Classical
My Grandmother’s Mirror Only Reflects the Dead
The Mirror’s First Secret I almost sold the mirror the day after Grandma Lillian’s funeral. It was an ugly thing—a heavy oak frame carved with twisting vines, the glass smoky with age. But Mom insisted: "She wanted you to have it. Said it was special."
By MUHAMMAD Abbasabout a year ago in Fiction
The Gym Rat Trap
When I met Chad, I thought I’d finally cracked the dating algorithm. He was funny, ambitious, and had biceps that could probably cradle a small cow. A real gym rat — not just one of those guys who “occasionally hikes” and thinks whey protein is a type of shampoo. He had the full package: personal trainer certification, veins that mapped his forearms like Google Earth, and a way of saying “macronutrients” like it was a poem.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Three Teacups and a Lie
Every Friday, without fail, the bells above the old wooden door of Maple & Mint Café jingled at precisely 3:00 PM. Inside, the café smelled like warm bread, honey, and chamomile—mixed with the scent of polished wood and old books. It was the heart of Ashwood Village, a quiet English town tucked between green hills and winding stone paths. Most tourists passed it by, but for three old women—Margot, Edna, and Florence—it was the epicenter of their lives.
By Keramatullah Wardakabout a year ago in Fiction
The War of Water and Fire and the Transformation of Heaven and Earth. AI-Generated.
Since Pangu created the world and N ü wa created humans, the order between heaven and earth was initially established, and the gods each performed their duties. However, the jealousy and dissatisfaction in the hearts of the Water God Gonggong grew stronger and stronger. He had long coveted the power of the Fire God Zhurong to control light and warmth, and finally couldn't hold back. He led his troops of shrimp and crab to launch a grand attack on the Fire God.
By empire datangabout a year ago in Fiction
My Mother Is One in the World
--- The world is filled with people — millions and millions of faces, voices, hearts. Each person has their own story, their own journey. But to me, there is one person whose love and strength shine brighter than all others — my mother. She is one in the world. No one else compares. From my earliest memory, she has been the center of my life. I remember the softness of her hands, her warm embrace, her soothing voice when she sang me to sleep. In her arms, I felt safe — as if no harm could ever reach me. I didn’t understand it then, but my mother was already giving me the greatest gift of all: unconditional love. We didn’t have much when I was little. Life was not easy. My father worked long hours and my mother managed everything at home — cooking, cleaning, taking care of us children. Yet, not once did she complain. Not once did she show bitterness or regret. Instead, she filled our home with laughter and love, teaching us that joy doesn’t come from money or possessions, but from kindness, togetherness, and hope. My mother had a strength that amazed me. I saw it in the way she carried herself — graceful, steady, full of purpose. She woke up before the sun, preparing breakfast, getting us ready for school, ensuring my father left with a smile. Then came a full day of endless tasks — washing clothes by hand, sweeping floors, tending to the garden, helping neighbors when they needed it. Her energy seemed limitless. But it wasn’t just her hard work that inspired me. It was her heart. My mother’s kindness reached far beyond our family. If a neighbor was ill, she would cook meals for them. If someone lost a loved one, she was the first to offer comfort. Children in the street called her “Aunty” and ran to her with their problems. Her love was a light that touched everyone around her. One of the greatest lessons my mother taught me was about forgiveness. I remember once, as a child, I broke her favorite vase while playing inside the house. Terrified of her reaction, I hid in my room, certain she would be angry. But when she found me crying, she didn’t scold or punish me. She wiped my tears and said, “It’s only a vase. You are more precious to me than anything else.” Her gentle words stayed with me forever. Through her, I learned that forgiveness is stronger than anger. As I grew older, I began to see the sacrifices my mother made for our family. She often wore old clothes so we could have new ones for school. She skipped meals when times were hard, pretending she wasn’t hungry. She gave up her own dreams so we could chase ours. And she never asked for anything in return — not praise, not thanks. Her happiness came from seeing us grow and succeed. During my teenage years, I went through moments of rebellion. I wanted to be independent, to prove I didn’t need her advice. I spoke harshly sometimes, thinking I knew better. But my mother never gave up on me. With patience and understanding, she guided me back, showing me that real wisdom comes from love, not pride. When I faced failure, it was my mother who reminded me that setbacks are only steps toward success. “Every great tree,” she said, “begins as a small seed that must struggle through the earth to reach the light.” Her words gave me courage when I wanted to give up. Then came the hardest day of my life — the day I moved away from home for university. My mother helped me pack, her smile bright but her eyes wet. At the station, as the train pulled away, I saw her waving, standing tall, even though I knew her heart was breaking. That image of her — proud, loving, strong — stayed with me through every lonely night. Living alone, I began to realize all the small things my mother had done for me. The meals she cooked, the clothes she mended, the words of comfort, the quiet support. I missed her warmth, her wisdom, her unshakable love. I understood then: a mother’s love is a foundation, a source of strength that never fades. Years passed. I graduated, found a job, built a life. But no matter how far I traveled, my mother remained my anchor. Every phone call, every visit home reminded me of her boundless love. Her hair had begun to turn silver, her steps had slowed — but her spirit was as bright as ever. One day, I asked her, “Mother, how did you stay so strong through all those hard times?” She smiled gently and said, “When you love someone, you find strength you never knew you had.” Now, as an adult, I know that what makes my mother one in the world is not her work, her sacrifices, or even her strength — though all those things are remarkable. It is her heart — her endless capacity for love, forgiveness, and hope. In a world that often feels cold and rushed, her love remains a constant light. I hope to become like her — to live with kindness, to face challenges with courage, to give love freely. If I can be even half the person she is, I will consider my life a success. To the world, my mother may seem like just one person. But to me, she is the world. There will never be another like her. She is one in the world — and forever in my heart. ---
By Huzaifa Writerabout a year ago in Fiction
Words on a Page
Echoes of a Love Lost The rain tapped softly against my window, as if nature itself was whispering the sorrow I tried to hide. I sat alone in my room, clutching a worn-out notebook, its pages filled with words I had never shared — words that spoke of a love that once burned bright but now only flickers faintly in the shadows of memory. I never thought it would end like this. Not in silence. Not with only words on a page. We met in the spring, when everything around us was blooming — the world bursting with color and promise. You had that smile that made the sun jealous, and eyes that held the calm of a thousand quiet lakes. I fell for you like a leaf carried by the wind — gently, irresistibly, without control. For a time, it was perfect. We shared dreams beneath starlit skies, whispered secrets in the dark, and promised each other forever in a language only our hearts understood. Every moment with you felt like a page from a storybook, written just for us. But life, I learned, isn’t always kind to stories like ours. The changes came slowly, like shadows stretching across a sunny room. Conversations grew shorter. Smiles became rarer. The warmth in your eyes cooled into something distant, like a winter that refused to thaw. I asked what was wrong, but you said nothing — only that you needed space. Space became distance. Distance grew into silence. You disappeared from my life as quietly as you had entered it. No dramatic farewell, no explanations — just absence. I was left clutching memories and the aching void you left behind. I tried to reach you, to find a reason in the silence. But you were gone. That’s when I began to write. At first, the words were clumsy, awkward — reflections of my shattered heart. But slowly, the pages filled with the truth I couldn’t say aloud. Letters to you that would never be sent. Stories of what we were, what we lost, and what I wished could have been. > “I still remember the way your hand felt in mine — warm, steady, real.” “I miss your laugh echoing through the empty rooms.” “I wonder if you ever think of me, or if I’ve become just a ghost in your past.” Each word was a drop of pain, a spark of hope, a whisper of love. The notebook became my confessional, a place where I could pour out the fragments of a heart broken but not yet healed. Sometimes, I wonder if you ever read those words in your mind. If they reach you across the miles and the silence. Maybe they don’t. Maybe they’re only for me — a way to hold onto you even as I learn to let go. The hardest part isn’t the goodbye. It’s the not knowing. The waiting for a sign that might never come. The endless question of “why?” Why did we drift apart? Why couldn’t love be enough? Why am I still here, writing words that won’t change anything? Tonight, as the rain falls and the world outside blurs into gray, I understand that some stories don’t have neat endings. Some love doesn’t heal with time; it simply becomes a quiet ache beneath the surface. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe love isn’t just about being together. Maybe it’s about the courage to feel deeply, to remember honestly, and to keep living even when the heart breaks. So I write. I write for the love that was real, even if it didn’t last. I write for the lessons learned and the memories that refuse to fade. And maybe, someday, I’ll close this notebook and find peace in the silence. Until then, these words on a page are all I have left of us.
By Huzaifa Writerabout a year ago in Fiction
Pangu created the world. AI-Generated.
In those distant and untraceable years, the universe was nothing but a murky, viscous chaos. Darkness is like an impenetrable web, enveloping everything within it, without a glimmer of light or vitality, only endless silence and nothingness. This chaos is like a huge egg, with thick substances blending and entangling with each other, without any boundaries between heaven and earth, without any signs of life, as if the entire world has fallen into eternal slumber.
By empire datangabout a year ago in Fiction
