morning baking with her grandmother, the same rituals they’d performed every year since she was a child – sugar cookies cut into stars, hot cocoa laced with nutmeg, the scent of orange and clove wafting from the simmering potpourri.
By LUNA EDITHabout a month ago in Fiction
Recess of the Soul
In the faded photographs of my childhood, I see a girl with windswept hair and laughter that echoed like a promise. She chased butterflies in fields that smelled of wet earth and possibility. Recess was a kingdom where rules didn't bind her; imagination was the currency, and freedom was the prize. No clocks ticked loud enough to cage her hours. No voices whispered "not yet" or "not enough."
By LUNA EDITHabout a month ago in Humans
The Gardener of Saint-Antoine
The garden on Rue Saint-Antoine did not look like something you inherited. It looked like something you apologized for. I stood at the rusted iron gate on my first morning as its owner, keys heavy in my palm, wondering how grief could leave behind so much responsibility. My aunt had called it a gift in her will. A place of continuity. A space worth saving. I remember thinking she must have been kinder than honest.
By LUNA EDITHabout a month ago in History
Fire That Keeps Us Turning
Within the quiet chambers of minds— of elders and of children still learning— unsaid intentions flicker and breathe, moving in time with the pulse beneath our ribs. They bind us to a center we rarely name, a living knot that refuses to loosen. Voices rise like distant chants, echoing through memory’s hollow halls. A soft refrain repeats what we already know— that stories never truly end. Sacred words circle endlessly, uncovering truths we thought were buried, pulling us forward with naked hands. We do not know where the road will bend. The spiral unwinds without warning. Still, we grip the wheel and sail on, searching for something solid to stand upon. A wild flame settles into a guide, and parted waters stretch wide enough for courage to pass through. Our riches are not counted in gold, but in lessons carved by heat and time. From the living core of existence, through chance sparks of rhythm and motion, a revolving fire awakens, setting our direction alight. Above us, stars stack themselves endlessly, each one a witness to the burning night. At their glow, minds soften, souls align, and something ancient stirs between us. The turning flame gathers its strength there, lifting our spirits into motion once again. The wisdom earned along this path is paid for in resistance and resolve. Those once pursued become the keepers of truth, bearing both scar and insight. They inherit the chase they once feared, moving forward with eyes that finally see. Change survives because it is fed. The fire never sleeps—it adapts. Life reshapes itself in glowing fragments, revealing new designs in the blaze. We are raised inside destiny’s furnace, formed like art pressed from human clay. Our riches are not counted in gold, but in lessons carved by heat and time. From the living core of existence, through chance sparks of rhythm and motion, a revolving fire awakens, setting our direction alight.
By LUNA EDITH2 months ago in Poets
