Adventure

The Fawn Who Forgot His Mother’s Words
The Fawn Who Forgot His Mother’s Words BY:Ubaid In the heart of a dense forest, surrounded by towering trees and thick shrubs, there lived a graceful doe with her delicate, beloved fawn. The little one was so small that he could barely stand on his wobbly legs when his mother had already begun teaching him the ways of the wild. She knew the forest was full of dangers, and she could not be certain how long she would remain by his side. Hunters roamed the woods with guns and traps, while lions, leopards, and wolves prowled in search of prey. The doe’s heart was always restless. At the faintest sound, she would leap in fright, for her little fawn could not yet run fast enough to follow her. In those moments of danger, she would signal her baby to hide in tall grass or thick bushes while she bolted far away to distract predators or hunters. What she longed for most was the day her child would be strong enough to roam freely with her along the riverbank, to graze in the open meadows, and to escape swiftly from danger. Time passed, and slowly the fawn grew. He began following his mother into the forest, learning how to stay still in the shadows, how to leap gracefully, and how to vanish into the grass when threatened. The doe taught him every trick of survival she knew. One evening, as she lovingly nuzzled him, she said with a heavy heart, “My child, I do not know how long I will be with you. One day, when you are grown, you will go your own way, and my duty to protect you will be over. But it could happen that danger separates us before that day arrives. So remember my words carefully. Your heart will always warn you when danger is near—listen to it. Keep your ears sharp, and when you must run, always choose wide open paths, not narrow ones. Never pause on high ground, for there you are most visible and easily targeted. And above all, my son, never forget this truth: you are a deer, fragile and gentle. From wolves to lions, every beast stronger than you is your enemy. Stay with your own kind. Do not befriend the powerful, for that will only bring harm.” The little fawn listened with wide, innocent eyes, absorbing her wisdom. But one day, curiosity led him astray. His mother had gone off with the herd, and left alone, he wandered through the woods. There, in a sunny clearing, he found three lion cubs tumbling and wrestling in a pile of dry grass. At first, he stood at a distance, enchanted by their play. The cubs chased each other, climbed on one another’s backs, and rolled about in joy. The sight was so delightful that soon the fawn forgot his fear. Slowly, he stepped closer, and before long, he was leaping and running with them as though they were old friends. The cubs welcomed him with playful innocence. They tugged at his ears, jumped over his back, and treated him as one of their own. Time passed swiftly until the fawn suddenly remembered his mother and rushed home. When he arrived, the doe was waiting anxiously. He told her everything. Her heart sank with dread. She scolded him sternly: “Foolish child! Lions are not your friends. Their cubs may play with you today, but when they grow, they will tear you apart. And if their mother catches you with them, she will kill you instantly.” The fawn, still intoxicated by his new adventure, refused to believe her. “But Mother,” he insisted, “the cubs like me. They would never hurt me. We are friends now.” The very next morning, fate struck. Hunters captured the doe as she grazed with the herd. She never returned. The young deer was left alone. For days, he survived on grass, feeling lonely and lost. At first, he kept his promise to his mother and avoided the cubs. But loneliness gnawed at his heart, and soon he returned to the clearing. The lion cubs were there, larger and stronger than before, but they greeted him eagerly. They played together as they had before—until the cubs’ mother appeared. The lioness froze at the sight of a deer among her children. Her instincts flared, and with a powerful bound she struck. Her paw landed on the fawn with crushing force, hurling him into the air. He crashed to the ground, bleeding and broken. The cubs circled, eager to pounce, but the fawn—though wounded—gathered all his strength and fled. Somehow, he slipped away into the safety of the forest. Gasping and trembling, he collapsed far from the danger. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind: “Stay with your own kind. Do not befriend the strong, or you will suffer harm.” The fawn healed slowly, but the scars remained—not only on his body but in his heart. From that day onward, he lived by his mother’s words. He never again sought friendship from those stronger than himself, for he had learned that wisdom comes at a heavy price when ignored. And so, the young deer grew wise, carrying his mother’s lesson with him always: to know who he was, to stay with his own, and to never forget the warnings of love.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Fiction
The Forest of the Forgotten
Amnity's cottage felt like a sanctuary after the strange silence of the forest. She dropped her pack by the door and took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scents of dried herbs and the lingering sweetness of yesterday's honey cakes. Everything was exactly as she'd left it—copper pots hanging from their hooks, wooden counters worn smooth by years of use, the cheerful clutter of a kitchen that was truly lived in.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
Cotton Candy, Pizza And Missiles Wild Adventure At Sea. AI-Generated.
The sea was as calm as a deep blue mirror, sunlight scattering across its surface like shards of gold. Pa En Urey lay on the deck of the small boat, eyes closed, inhaling the salty sea breeze, letting his body sway gently with the waves. In his hands was a travel magazine; around him, the only sounds were the rhythm of the waves and the crisp calls of distant seabirds. It felt as if the entire world had slowed down. Flipping through the magazine, his eyes widened, and he muttered to himself, “This author is incredible! Even a diving competition reads like an Oscar-winning movie!” Suddenly, a seabird dove like lightning and snatched the sandwich from his hand. He screamed and lunged, only to step on a black hat lying in a puddle of red wine, slipping and falling into the sea. Seaweed tangled in his hair as he surfaced, shouting in frustration, “Alright, you win! Can you at least let me take a bite next time?” “Target zone updated. Landing on the eastern coast of the Serentia Islands. Monitor wind speed. Execute jump immediately!” A sudden radio broadcast came over the waves, accompanied by the deep roar of engines. The wind picked up as a light seaplane cut through the water. Pa En Urey’s eyes widened, his heartbeat racing. He reached to remove the seaweed from his head, but the item in his hands slipped and floated away with the waves. The plane’s wings gleamed in the sunlight, propellers spinning at full speed, tossing up huge splashes and wind that nearly knocked him off balance. He leapt onto the seaplane, the engine’s low roar reminding him that his peaceful moment was over. Behind him, the sparkling waves could not hide the approaching danger—he knew the next moment would bring the unknown. Inside the cabin, he adjusted his parachute and moved toward the door. The roaring wind hit his face. The view made him gasp: the turquoise lagoon shimmered below, white sand gleamed like sugar, tropical forests stretched in lush green, and waterfalls cascaded down cliffs. Sunlight reflected in rainbow hues across the water. Luxurious resorts dotted the islands, with wooden piers and tiny villas like pearls in a green sea. Boats drifted lazily between them, calm and inviting. He inhaled the crisp high-altitude air, stepped toward the open door, and jumped. The wind lashed his face like blades, the icy water below and the adrenaline of free fall made his heart pound wildly. His arc through the sky framed the majestic islands, breathtaking. The moment he hit the water, it was piercingly cold, yet he felt completely alive.
By swing.panda7about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Innings
There is a cricket ground in our village that looks empty now, though it is never truly silent. If you stand on its edge in the late afternoon, when the sun begins to drown itself in the horizon, you can almost hear echoes of the past—the crack of the bat, the laughter of boys, the urgent shouts of fielders chasing a red tennis ball across the dusty earth.
By Shehzad Anjumabout a year ago in Fiction
The Dream Market Auction
The air in the underground vault was thick with expensive smoke and desperate desire. This was the Veiled Bazaar, where the hyper-rich of Neo-Sanctuary came to buy what they could no create themselves: real, unfiltered emotion. Lysander moved through the crowd, a ghost in a tailored suit. He was a Dream Trader. His product was humanity, bottled and sold by the milliliter.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Old Woman Who Outsmarted the Tricksters
The Old Woman and the Two Tricksters BY:Khan Once upon a time, there was an old woman. She was on her way to the city, wearing all her jewelry. It wasn’t much—just a pair of gold earrings, a necklace, and some bangles—but it was all made of pure gold. Behind her trailed two tricksters. These men were clever, sly, and full of deceit. They were partners in crime, always looking for easy prey. When they saw the old woman walking alone, glittering with ornaments, they immediately decided to rob her. But what they didn’t know was that this woman was far wiser than she looked. Her hair may have turned white under the sun, but her mind was sharper than a blade. One of the tricksters walked ahead, greeted her politely, and asked, “Mother, where are you going?” “To the city, son,” she replied. “That’s wonderful!” the first trickster said. “We are headed there too.” “Yes, Mother,” the second chimed in. “We’ll travel together.” The old woman smiled. “Good, that will make the road easier.” They walked for a while, and then one of the tricksters said, “Mother, why don’t you tell us a story? The journey will feel shorter.” “My sons, what story could I possibly tell? You should tell me something instead,” she replied. “Very well,” said the second trickster. “But on one condition. If you call our story a lie, we will take your bangles.” The old woman agreed, and one trickster began. “Mother, once we had a cow. A beautiful cow, with large shining eyes and long ears. She gave so much milk that even after we had filled every pot in the house, she would still not run dry. But that wasn’t her only wonder. If we sat upon her right horn, she would carry us instantly to the West. If we sat upon her left horn, she would take us to the East. “During the partition of the country, when we were migrating to Pakistan, the rioters attacked us. A bullet struck our poor cow, and she fell dead on the spot.” The trickster sighed dramatically. The old woman also sighed. “That is indeed sad,” she said with sympathy. Seeing that she didn’t call his story a lie, the trickster thought he had won. But then he said, “Now, Mother, it’s your turn to tell a story. And if we find it false, we will claim a hundred rupees from you.” The old woman nodded. “Very well, sons. If you are so sure, then listen.” She began her tale: “When I was married, my father gave me a bull as part of my dowry. A fine animal it was, strong and gentle. One day another bull from the village fought with him, and my bull received a wound on his forehead. We tried every remedy, but it never healed. Then, by chance, a cottonseed fell into the wound. To our amazement, it sprouted and grew into a full cotton plant, right on his forehead. “The cotton was so soft and fine that people from faraway villages came to see it. Soon we had heaps of cotton. From it we made cloth—khes, sheets, and all kinds of fabric. But two of those khes were stolen. Sons, may God protect me from lying, but the khes you are wearing now are those very same ones! Kindly return them to me.” The tricksters looked at each other. The condition was clear: if they denied her claim, they would have to pay a hundred rupees. Helpless, they removed their khes and gave them to her. The old woman went on. “From the rest of the cotton we made fine muslin cloth. But one bolt of muslin also disappeared. And, sons, the turbans you are wearing—these too were made from that very muslin. Please remove them.” The tricksters, trapped by their own condition, handed over their turbans. By now, they were close to the city. One trickster tried to change the subject. “Mother, I’m hungry.” “Don’t worry, sons,” said the old woman. “We are nearly there. I will sell my bangles, and then we shall sit and eat together.” The tricksters whispered to each other, thinking they would trick her once she sold her jewelry. At last, they entered the bustling marketplace of the city. The old woman removed her bangles and said, “Sons, sit here while I go to the jeweler.” They sat down nearby, waiting. The jeweler asked her, “What do you wish to sell, Mother? These bangles?” “No,” she replied calmly. “I wish to sell my two servants. They are sitting over there.” The jeweler peered across the street. “Excellent! We need strong workers. How much do you want for them?” “Three hundred rupees,” said the old woman. After some bargaining, they settled on two hundred rupees. “But let me ask my servants first,” she said with a sly smile. She raised her voice and called, “Sons, should I sell one of you or both?” From across the way, the tricksters shouted back, “Sell both, Mother! What will you do with just one?” The deal was sealed. The jeweler handed her two hundred rupees, and she walked out of the shop. Before leaving, she told them sweetly, “Wait here, sons. I’ll bring food and sweets for you.” Then she disappeared into the crowd, never to be seen again. When the jeweler called them to work, the tricksters realized what had happened. They had been outsmarted completely. And so they exclaimed in defeat: “She really was our grandmother after all
By Khan about a year ago in Fiction
The River King and the Marsh Lords
The sun rose over the savannah, spilling fire across the grasslands. Herds of antelope stirred, elephants trumpeted softly in the distance, and a warm breeze carried the dust of the earth. Among all the creatures of the plains, none was more feared, more respected, than the lion. His mane was golden as the dawn, his eyes sharp as the desert stars. He was the River King, lord of the land, and his roar commanded silence for miles.
By IshaqKhanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Hidden Truth
The Hidden Truth BY:Ubaid Long ago, in the heart of China, two angels were traveling through the land. As night fell, they sought a place to rest and came upon the grand house of a wealthy man. They knocked on his door, hoping for kindness. The man, rich but arrogant and miserly, opened the door with a frown. He agreed to let them stay for the night, but not in the comfort of his luxurious guest chambers. Instead, he sent them to the cold, damp basement of his mansion. The room was dark, foul-smelling, and unworthy of their presence. Yet, they accepted it without complaint. The younger angel quickly fell asleep on the hard stone floor, but the elder angel remained awake. As he turned over, his eyes fell upon a hole in the wall. He rose quietly, picked up some materials, and began repairing the crack. Patiently, he sealed the opening until the wall looked whole again. When morning came, the younger angel awoke and was astonished to see what the elder had done. “Why?” he asked with frustration. “This man was rude and disrespectful. He gave us no comfort, no warmth, and no kindness. Yet you helped him by repairing his broken wall?” The elder angel smiled gently and replied, “My child, the truth is not always what it seems.” Without saying more, the two angels continued their journey. --- The next evening, they entered a small village. There, they knocked on the door of a poor farmer’s cottage. The farmer and his wife welcomed them with bright smiles and open hearts. Though they had little, they gladly offered the angels the best space in their humble home and shared with them the simple food they had. The angels rested peacefully that night on a soft bed provided by the farmer and his wife. When dawn broke, however, tragedy struck. Outside the house, the farmer’s only cow lay dead. The couple wept bitterly. That cow had been their livelihood—their source of milk, which they sold to survive. Without it, their future seemed dark. The younger angel was devastated. “How could you allow this?” he demanded of the elder. “Yesterday, the wealthy man treated us with cruelty, yet you helped him by repairing his wall. Today, this kind farmer gave us everything he had, and you let his only cow die? Why would you allow such injustice?” Again, the elder angel said softly, “The truth is not always what it seems.” --- As they walked further along the road, the younger angel could no longer contain his questions. “Please,” he pleaded, “explain to me why you did what you did. Why help the cruel man and harm the kind one? It makes no sense.” The elder angel stopped and looked at him with calm wisdom. “When we stayed at the rich man’s house, I saw something hidden in that basement wall. Behind the crack, a great treasure was buried. If the rich man had discovered it, he would have grown even more arrogant and selfish, spreading more cruelty to others. By repairing the wall, I concealed the treasure, saving many from his greed.” The younger angel’s eyes widened with surprise. The elder continued, “As for the poor farmer, when we stayed in his home, I saw that the Angel of Death had come for his wife. Her time had been marked. But I knew how deeply the farmer loved her and how much she meant to his life. So I prayed and pleaded, asking that the cow’s life be taken instead. In this way, I spared the farmer a greater sorrow. He can rebuild his livelihood, but losing his beloved wife would have broken him forever.” The younger angel was silent now, his heart heavy with understanding. --- The elder angel’s words lingered in the air: “What we see is not always the truth. Appearances deceive. What happens in our lives is often beyond our comprehension. Many times we think we are suffering injustice, when in reality, hidden blessings are being arranged for us. All events unfold by the will of God, and He alone knows what is truly best for us. We only see a fragment, while He sees the whole picture.” The younger angel lowered his head in humility. He realized how quickly humans—and even angels like himself—are tempted to judge situations without knowing the full truth. The elder smiled gently once again. “Patience, my child. If we wait with trust, the truth will reveal itself in time. And when it does, we will see that everything happened for our good.” --- Moral of the Story: Life often presents us with situations that seem unfair, confusing, or painful. But appearances can deceive us. What may look like a loss could be a hidden blessing, and what may appear as gain could be a test or a trap. The truth is not always what it seems. Trust in the wisdom of God, for He knows what we do not, and His plan is always for the best.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Lantern of Lirienvale:
In a quiet corner of the world, hidden behind ancient mountains and shivering silver trees, there was a village called Lirienvale. The villagers had not seen sunlight in thirty years. A thick, grey fog covered the skies every day. The stars were forgotten, and the moon only whispered through thin cracks in the clouds.
By Zeenat Chauhanabout a year ago in Fiction
Hoag’s Object. Runner-Up in Through the Keyhole Challenge.
I had gotten used to the eyes, one after the other, peering constantly through the jagged remains of where a peephole once sat. Stranger’s trying to catch a glimpse of the accused until: This eye, this very eye in particular, that stared with a deep hatred burning into my soul. I knew this red-gold-hazel iris that lit up a room like fire. She was the reason I would be locked in this cabin, a prisoner, until our arrival in Pteetneet City. This is where the proper authorities would step in to arrest me.
By Amos Gladeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Star-Seed Gardener
Silas was a gardener of the absolute scale. His greenhouse was the cargo hold of the Ketheres, a lonely ship drifting between the stars. His seeds were not of oak or apple, but of atmosphere and organism, designed to shatter barren rock and whisper life into the void.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The War of the Americas - One Year Later
Dear Sylvia, I very much hope this letter finds its way to you. Mail service in the Baja peninsula was never very good before the war, and now, well, let’s just say there are very few mailboxes in the jungles of Baja where I have spent the past year leading a guerilla style counter-insurgency campaign against the invading American forces. Fortunately for Mexico, while the United States was busy preparing for World War III, arming itself to the teeth with nuclear weapons and training for massive conventional military conflicts and anti-terrorist actions in the middle east, Mexico focused on preparing for exactly what it now faces. It is ironic that the protective umbrella of the United States military is the very thing that gave us the freedom and space to do that and now America is paying the price for its reckless invasion in blood and treasure because of it. Mexico has also greatly benefited from Americas’ right wing politicians’ ridiculous anti-science agenda. The refusal to allow soldiers deployed to Mexico to be vaccinated against Dengue fever and other mosquito borne viruses has taken a terrible toll on US forces here, as have other diseases Mexicans have long since become immune to or vaccinated against. Cases of Tuberculosis and malaria have surged along with cholera. All these diseases are slowly depleting the morale and overall fighting capability of the American military in Mexico. And of course, it has been greatly accelerated by the total cessation of all mosquito and disease control efforts by Mexican government personnel since the invasion with predictable results. Finally, stories of the terror of screwworm with maggots erupting from soldiers’ skin, have resulted in a reputation for danger in the Baja peninsula which has generated much fear among the American public and US fighting forces. You have no doubt heard stories of mass defections and refusals to deploy from all branches of the US military. Despite the public executions of many mid and senior level military leaders for acting in defiance of the President’s orders those defections have continued. I am sure you must also be aware that many top American research scientists have sought asylum in Mexico seeking protection from persecution at home. This has been a major boon to Mexico’s prominence in the international scientific community. Meanwhile America’s reputation continues its long, slow slide into the gutter. Of course, you know all this, and I am not writing this letter to point fingers or denounce America for what it has done. There are plenty around the world who have and will continue to do that for Mexico.
By Everyday Junglistabout a year ago in Fiction