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Short Story 685 - The Last Light of Orion (Intermediate)

Mara stood on the deck of the research ship Aurora, watching the violet clouds swirl over the alien sea. The planet was called Orion, a name given by the first explorers who saw its twin suns rise together. The crew had been sent to study the strange energy pulses that lit the night sky in bright green ribbons.

Mara was a linguist, not a scientist. Her job was to listen to the sounds the planet made and try to turn them into words. She believed that language could open doors that machines could not. Every evening she recorded the humming of the wind, the crackle of the ice, and the soft clicks that seemed to come from deep below the surface.

One night, as the second sun set, the green ribbons grew brighter and began to pulse faster. The ship’s sensors flashed red warnings. “Magnetic storm incoming,” the captain announced. The crew hurried to secure equipment, but Mara felt a pull in her chest. The clicks she had recorded earlier turned into a clear pattern, like a melody.

She pressed play on the recorder. The sound rose, forming a rhythm that matched the pulse of the storm. Suddenly, a voice emerged from the speakers, not human but understandable. “Welcome,” it said. “We are the Keepers of Orion. You have listened. You have learned.”

Mara’s heart raced. She spoke slowly, choosing simple words. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

The voice replied, “We are the memory of this world. We protect the light that keeps the stars alive. Your people took too much, and the storm is our warning. If you stop, the light will die.”

The captain shouted, “Abort mission! Return to Earth!” But Mara stayed, fascinated. She asked, “How can we stop the storm?”

“The light lives in the song,” the Keepers answered. “Sing it back to us, with truth and hope.”

Mara gathered the crew. Together they sang the pattern they had heard, adding their own words of peace. Their voices blended with the green ribbons, and the storm slowed. The magnetic waves calmed, and the twin suns shone steady again.

When the last note faded, the Keepers whispered, “You have saved Orion. Remember the song, and share it wisely.” The ship’s computer logged the melody, and the crew set a course home, carrying the new language of the planet.

Back on Earth, Mara taught the song to students. They learned not only English, but also the power of listening. The story of Orion became a lesson in humility and cooperation, reminding everyone that even a distant world can speak through music if we are willing to hear.

- - - -

Vocabulary Notes

Pulse – noun / verb

Definition:

Noun: A rhythmic throbbing or beating, especially of a signal, light, or sound.

Verb: To beat or throb rhythmically.

Example (noun): “The green ribbons grew brighter and began to pulse faster.”

Synonyms / related words: throb, beat, oscillate, rhythm, vibrate, surge....

Story written by Lumo AI.

Image created by 1min.ai.

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Short Story 684a - The Whispering House (Intermediate)

It was Halloween night, and the wind howled through the trees like a lonely ghost. Rain tapped softly on the windows of the old house at the end of Willow Lane. No one had lived there for twenty years, not since the strange disappearance of Mrs. Elsie Gray.

But tonight, three friends, Liam, Maya, and Tom, stood outside the rusted gate. They were brave, or perhaps just foolish. They had made a bet: whoever spent one hour inside the Whispering House would win fifty pounds.

“Ready?” asked Liam, his voice shaking slightly.

Maya nodded, though her hands were cold. Tom just grinned and pushed the gate open with a loud creak.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and silence. Moonlight slipped through broken windows, casting long shadows on the peeling wallpaper. The floorboards groaned under their feet as they stepped into the hallway.

“Let’s stay together,” whispered Maya.

They moved slowly through the house. In the kitchen, pots hung crookedly from hooks. In the sitting room, an old armchair faced a cold fireplace. Everything felt… watched.

Then, they heard it, a soft whisper, like someone speaking just behind them.

“Did you hear that?” Tom asked, his grin gone.

Before anyone could answer, the whisper came again, clearer this time: “Leave… while you still can.”

Liam’s heart pounded. “Maybe we should go.”

But Maya, curious and stubborn, walked toward the stairs. “It’s just the wind,” she said, though her voice trembled.

At the top of the stairs was a small bedroom. The door was slightly open. Inside, a dusty mirror hung on the wall. As Maya stepped closer, her reflection didn’t move. Instead, it smiled, a slow, sad smile that wasn’t hers.

She gasped and stumbled back.

The whisper returned, louder now: “You shouldn’t have come.”

Suddenly, the front door slammed shut downstairs. The lights, if there had ever been any, flickered in their minds, though the house had no electricity. Cold air rushed through the hallway.

“Run!” shouted Tom.

They raced down the stairs, tripping over each other in panic. The front door wouldn’t open. It was locked from the inside, but no one had locked it.

Then, from the top of the stairs, a figure appeared. It was Mrs. Elsie Gray, pale, dressed in an old nightgown, her eyes full of sorrow, not anger.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said gently. “I only wanted someone to know the truth.”

The friends froze.

“My son locked me in the attic,” she whispered. “He wanted the house for himself. I’ve been waiting… waiting for someone to hear me.”

Tears filled Maya’s eyes. “We’ll tell everyone,” she promised.

Mrs. Gray smiled faintly, and vanished.

The front door clicked open.

The three friends ran outside and didn’t stop until they reached the streetlight at the corner. They never collected their bet. Instead, they went straight to the police.

A week later, builders found human bones in the attic, and a hidden diary that told the whole story. Mrs. Gray was finally given a proper burial.

The house was torn down. In its place, a small garden now blooms every autumn, filled with white lilies, the flower Mrs. Gray loved most....

Story written by Qwen3-Max AI.

Image created by 1min.ai.

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Short Story 684 - The Biscuit Tin Heist (Intermediate)

It was a quiet Tuesday morning in the village of Lower Puddle. Birds chirped, the postman whistled, and Mrs. Penelope Crumb was polishing her silver teapot. Everything was perfectly normal, until she opened her biscuit tin.

Empty.

Penelope stared in horror. “Impossible!” she gasped. “I baked twelve custard creams last night!”

She marched to the window and scanned the street. Nothing suspicious, except for Mr. Blenkinsop, her neighbour, who was wearing sunglasses and a fake moustache. He didn’t usually wear either.

Penelope narrowed her eyes. “Time to investigate.”

She grabbed her magnifying glass (a gift from her niece who thought she was ‘a bit Miss Marple’) and set off.

First stop: Mr. Blenkinsop’s garden.

“Lovely day,” she said sweetly.

“Is it?” he replied, sweating.

Penelope leaned closer. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a missing biscuit tin, would you?”

He laughed nervously. “Me? No! I’m on a sugar-free diet.”

Penelope sniffed. “Then why do you smell like vanilla custard?”

Before he could answer, a loud bark interrupted them. It was Buster, the vicar’s dog, running down the lane with something shiny in his mouth.

“My tin!” Penelope shouted.

Buster dropped it at her feet, tail wagging. Inside were crumbs, and a single dog biscuit.

The vicar jogged over, red-faced. “I’m terribly sorry, Penelope. Buster has a habit of... borrowing things.”

Penelope sighed. “So it wasn’t Blenkinsop after all.”

The vicar smiled. “To make it up to you, why don’t you come round for tea? I’ve got a fresh batch of shortbread.”

Penelope agreed, but not before giving Buster a stern look. “Next time, stick to your own biscuits.”

As she walked away, Mr. Blenkinsop removed his fake moustache and whispered, “Close call.”

But Penelope heard him.

She turned slowly. “We’ll talk later, Blenkinsop.”

And with that, she disappeared down the lane, magnifying glass in one hand, and her dignity (mostly) intact.

- - - -

Vocabulary Notes

Polish (verb)

Meaning: To make something smooth and shiny by rubbing it. Often used for cleaning metal, wood, or shoes.

Example: “Mrs. Penelope Crumb was polishing her silver teapot.”

Similar words: shine, buff, clean, scrub (though “scrub” is usually more vigorous)

Tip: “Polish” can also mean to improve something, like “polish your English skills.”

Narrow (one’s) eyes (phrase)

Meaning: To partly close your eyes, often when you are suspicious, trying to see something clearly, or thinking carefully.

Example: “Penelope narrowed her eyes. ‘Time to investigate.’”

Similar expressions: squint, glare, peer, frown

Tip: This phrase often shows someone is being cautious or doesn’t trust what they see or hear....

Story written by Copilot on Windows 11 Pro.

Image created by amiagicx AI.

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Short Story 683 - The Whispering Shadows (Intermediate)

In the quiet village of Eldridge, nestled among ancient hills, lived a woman named Clara. She was forty years old, with sharp eyes and a curious mind. After her husband died suddenly two years ago, she moved into an old cottage on the edge of the forest. The house was beautiful but creaky, with wooden floors that groaned like old bones and walls covered in faded wallpaper.

At first, everything seemed peaceful. Clara spent her days gardening and reading books by the fire. But one autumn evening, as the wind howled outside, she heard it, a soft whisper. It came from the hallway, like someone murmuring secrets. "Hello?" she called out, her heart beating faster. There was no answer, only silence. She shook her head, thinking it was just the wind playing tricks.

The whispers returned the next night, louder this time. Clara lay in bed, listening. The words were unclear, but they sounded sad, almost pleading. "Who are you?" she whispered back, but again, nothing. In the morning, she found a small, dusty key on her kitchen table. It hadn't been there before. Where did it come from? She searched the house but found no lock that matched it.

Days passed, and strange things happened. Shadows seemed to move on their own in the corners of rooms, even when the sun was shining. Objects disappeared and reappeared in odd places, a book on the stairs, a teacup in the garden. Clara felt watched, as if invisible eyes followed her every step. She told her neighbor, old Mr. Hawkins, about it. He laughed nervously. "That house has stories," he said. "Built over a century ago by a family who vanished one night. Folks say their spirits linger."

Clara didn't believe in ghosts, but doubt crept in. One stormy night, the whispers grew into voices. She followed them to the attic, a place she rarely visited. Dust covered everything, and cobwebs hung like veils. In the far corner, behind a stack of boxes, she saw a hidden door. Her hands trembled as she tried the mysterious key. It fit perfectly. The door creaked open, revealing a small room filled with old letters and photographs.

She sat on the floor and read. The letters were from a woman named Eliza, who lived in the house long ago. Eliza wrote of a forbidden love with a man from the village, and a terrible secret: her family had locked her away to hide a pregnancy. The last letter was desperate: "They will never find us. We escape tonight." In the photographs, Clara saw a face that looked just like her own, her great-grandmother, Eliza.

Suddenly, the whispers stopped. A cold breeze filled the room, and Clara felt a gentle touch on her shoulder, like a farewell. She understood now. The spirits had been waiting for someone to uncover the truth, to set them free. Eliza and her child had fled, starting a new life far away, but the house held their echoes until the story was known.

Clara burned the letters in the fireplace, whispering, "Rest now." The shadows faded, and the house felt warm again. She never heard the whispers after that. Instead, she lived in peace, knowing her family's past had finally been laid to rest....

Story written by Grok 4 AI.

Image created by Grok 4 AI.

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Short Story 682 - The Locksmith's Whisper (Intermediate)

Sarah lived in a small, remote cottage near the forest. She enjoyed the silence, but tonight, the silence felt heavy. A terrible storm had started just after dark. The rain lashed against the windows, and the wind sounded like a person screaming.

At eight o’clock, the power failed. The cottage fell into total darkness, except for the small, flickering light of her phone screen. Sarah tried to stay calm. She found a battery-powered lamp and placed it on the kitchen table.

She was just pouring a glass of water when she heard it.

Scratch. Click. Scrape.

The sound came from the back door. It was a very small, metallic sound, but in the storm’s loud chaos, it felt too close. It was not the wind or the rain. It sounded like someone was trying to tamper with the lock.

Sarah froze, holding her breath. She told herself it was perhaps a tree branch hitting the handle.

Click. Scrape. Click.

No. This was controlled. This was deliberate. Someone was picking the lock.

Her heart began to beat very fast, making a loud drumming sound in the quiet kitchen. She carefully took her phone and moved to the sitting room. She had to call the police, but she knew the remote signal was often poor in bad weather.

She went to the big front window and looked out into the pouring rain. She couldn’t see anything. The trees were too dense, and the darkness was complete.

Suddenly, the scraping sound stopped.

Silence.

Then, she heard it again. This time, the sound was coming from the front of the house, right at the door beside her. The intruder was inside her small front garden and was working on the main lock. They had failed at the back and moved to the easiest way in.

Sarah knew she had only a few seconds. She ran up the wooden stairs as quietly as she could. The stairs groaned once beneath her weight. She stopped, listening. Did they hear it?

The scraping continued below her, fast and confident now.

She reached the main bedroom and locked the door behind her. She pushed an old, heavy wooden dresser against the door as a barrier. It wouldn’t stop a determined person, but it would slow them down.

She dialled the emergency number, holding the phone close to her ear. Nothing but static. The storm had cut the line completely.

Downstairs, she heard a faint, heavy thud, the front door opening. They were inside.

Footsteps moved slowly, methodically, crossing the kitchen floor. They paused at the bottom of the stairs, then began to climb.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

They were coming. Sarah hid behind the dresser, clutching the phone like a weapon. The footsteps stopped right outside the bedroom door.

Then, the terrible, metallic sound began again. Click. Scrape. Click. But this time, it was louder, closer, and more personal. They were picking the final lock.

She heard a voice, a low whisper right against the wood. "It's all right, Sarah. I know you're alone."

The dresser began to shake as they pushed against it. The lock mechanism groaned.

Sarah braced herself. She was ready to fight....

Story written by Gemini AI.

Image created by 1min.ai.

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Short Story 693 - Home Office Wasted Billions (Intermediate)

Once upon a time in the United Kingdom, the government department known as the Home Office found itself in charge of providing accommodation for people seeking asylum. At first, the job was simple: find a safe place for someone to stay while their claim was processed.

But over time the task became much more complex. Rising numbers of arrivals meant more people needed places to live. In response, the Home Office began using large numbers of hotels to house asylum seekers on short-notice contracts.

At first the cost of this hotel accommodation appeared manageable. But soon the figures rose sharply. For example, in the financial year 2022-23 the Home Office spent about £2.28 billion on hotel accommodation.

House of Lords Library

In 2023-24 the total cost of asylum support was about £4.7 billion, of which around £3 billion was spent just on hotels.

Why did the cost go so high? Several reasons:

Hotels are much more expensive than other kinds of accommodation. According to one report, the average cost per night for hotel-based asylum accommodation in 2024-25 was around £170 per person, compared with about £27 per night for other types of accommodation.

The contracts were hurried and large in scale, and the Home Office was criticised for lacking strong commercial expertise.

The scale of the contracts was underestimated: a deal that was originally planned to cost about £4.5 billion over a decade is now expected to cost about £15.3 billion.

As the spending soared, many people began to say that the Home Office was squandering taxpayers’ money because:

Millions were being spent on accommodation that was intended to be “temporary” but often lasted for many months.

There was little evidence that the system was organised to obtain best value for money or to use resources efficiently.

Because the accommodation was so expensive, fewer funds were left for other support services which might have helped asylum seekers integrate or move into more stable living conditions.

In schools of thought among auditors and think tanks, this pattern came to symbolise waste: public money going into expensive hotel contracts, big overheads, and poor value, instead of lower-cost and more stable solutions.

However, the story does not end in despair. The Home Office and its ministers acknowledged the problem. Plans were announced to end the use of hotels for asylum accommodation by 2029, and reduce the huge costs involved.

In the final chapter, the government shifts focus. It begins investing in more permanent and cost-effective housing, spreads people into communities rather than clustering them in hotels, and works to reduce the backlog of asylum applications so that fewer people wait long periods in expensive accommodation.

Thus, what began as a case of misspending and growing bills becomes a turning point. The Home Office realises that wasting billions cannot continue. A new path is chosen: one that promises better value, better conditions for asylum seekers, and better outcomes for taxpayers....

Story written by ChatGPT AI.

Image created by ChatGPT AI.

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Short Story 681 - The Wrong Key (Intermediate)

David Miller liked his new flat. It was small, but it was quiet. The neighbours were friendly. Best of all, it was safe. The building had a strong front door with a modern lock. David always locked it carefully. He felt peace behind his heavy, blue door.

One Tuesday, he came home from work late. He was tired. He put his key in the lock and turned it. But something was wrong. The key would not turn all the way. He tried again. Nothing.

Strange, he thought. It worked this morning.

He looked at the key. It was his key. He looked at the door number. It was his number, 4B. He tried once more, pushing hard. The key turned suddenly, but with a rough, grinding sound. The door opened.

Inside, everything was dark. He reached for the light switch. The room was exactly as he left it: his book on the sofa, a clean cup on the table. He shook his head and laughed quietly.

“Silly man,” he said to himself. “You need to sleep.”

The next day, he forgot about the lock. But on Thursday evening, it happened again. He put his key in the lock of his blue door. It didn't turn smoothly. It felt stiff. Then, he noticed something else. A very small, thin scratch on the metal around the keyhole. It was new.

A cold feeling started in his stomach. Someone tried to get in, he thought. Someone tried to use a different key.

He called the police. A young police officer came, looked at the door, and wrote in a notebook.

“Probably just kids playing,” the officer said. “Or maybe the lock is getting old. You should get a new one.” He gave David a card for a locksmith.

David didn't feel better. That night, he lay in bed, listening. The old building made its usual sounds: pipes knocking, floorboards settling. But then he heard a new sound. A soft click. It came from the front door.

His heart beat fast. He got out of bed and walked quietly to the door. He put his eye to the peephole. The hallway was empty. He saw nothing.

The next morning, he called the locksmith. A man came and put in a strong, new lock with shiny silver metal. “No one will get through this,” the locksmith said. David paid him and felt safe again.

For three days, everything was fine. The new key turned smoothly. The blue door felt like a fortress.

On the fourth night, David was watching television. A news report came on. The reporter’s face was serious. “Police are searching for a man,” she said. “He is dangerous. He enters flats at night while people sleep. He is very quiet. He watches them.”

David’s blood went cold.

- - - -

Vocabulary Notes

Lock / Lock (verb)

Meaning: A device used to fasten a door, lid, etc., with a mechanism that requires a key to open it. As a verb, it means to fasten something with a lock.

Example: "The building had a strong front door with a modern lock. David always locked it carefully."

Similar words: Bolt (a metal bar that you slide across to lock a door), deadlock (a type of very strong lock), padlock (a lock you can carry and use on a chain or a gate)....

Story written by DeepSeek AI.

Image created by 1min.ai.

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Short Story 680 - The Silent Witness (Intermediate)

Chapter 1: The Vanishing

On a cold winter's evening, Sarah walked home from the bus stop. The streets were empty, covered in a thin layer of snow that crunched underfoot. She could hear the distant sound of car tires on wet roads, but apart from that, all was quiet. Sarah had always enjoyed walking home at night, the quiet was comforting, and it gave her time to think.

As she reached the corner of her street, she noticed something unusual. A figure stood in the shadows at the end of the road. The streetlamp flickered above, casting an eerie glow on the figure's face. Sarah stopped for a moment, uncertain. It was a man, tall and broad-shouldered. His head was down, so she couldn't see his face clearly. Sarah had the sudden feeling that something was wrong.

She tried to shake the feeling off, but the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She quickened her pace and walked past the figure, not daring to look up. She was almost home when she heard footsteps behind her. The man had followed her.

Panic set in. Sarah turned quickly and started walking faster, her heart racing. She glanced behind her and saw the man still following, his pace matching hers. She was only a few houses away from her front door. If she could just get there…

But then, he spoke.

"You're in danger."

His voice was low and calm, but it sent a chill down Sarah's spine. She stopped dead in her tracks and spun around. "What do you mean?" she asked, trying to sound brave.

The man stepped closer. "Listen carefully," he said. "There’s someone inside your house. You need to get out now."

Chapter 2: The Warning

Sarah’s mind raced. Had someone broken into her house? She had to check. But she didn’t want to turn her back on the man, either. Her eyes darted to the street, hoping for someone to come by, but the road was still deserted. She was alone with this stranger, and his words echoed in her mind. Someone inside your house.

Her fingers trembled as she fumbled for her phone. She dialled the number for the police, but as soon as the call connected, she heard a strange noise, a loud crash, coming from the direction of her home. Without thinking, she hung up and started running.

The man followed her, but now he was silent. Sarah’s breath came in quick bursts as she rounded the corner and saw her house ahead. The front door was slightly ajar. She had definitely locked it before she left.

She approached cautiously, but the man was faster. He grabbed her arm, pulling her back. "No," he whispered urgently. "Stay back. I’ll go in first."

"Why should I trust you?" Sarah asked, her voice shaking.

"Because I’m trying to save you." The man’s tone was steady, but his grip on her arm tightened.

Sarah hesitated, but the urgency in his voice made her step back. She watched as he moved quickly toward the door, disappearing into the shadows.

Chapter 3: Inside the House

Sarah stood frozen in place, unsure of what to do. She could hear the faint sound of footsteps inside the house, and her mind raced with thoughts of what might be happening. Was the man really trying to help her, or was he part of whatever danger lay inside?....

Story written by ChatGPT AI.

Image created by aimagicx AI.

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