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Behind the Locked Door
Author: Nadeem Shah The door had been there my whole life. At the end of the upstairs hallway, just past the faded family photographs and the creaky floorboard, it stood — tall, heavy, and always locked.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror Hotel
The Mirror Hotel was born from Aurelian’s need—not desire. It waited like a predator for the moment he fractured, when something inside him shifted just enough to let light pierce the dark. It lived in the liminal spaces of his grief, where reality blurred with dream—a place both familiar and unsettling, shaped by the memories he couldn’t bear to hold.
By Neshzivne Dadirriabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Field
In a quiet village cradled between gentle hills and a winding river, there lived an old farmer named Karim. His back was bent from years of tending the earth, his hands rough and cracked like the dry soil after summer. But his eyes—deep and calm—still held a quiet fire.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
House of Turmoil and Ruin
So, this story was bore out of a simple curiosity, much like my other post (linked below). Plucked from all places obscure. I decided to go a different route, inspired by a faux Socialite in 1920’s Jacksonville mixed with a bit of intrigue and Gatsby. Here we go again:
By K.H. Obergfollabout a year ago in Fiction
The Photo I Found in My Attic Wasn’t Supposed to Exist
I was cleaning out the attic last weekend, something I’d been putting off for years. The summer heat made the air up there heavy and still, and the dust clung to my skin as I pushed aside old boxes. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just trying to make space.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Fiction
A Stranger in Every Photograph
A Stranger in Every Photograph I found the photo album on a rainy Sunday afternoon, tucked behind boxes in the attic of my late grandmother’s house. Its leather cover was cracked and worn, the pages yellowed, and the smell of old paper and faint perfume clung to it like a ghost.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day the Colors Fled
The Day the Colors Fled It started quietly, as if the city had taken a deep breath and let all color escape. I woke to gray skies and streets stripped of vibrancy. My walls, my clothes, the garden outside—everything was a shade of ash, steel, and stone. Even the sunlight seemed pallid, like paper left too long in the sun. I rubbed my eyes, convinced it was a trick of sleep. But the world outside my window confirmed my fear.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Café That Served Emotions
The Café That Served Emotions The café wasn’t on any map. Not in guidebooks, not on GPS, not even on the neon-lit streets of downtown. You stumbled upon it when you weren’t looking, through a narrow alley framed by ivy and flickering lanterns. The sign read simply: “Café Émotion”, its letters curling like smoke.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Letters to the Future Me
Letters to the Future Me It started on a Tuesday. I was pouring cereal at my tiny kitchen table when I noticed the envelope lying beside my bowl. Brown paper, neatly folded, with my name written in cursive I didn’t recognize. I opened it with cautious curiosity.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library of Forgotten Memories
The Library of Forgotten Memories I had always loved libraries. The smell of paper, the quiet hum of readers, the way sunlight sliced through high windows onto worn wooden tables—it was a sanctuary.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
I Read My Future in the Library’s “Lost and Found”
I Read My Future in the Library’s “Lost and Found” The first time I opened the “Lost and Found” box at the Maple Street Public Library, I wasn’t looking for anything.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Bees In The Honey
He saw the slightest glint of metal from across the valley, their signal to prepare, and offered his own quick glint in the midday sun. Sheathing his knife, Ranger Captain Grambel checked his bowstring one last time. It should have been in perfect order, he’d checked it at least four times today, but on this last inspection he saw it–the smallest of burrs attached just below the string nock. It was a little thing, and he pulled it off all the same.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction