Classical

Adam Khan and Durkhanai: A Legend of Love
Once upon a time, in the rugged and scenic valleys of Waziristan, surrounded by towering mountains and endless skies, there lived a young man named Adam Khan. He was born into a noble and proud Pashtun family, known for their honor, bravery, and deep respect for their traditions. Adam Khan was not only brave but also blessed with a heart that longed for poetry, music, and true love.
By Sajjad Khan2 years ago in Fiction
The Fault in Our Stars – John Green
Lena had never liked hospitals. The smell, the silence, the fluorescent lights. They felt like waiting rooms for sadness. But after two years of living with bone cancer, she was used to it. Or at least, good at pretending she was.
By Sadiq Muhammad2 years ago in Fiction
The Day My Grandfather's Watch Ticked Backward
I never planned on going back to the village. Not after the funeral. Not after the inheritance meetings. And definitely not after everyone else in the family had scattered back to their lives in the cities, leaving the old house behind like a shed snake skin.
By Uzair Amin2 years ago in Fiction
OKC Thunder
iturn0image0turn0image3turn0image7turn0image8The Oklahoma City Thunder had an exceptional 2024-25 NBA season, finishing with a remarkable 68-14 record, the best in the league and the fourth best in NBA history. The performance earned them the top seed in the Western Conference and the first-ever Maurice Podoloff Trophy in franchise history. citeturn0search19.
By Rahul Sana2 years ago in Fiction
If we believe we can't do something, then we can't do anything.
Once upon a time, a gentleman was walking past a circus and he noticed that the elephants were not kept in cages but were not chained. A small rope was being used to tie the arms. Seeing this, the man wondered how this was possible.If you tie it with a small rope, the question will come to everyone's mind, is it possible to tie such a big elephant with a small rope? Of course not!
By Md Ariful Islam2 years ago in Fiction
Scientists detect signature of life on a distant planet, study suggests
A team of astronomers have detected what they call the most promising signs to date of a possible biosignature, or signs of past or present life linked to biological activity, on an exoplanet named K2-18b. But the study authors, and other experts, remain cautious and have not declared a definitive discovery of life beyond our planet.
By Reehanul Islam2 years ago in Fiction
A Letter Never Sent
Arman sat at his old wooden desk on a cold, silent evening. The soft ticking of the clock filled the room, yet he barely noticed. Tonight felt different. After so many years, he was finally writing a letter.
By Md Johirul Islam2 years ago in Fiction
Mary had a little lamb
The chapel was gone. In its place, a field of ash stretched into the gray horizon—windless, breathless, still. Mary stood at the center, her palms glowing faintly, threads of golden light weaving from her fingers into the sky. Ash knelt beside her, quiet, reverent. Sebastian… lay collapsed. His body was no longer shifting. He was no longer transforming. The wool had peeled away entirely now. His hooves were hands. His face—delicate, human, eerily angelic—stared up at her with wide, black eyes filled not with hatred… but fear. Not for her. For himself. Mary stepped toward him, her voice hoarse. “Who were you… before?” Sebastian shook his head. Ash, watching silently, finally spoke: “He wasn’t always this. You deserve to know what they did.” And then the world began to remember. The Real Origin of Sebastian It began in the village of Vehl, nestled in a valley choked with superstition. Sebastian had been a boy no older than six when the rains stopped falling. The crops died. The livestock were born deformed. The sky turned a sickly yellow. The elders, drunk on fear and desperation, demanded a reason. A scapegoat. And they found one in him. A child too kind. Too quiet. With hair like bleached snow and eyes that unsettled the priests. A child who had been there—present—when the mayor’s daughter went missing. What no one cared to remember was that Sebastian had tried to save her. He’d followed the scream into the woods. He’d found her doll in a bush. He’d run to the village, gasping, sobbing, begging someone to help. But by the time they arrived, the girl was gone. And the doll—soaked in blood—was still clutched in his hands. The real killer stood behind the crowd that night, expression calm, face smeared with holy ash. Elias, the herbalist’s son. Seventeen. Jealous. Clever. He had found the Tome of the Devourer by accident—buried beneath his grandfather’s floorboards. He never meant to use it. Until he saw the boy with the snow-hair smiling too brightly, too innocently. He planted the evidence. He told the priests. He showed them the cursed book. He whispered, “The child is a vessel. The demon has entered through his birth.” The ritual began on the night of a blood moon. Sebastian’s mother did not stop them. His father looked away. He was dragged from his home barefoot, crying, trying to hold his brother’s hand. But no one reached back. They stripped him naked in the village square. They painted his chest with runes that burned on contact. They broke his toys and scattered them around the circle, muttering that no soul could remain attached to “worldly tethers.” And then they cut off his tongue. To prevent the demon from “whispering.” He didn’t scream. He couldn’t. But his eyes—those impossible, dark eyes—watched them all. When they chanted the incantation, the air twisted. Time buckled. Something answered. But not the way they hoped. Instead of banishing darkness—they poured it into him. Sebastian had never been a demon. But the ritual made him one. It cored out his heart. It poured in sorrow, confusion, rage. It stitched the wool into his skin. It closed his voice forever. It made him immortal. And very, very alone. The ritual ended. The child slumped forward. And the villagers cheered, blind to what they had truly done. For centuries, Sebastian wandered. At first, silent. Confused. A lamb with hollow eyes and blood on his hooves. He did not remember being a boy. But he felt the betrayal. The pain became his compass. The hunger, his company. Until he met Mary. She had picked him up from the field, just as the villagers once dragged him away. She held him. Fed him. Named him. She did not know what he was. And for the first time in centuries, Sebastian felt warmth. But warmth, twisted through torment, becomes obsession. Back in the Present
By E. hasan2 years ago in Fiction
The Man with a Horn on His Head! Even Doctors Were Left Astonished.
The Man with a Horn on His Head! Even Doctors Were Left Astonished. A shocking medical mystery How a simple injury led to a bizarre horn like growth on a man's head.
By Adnan Rasheed2 years ago in Fiction
Peter Krause
Peter Krause was a quiet boy who lived in a small town near the mountains. He was fifteen years old, tall for his age, and always wore the same old blue jacket. He didn’t have many friends, not because he was mean or rude, but because he was shy. He liked to sit alone under the big oak tree near the school and read books about animals, the stars, and places he had never seen.
By Tahir khan2 years ago in Fiction
The Birth of a Drowned Maiden: Rusalka
The legend of the Rusalka begins with pain. Unlike the sirens of the Mediterranean or the playful naiads of Greece, rusalki were once human—young women whose lives ended violently, often by betrayal. Jilted brides, abused lovers, raped villagers, drowned suicides. Their deaths were not peaceful, and neither is what comes after. According to Eastern European lore, these women—especially those who die near water—do not pass on. They transform. Their souls become unquiet, tethered to the lake, river, or swamp where they perished. And over time… they become something else. Something hungry. More Than a Ghost A Rusalka is no ordinary spirit. She is hauntingly beautiful—pale skin, glowing eyes, and long, eternally wet hair that coils like living weeds. She may sing. She may laugh. She may stand in the mist at twilight and beckon you with a smile so perfect it seems carved by angels. But do not approach. For she hides her true form until it's too late: black, bloated limbs from endless submersion, a mouth filled with moss and silt, and hands strong enough to crush bone. Those who follow her song are never seen again. How She Hunts They say a Rusalka will appear to men who are lonely, lost, or full of desire. She knows what you want. She becomes it. A lost love. A fantasy. A woman weeping on the riverbank, waiting for help. She is whatever will pull you closer. And when you're close enough, she strikes. Some say she uses her hair like a noose, wrapping it around your throat and dragging you into the depths. Others say she pulls you close with tenderness—a kiss like ice, a whisper like death—before dragging you down. And the worst tales claim she doesn’t kill you instantly. She keeps you. Beneath the water. Forever. Real or Legend? So—does the Rusalka truly exist? Scholars classify her as a figure from Slavic pagan traditions, later demonized by Christian influence. In early Slavic beliefs, rusalki were water spirits that brought fertility in spring. They danced in fields, watered crops, and symbolized nature’s rebirth. But after centuries of religious and cultural shifts, they became cursed, restless revenants—female ghosts associated with revenge, seduction, and drowning. But legends only survive because people keep seeing her. Even today, rural villages near lakes and rivers across Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, and Poland whisper her name. Locals swear by sudden drownings—young men found lifeless in calm waters, with no wounds, no struggle. The only explanation? The Rusalka took them. Fishermen leave offerings. Swimmers avoid certain spots after dark. And the stories—the real, bone-deep ones—keep spreading online. Forums where people post blurry photos. Claims of laughter echoing from empty shores. Long, wet hair found on riverbanks where no one was seen. Are these just coincidences? Or has something followed us into the modern world? Cursed by Beauty, Bound by Rage The tragedy of the Rusalka is that she is born not just from death—but from injustice. She didn’t choose this fate. It was forced on her. Her legend is soaked in real historical horror: generations of women silenced, erased, violated. Her story is a howl that rose from their graves. And it still echoes, centuries later, as a warning. Some versions say she can be set free—if her death is avenged, or her body laid to rest properly. But most agree: the Rusalka doesn’t want peace. She wants you. Final Warning If you ever find yourself near still water on a moonlit night… don’t linger. Don’t follow the sound of singing. Don’t approach the silhouette on the rocks. And whatever you do—don’t speak to her. Because the moment she turns to face you, the moment those glowing, tearless eyes meet yours… Your lungs will fill with water. Your screams will echo beneath the surface. And no one—no one—will ever find your body.
By E. hasan2 years ago in Fiction
Nasa digs up new clue in search for life on Mars
Scientists studying soil samples from Nasa's Curiosity rover have discovered that a carbon cycle similar to the one that sustains life on Earth once played out on the red planet.While it's unclear whether Marsever supported life, its current harsh environment may be due to an "imbalanced" carbon cycle."Mars seems to have been habitable for its first billion years and that waned very quickly," Ben Tutolo, a space researcher at the University of Calgary, Canada, told DW.
By Reehanul Islam2 years ago in Fiction