Adventure
Lights Over London
“Madam, you should come below.” Dickie stood in the doorway, his voice gentle, but firm. Outside, the sky flashed with bursts of light. But this was no celebration—it was war. Bombs were falling across London, and everyone was supposed to be in the safety of the shelters.
By ibrahim khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The King's Jewel
It was all anyone in the kingdom could talk about for months: Princess Lovely was finally of marrying age. King Kaiser's subjects were all abuzz with gossip and questions about her once the decree went out, as no one had been allowed to look upon the princess for years. Some speculated that she'd died, and the royal family conducted her funeral in secret. Others suggested that she'd been disfigured in a tragic accident, hiding deep in the bowels of the palace out of shame. The most popular theory, however, was that her beauty was so great the king kept her prisoner; believing no other soul was worthy to look upon her.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Fiction
“The Last Letter from Apartment 6B”
The Last Letter from Apartment 6B Harold was the kind of mailman who counted steps and memorized faces. Not because he had to, but because he liked the routine of it—liked knowing that Mrs. Yates in 3A always ordered gardening catalogs, or that the young couple in 2D still hadn’t changed their names after the wedding.
By Emotionally or creatively evocativeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mistake That Made Me
The Mistake That Made Me When people talk about pivotal moments in their lives, they often mention a grand achievement or a moment of perfect clarity. Mine wasn’t like that. Mine was a mistake — one I made on a humid, restless August night when I was 22.
By Kine Willimesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Island of Light
The Strange Dream Zainab was an ordinary girl living in a quiet neighborhood of Karachi. She loved books, had a small group of close friends, and lived a simple life. But for the past few weeks, she had been haunted by a recurring dream—one that refused to fade with morning light. In the dream, she stood at the edge of an island, bathed in soft golden light. The trees shimmered, the ocean glowed like liquid stars, and in front of her stood a door made of crystal and vines. As the door slowly opened, a deep voice echoed: > “We’ve been waiting for you, Zainab.” She would always wake up at this point, her heart racing, her skin cold with sweat. Her best friend Dua joked one day, “Maybe you're secretly a lost princess of some magical kingdom!” Zainab laughed, but a strange part of her didn’t completely dismiss the idea. 2. The Door Appears One quiet evening, Zainab was sitting on the rooftop, watching the stars. The night air was unusually still. Suddenly, a streak of light flashed across the sky—brighter than any shooting star. As she followed it with her eyes, she saw something impossible. In the far corner of the rooftop, a glowing outline began to form in midair. Within seconds, the shape of a tall, arched door appeared—just like the one from her dreams. It glowed with golden light, pulsating like it was alive. Zainab froze. Her breath caught. She stepped closer, her heart pounding in her chest. The voice came again. > “Zainab... it’s time.” Without another thought, she reached out and touched the door. 3. The Island Beyond In an instant, the world spun. Wind rushed past her ears, light surrounded her, and then—silence. Zainab opened her eyes. She was standing on the island from her dreams. The air smelled of wildflowers and rain. The trees sparkled, and small glowing orbs floated like fireflies. A river of pure light flowed nearby. Everything shimmered, as if reality had been touched by magic. A figure approached her. A tall woman with silver hair, glowing eyes, and a crown made of starlight. > “Welcome, Guardian,” she said softly. > “Guardian?” Zainab whispered. > “You were born for this. This island exists to protect the balance between worlds. Every generation, one is chosen to guard its light. You… are the chosen one.” 4. The Trial of Light Zainab was overwhelmed. “I’m just… me. I’m not magical or special,” she said. The woman smiled. “Every Guardian begins with doubt. But your light has always been within you.” She was led to the center of the island, where a massive crystal floated above a pool of light. Around it stood three figures cloaked in shadows. > “To claim your destiny,” one of them spoke, “you must pass the Trial of Light.” One by one, the figures tested her. The first showed her her deepest fears—failure, loss, loneliness. The second tried to tempt her with illusions—power, beauty, fame. The third asked her to give up everything she loved—her family, her world—for the sake of protecting the island. Zainab stood firm. “I’m afraid. But I won’t let fear rule me. I don’t want power. I want purpose. And I will protect this light—but not by leaving my world behind. I’ll carry the light back with me.” The crystal pulsed brightly—and then, exploded into a million particles of glowing dust that swirled around her, sinking into her skin. She had passed. 5. Return with the Light Zainab awoke in her bed, unsure if it had all been a dream. But when she touched her palm, it glowed faintly. That day, and every day after, she began to see the world differently. She helped people, stood up against wrong, and protected those who had no voice. The island still appeared in her dreams, but not as a mystery anymore—as a part of her. Because she was now a Guardian of Light—walking among shadows, but never swallowed by them.
By DR Muhammad Ali Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
In Defense of the Quiet Ones
In Defense of the Quiet Ones Not all heroes arrive with grand entrances. Some slip into a room like a change in the weather — unnoticed at first, but impossible to ignore once you realize how they’ve shifted everything. This is a story for them, the quiet ones.
By Kine Willimesabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes of room 313
It was supposed to be just another hotel stay. Adeel was a travel writer—his job was to observe, experience, and move on. He had stayed in over 80 cities, written about rainstorms in Kerala, food markets in Morocco, and forgotten railways in Eastern Europe. But this time, he found himself in a lesser-known Pakistani town, Mehrabad, where his editor asked him to cover a story on “the cultural soul of small places.” He checked into Hill View Lodge, a modest two-star hotel standing on the edge of an old colonial-era hill. The receptionist, a young boy who looked about seventeen, barely glanced up. "Room 313, third floor,” he mumbled, sliding the key. Adeel took the elevator—one of those clunky iron ones with a caged door—and made his way to the room. Room 313 was like any other: beige walls, a creaky ceiling fan, a cracked window overlooking the misty road, and a bed that groaned under its own weight. He tossed his bag onto the chair and collapsed on the mattress. The journey had been long, and his head pounded from the heat. But just as his eyes began to shut, he heard it—a knock. Soft. Repeating. Three times. He opened the door. Nobody. Only the dim corridor stretching into silence. He shook his head, blaming it on tiredness, and closed the door. That night, strange things started happening. At exactly 3:13 AM, the ceiling fan stopped. His laptop screen flickered. And the air turned icy cold. He wrapped himself in the thin blanket but felt a whisper near his ear: > "Find me." He jumped up, turned on all the lights, and searched the room. Empty. He laughed nervously. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it was jetlag. But it wasn’t. The next morning, Adeel asked the receptionist, “Has anyone complained about Room 313?” The boy looked up sharply, then glanced around. “No sir,” he said quickly, “it’s just an old room.” Adeel paused. “Anyone ever… die there?” The boy hesitated. “Sir, all rooms have stories. But we don’t speak about that one.” Now curious—and slightly obsessed—Adeel began to dig. He visited the local archives. The town library. He interviewed old shopkeepers and chai walas. And then he found it. A small newspaper clipping from April 13, 2013: > “Girl Found Dead in Hill View Lodge Room 313. Seventeen-year-old Sana Rehman was found hanging from the ceiling fan of Room 313 under mysterious circumstances. No signs of forced entry. Her diary was never recovered. Police ruled it suicide.” Adeel’s blood ran cold. The date? 13th April 2013. The time of events? 3:13 AM. The room? 313. Too many patterns. That night, he sat at the room desk, staring at the fan, waiting. At 3:13 AM, it happened again. The fan stopped. The air turned ice. And the whisper came, louder. > "I'm here. Find the pages." His instincts as a writer kicked in. He began searching the room. Behind the cupboard. Under the mattress. In the bathroom tiles. And finally—behind a loose wall panel—he found it. A torn, dusty diary. The first page read: > "My name is Sana. And if you're reading this, I did not kill myself." The diary revealed everything. Sana had been a brilliant student who came to Mehrabad for a scholarship exam. She stayed in Room 313. But on her second night, she noticed someone following her. A man in the hotel. She wrote how she complained but was ignored. Then one day, the diary stopped mid-sentence. The last line read: > “If something happens to me, it was never my choice.” Adeel sat frozen. This wasn’t a haunting. It was a cry for justice. He scanned the diary, added it to his story, and titled it: “The Girl in Room 313: A Voice That Was Never Heard.” He published it. Not just in his magazine—but on every blog, platform, and forum he had access to. The story went viral. One Week Later... The hotel was sealed. A retired staff member confessed anonymously that the manager at that time was dismissed quietly after the incident. No police action. No real investigation. But now, with public outrage, the case reopened. Adeel returned to Mehrabad to attend a town memorial for Sana Rehman. Her family wept as they saw the diary pages printed in full, finally heard after 12 years. And Room 313? It was locked forever. One Year Later... Adeel stood on a TEDx stage, invited to speak on “The Power of Stories.” He said: > “Sometimes stories don’t just entertain. They reveal. They shout when others whisper. Sana’s story wasn’t just words—it was justice delayed. But not denied.”
By Muhammad Abbas about a year ago in Fiction
The One Who Warned Them
I told them not to go. The wind was already wrong that night—too warm for autumn, too quiet for the ridge. I could feel it, in my bones and behind my eyes, that strange kind of pressure before something happens. But when I told them, they laughed. Like always. Like I was the joke.
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Letter from Grandmother’s Desk
had always thought of my grandmother’s attic as a kind of sacred space. Not because it was particularly beautiful—if anything, it was cluttered and smelled faintly of old wood and mothballs—but because it belonged to her. A lifetime of stories and secrets lived in that attic, and most of them were stored inside an old, creaky wooden desk tucked under the window.
By Bilal Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
