Excerpt

The Wise Frog and the Gift of Humanity
The Wise Frog and the Gift of Humanity BY:Ubaid How a small pond of frogs discovered compassion where they least expected it Deep inside a dense forest, there was a small pond that shimmered under the sun. It was home to a lively community of frogs. For years, they lived in peace, croaking in harmony, leaping on lily pads, and enjoying their green, watery world. But then a long drought arrived. The rains stopped, the leaves on the trees drooped, and the earth cracked under the heat. As water dried up in rivers and streams, animals from faraway places began coming to the little pond in search of water. Deer, elephants, wild boars—even predators—crowded around the pond. The frogs tried their best to stay out of the way, but many were crushed under the heavy feet of thirsty beasts. Day by day, their numbers dwindled, and their home shrank. The surviving frogs were worried. Some suggested leaving, but there was no other pond for miles. They were trapped between life and death. --- The Arrival of Strangers One day, a group of young men appeared in the forest. They weren’t hunters or villagers. They were students from a medical college, looking for frogs to use in their laboratory experiments. The moment the frogs saw them, they panicked and dived underwater to hide. But one elderly frog, known for his wisdom and calmness, gathered the others and spoke. “My friends,” he said, “we are already on the verge of extinction. Many of our brothers have been crushed by wild animals. Perhaps, instead of fearing these humans, we should try to speak with them. They might help us.” The younger frogs were horrified. “Help us? They want to take us away! If more of us disappear, our kind will vanish from this forest forever.” But the old frog insisted. “Humans are not always as cruel as we believe. At times, they can be kinder than the animals we fear. Let me go and speak to them. If I fail, at least I will have tried to save you all.” Three or four brave frogs agreed to join him. “We will risk our lives if it means hope for the rest of us.” --- A Risky Bargain As the students reached the pond, the old frog hopped forward. To their astonishment, he spoke: “What do you seek here?” The students stared, half amused and half amazed. Finally, one replied, “We are medical students. We need some frogs for our experiments.” The old frog nodded. “Very well. But I will come with you. I must speak with your professor. Only then will we agree to go.” Surprised but curious, the students agreed. They placed the frogs gently into a large glass jar and carried them away. Back at the laboratory, the frogs trembled in fear. The students took the old frog out and set him on a plate while they went to call their professor. --- The Plea of the Old Frog When the professor entered, he looked down at the tiny creature. “You wished to see me?” he asked. The old frog’s eyes welled up. In a trembling voice, he recounted everything—the drying pond, the death of his companions, and the danger of his species disappearing. The professor listened in silence, moved by the creature’s desperation. At last, he said, “If what you say is true, then I cannot, in good conscience, use your kind for experiments. First, I must see the forest with my own eyes.” He assigned a student to watch over the frogs and set out with a team to inspect the forest. --- A New Home The professor and his companions searched all day. At last, they discovered a large, thriving pond hidden deeper within the forest. The water was clean and plentiful, with space enough for hundreds of frogs. Excited, the professor hurried back to the laboratory. He shared the good news with the old frog, who could hardly believe his luck. The very next day, the professor carried the frogs to this new pond. There, the old frog called out to his fellow survivors who had remained in the shrinking pool. “Come! We have been given a new home. We are safe!” Overjoyed, the frogs leaped into the new pond, splashing and croaking with relief. --- An Unexpected Kindness As the frogs settled, the professor called out to the old frog once more. He opened the glass jar and released the remaining captured frogs into the water. The old frog looked at him with wonder. “Why, Professor? You could have kept them.” The professor smiled. “Because your species is already endangered. Too many animals have gone extinct because of human actions. I will not let the same happen to you. From now on, no student of mine will harm your kind.” The old frog bowed his head. “I told them that humans are not always what they seem. Today, you have proved me right.” From that day forward, the frogs lived happily in their new home. They made the old frog their king, honoring his wisdom and courage. And whenever they croaked under the moonlight, they remembered the kindness of one human who chose to protect life rather than destroy it. --- Moral of the Story This tale reminds us that kindness can be found in unexpected places. Even when fear tells us to mistrust others, courage and honesty can open doors to compassion. Humanity, at its best, has the power not only to heal itself but also to protect the fragile creatures with whom we share this earth.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Fiction
The Forest of the Forgotten
"The Starbucks," Ellie said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk as the realization hit her. "Their bathroom. It'll be quieter than a department store, and people expect coffee shops to have locked bathrooms."
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The Empathy Implant's Failure
The morning it happened began like any other. Elara’s neural implant, the Harmony-7, hummed its gentle morning pulse, calibrating her emotional baseline. As she walked through the pristine, quiet streets of Aethel, the implant did its job perfectly. She felt the subtle anxiety of the man rushing to work, a sympathetic flutter in her chest. She sensed the contented fatigue of the woman walking her dog, which brought a soft smile to her lips. She was a perfectly tuned instrument, resonating with the feelings of everyone around her. There was no conflict, no anger, no loneliness. The Great Division was a forgotten chapter in history. Harmony was mandatory.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Finale : Whispers of the Forgotten: A Descent into Eldoria Manor
The Finale Chapter 1 Alistair froze, his hand still raised, the rock still in his grip. The whisper was not in his ears, but in his mind, clear as day. It was the voice of a woman, a profound sadness clinging to every word.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Fiction
The Call That Split Me
At 2:13 a.m., the phone rings. In one world, Lily wakes instantly. The apartment is so quiet she can hear the refrigerator switch off. A soft weight lifts from the bend of her knees—Hekate, her black cat, standing, amber eyes lit like two streetlamps in fog. Lily answers on the second ring, voice rehearsed for years of maybe-tonight. A woman says Lily’s full name and the words she’s memorized and avoided like a superstition: We have a kidney for you.
By Jocelyn Paige Kellyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Anywhere Door
Chapter 1: Discovery Mira first noticed the door on a Tuesday. Not because it appeared suddenly—it had always been there in her grandmother's basement, tucked behind the old furnace like a forgotten afterthought. What she noticed was that it had no handle on the basement side, no hinges, no frame that made sense with the foundation walls. It was simply a door that existed, painted the same faded blue as summer sky.
By Autumn about a year ago in Fiction
"The Glitter of Gold: A Tale of Value & Virtue"
"The Glitter of Gold: A Tale of Value & Virtue" ‎ ‎"Discovering the Timeless Brilliance and Positive Impact of Gold in History, Economy, and Culture" ‎ ‎Gold has captivated humanity for millennia. Its allure isn't just in the glitter of its shine but in the substance of its value, versatility, and the virtues it represents. From ancient civilizations to modern economies, gold has been a symbol of wealth, a store of value, and a bridge between cultures and eras. ‎ ‎In the dawn of civilization, gold was among the first metals humans discovered and coveted. Ancient Egyptians adorned their pharaohs with gold to symbolize divinity and power. In Mesopotamia, gold was used in trade, showcasing its early role in economics. Across continents, in the Inca Empire, gold was considered the "sweat of the sun," a gift from the gods. These stories underscore gold's universal appeal and its embodiment of value across cultures. ‎ ‎Economically, gold has been a bedrock of stability. For centuries, currencies were backed by gold reserves—a system known as the gold standard—ensuring money had tangible value. Even today, central banks hold gold as a hedge against uncertainty, a testament to its enduring worth. In times of economic turmoil, gold prices often rise as investors seek safety, highlighting its role as a "safe haven." Beyond finance, gold's uses in technology, jewelry, and art speak to its versatility. In electronics, gold's conductivity and resistance to corrosion make it indispensable. In jewelry, it symbolizes beauty, luxury, and commitment. ‎ ‎Culturally, gold weaves through traditions and symbols of achievement. Olympic winners don gold medals, symbolizing the pinnacle of human achievement. In many cultures, gold jewelry is a rite of passage, signifying status, marriage, or celebration. Gold accents in art and architecture—like the gilded domes of churches or the intricate designs in Indian temples—add a touch of the divine and the magnificent. ‎ ‎Yet, gold's story isn't without nuances. The quest for gold has led to both marvels and conflicts. The California Gold Rush of 1848 spurred migration and growth but also brought challenges for indigenous populations. Today, discussions around gold mining highlight the balance between economic gain and environmental responsibility. Ethical mining practices and recycling of gold are steps toward mitigating these impacts, ensuring gold's value doesn't come at the cost of the planet or its people. ‎ ‎Despite these complexities, gold's virtues shine through. It is a symbol of endurance—not just in its chemical stability but in its lasting presence in human history. It inspires craftsmanship of the highest order, from delicate ornaments to intricate coins. Gold also fosters connection; think of wedding bands passed down generations or gifts of gold jewelry marking life's milestones. ‎ ‎In modern times, gold continues to adapt. Beyond traditional roles, innovations like gold nanoparticles open doors in medicine and technology. Gold's conductivity aids in treating certain cancers, and its properties are being explored in cutting-edge electronics and renewable energy. ‎ ‎Ultimately, gold's tale is one of value and virtue. It mirrors humanity's aspirations—for stability in wealth, beauty in art, and symbols of our highest achievements. Its glow transcends eras, connecting us to the past while shining bright in the present. As we look to the future, gold remains a testament to the enduring appeal of something both materially precious and symbolically profound. ‎ ‎In the glitter of gold, we find reflections of our history, our values, and our dreams. Its timeless brilliance reminds us of the virtues we cherish—beauty, value, and the connections we forge through the ages. ‎ ‎--- ‎ ‎This story is about 700 words, highlighting the positive aspects of gold in history, economy, culture, and its ongoing relevance, matching the title "The Glitter of Gold: A Tale of Value & Virtue" and subtitle "Discovering the Timeless Brilliance and Positive Impact of Gold in History, Economy, and Culture". ‎ ‎
By Muhammad Saad about a year ago in Fiction
Where the Paint Peels
The town clung to the rocky shore like barnacles on a ship's hull, its buildings weathered into something between architecture and driftwood. What had once been pristine white clapboard siding now bore the scars of countless storms—paint peeling in long, papery strips that curled and fluttered in the salt-heavy breeze like dying moths.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
Season 5: Whispers of the Forgotten: A Descent into Eldoria Manor
Season 5: Chapter 1 As Silas lay on the floor, his body still, his breathing shallow, the others worked with a desperate, frantic energy. Chloe's laptop screen was a blur of code and schematics, as she tried to find a way to hack the music box. Lena's hands trembled as she lit candles and laid out ancient relics, trying to create a psychic link to the spirits.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Train at Midnight
M Mehran Ethan was the kind of man who always missed things by a minute. He missed the bus by a minute, the elevator by a minute, even his father’s last phone call by a minute. Life had taught him to live with regret like a second skin. On his thirty-fifth birthday, after a long, bitter day at work, he found himself wandering the city streets aimlessly. That’s when he saw the train station—not the modern one, but an old building tucked between skyscrapers, its brickwork faded, its clock tower frozen at midnight. He had never noticed it before. Curious, he stepped inside. The hall smelled of coal and rain, though no one else seemed to be there. The ticket booth glowed faintly, and behind the glass sat a woman with hair the color of snow. “One ticket?” she asked, her voice echoing. Ethan frowned. “To where?” “Wherever you regret not going.” Something inside him lurched. He almost laughed, but her expression was too steady, too certain. Against his better judgment, he nodded. The woman handed him a slip of paper with no destination, only the words: Last Train. Midnight. When he stepped onto the platform, a black train was waiting. Steam curled from its engine, and its doors hissed open as though inviting him in. He boarded, heart pounding. Inside, the compartments were filled with people he recognized—not strangers, but versions of himself. There he was at fifteen, clutching his guitar with calloused fingers. At twenty-one, running breathless toward a girl he’d never confessed his love to. At twenty-eight, staring at a job offer he had turned down because he was afraid. Each version looked at him with eyes that burned with disappointment. “What is this?” Ethan whispered. The conductor appeared—a tall man in a dark uniform, his face hidden by shadow. “This is the train of missed chances,” he said. “Every regret you carry boards here. Tonight, you decide if you will ride with them forever, or leave them behind.” The train lurched forward. Through the windows, Ethan saw scenes flashing by—his past choices unfolding like film reels. The girl in the café he never spoke to. The audition he skipped. The letter to his father he never mailed. The weight of it crushed him. He buried his face in his hands. “Can I change any of it?” he asked hoarsely. The conductor’s voice was firm. “No. But you can stop riding the same tracks.” The words sank deep. Ethan looked at the versions of himself, their eyes haunted. Then he did something he’d never done—he stood. “I can’t take you with me,” he whispered. “You’re part of me, but you don’t own me anymore.” One by one, the other Ethans faded, until the compartment was empty. The train screeched to a halt. The conductor tipped his hat. “Then your stop has come.” Ethan stepped off onto a platform that glowed with morning light. The old station was gone; he stood in the real city again, his heart strangely light. For the first time in years, he wasn’t a minute late. He was exactly where he needed to be.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
The Painter of Memories
M Mehran Elena lived in a small town where life moved quietly, like the slow river that curved through its center. She worked at the post office, sorted letters, and stacked packages. To most, she was invisible, a pair of hands behind the counter. But at night, she painted. Her apartment smelled of oil and turpentine. Canvases leaned against the walls, crowded with half-finished portraits—faces of people she had seen only once in her life. The man who rode the bus with a torn hat. The old woman who fed pigeons by the church. The girl in the red raincoat, laughing on her phone. Elena remembered them all, and her brush captured them with frightening precision. But what no one knew—not even Elena—was that her paintings didn’t just capture. They kept. One autumn evening, as orange leaves chased each other along the sidewalks, a stranger came to her door. He was tall, with gray eyes and a long coat that looked older than time itself. He carried no umbrella, though rain clung to his shoulders. “Elena Voss,” he said, his voice deep and steady. “You’ve been painting memories that don’t belong to you.” Her stomach tightened. “I don’t know what you mean.” The man stepped inside as though invited. His presence filled the small room, and the ticking of her wall clock seemed suddenly loud. He gazed at her canvases one by one, his eyes unreadable. “Every soul carries its own history,” he said softly. “But when you paint, you pull pieces of those histories into your own world. Fragments that were never yours to hold.” Elena felt dizzy. She looked at the portraits—at the woman on the park bench, the man with the roses, the child chasing a kite. Her chest tightened with a strange guilt. “I never meant to steal anything,” she whispered. The man’s eyes softened. “I believe you. But intention doesn’t erase consequence. Do you know what happens when you carry too many fragments?” Elena shook her head. “You forget your own.” The words cut deep. She tried to recall her childhood bedroom, the scent of her mother’s perfume, her father’s laughter. The images were blurry, slipping like water through her fingers. She gasped. “I don’t… I can’t remember.” The man touched one of her canvases gently. “It’s not too late. But you must choose which memories are truly yours, and return the rest.” “How?” He handed her a brush she had never seen before. Its handle was carved from dark wood, its bristles shimmering faintly as if woven from light. “Paint the truth. Only then will you find yourself again.” Elena hesitated, then sat before a blank canvas. Her hands trembled as she dipped the brush into color. At first, images of strangers surged forward—faces, gestures, places that weren’t hers. She pushed them aside and searched deeper, painting the cracked tiles of her grandmother’s kitchen, the smell of bread rising in the oven, the way her brother’s laughter echoed when they chased fireflies in the yard. The memories burned as she painted, bright and painful, but real. With every stroke, fragments of strangers slipped away, returning to the world where they belonged. The portraits on her walls began to fade, their colors dissolving like mist. Hours passed, though time felt strange, elastic. When she finally set the brush down, the room was almost bare. Only one painting remained—a self-portrait, raw and imperfect, but alive with truth. Elena fell back, exhausted, but her heart felt lighter. For the first time in years, she remembered who she was. The gray-eyed man picked up the brush and tucked it inside his coat. “You’ve done well,” he said. “Guard your gift carefully. Memory is powerful, but it was never meant to be borrowed.” As he turned to leave, Elena called out. “Wait! Who are you?” He paused at the door, rain glistening behind him. “A librarian of sorts. I keep the shelves of time from collapsing.” His eyes flickered with something like sorrow. “And you nearly tipped one over.” Then he was gone. Elena sat alone, her gaze on the self-portrait. The woman on the canvas stared back at her, weary but unbroken. She smiled faintly. Outside, the rain stopped. The streets gleamed under the lamplight, and the slow river carried the town’s reflections away. Elena closed her eyes, holding her own memories close, determined never to lose them again.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library Between Worlds
M Mehran Most people walked past the alley without noticing it. It was narrow, damp, and always smelled faintly of smoke. But Aria had always been drawn to places that seemed forgotten. That night, when the city was loud with Friday traffic, she slipped into the alley and found a door she’d never seen before. It was tall and arched, made of dark oak carved with symbols she didn’t recognize. A brass plaque read simply: The Library Between Worlds. Aria hesitated only a moment before pushing the door open. The room inside stretched impossibly wide, its ceiling lost in shadow. Shelves upon shelves towered upward, filled with books bound in leather, cloth, and even materials that shimmered like metal. Candles floated in the air, their flames steady though no wax dripped. At the center stood a man in a long coat, his hair silver though his face looked young. “Welcome,” he said, as if he had been expecting her. “Few find this place without searching. Fewer still are invited.” Aria swallowed. “What is this?” “A library,” he said with a smile. “But not the kind you know. Here, every book contains a life—every possibility you might have lived, had you made a different choice.” Her pulse quickened. “You mean… alternate versions of me?” “Exactly.” He led her to a shelf where the spines bore her name. Hundreds of them. Aria reached out with trembling fingers and pulled one down at random. The moment she opened it, the library dissolved. She was standing on a stage, bathed in golden light, a violin tucked under her chin. A crowd cheered wildly as she bowed. Aria gasped. She had quit violin when she was twelve, convinced she’d never be good enough. But here, she was a prodigy. The librarian’s voice echoed in her ear: This is one path. Do you wish to stay? The temptation was sharp, but she closed the book. The stage vanished. She was back in the library. Her heart raced. “That was real?” “As real as the life you are living now.” She pulled another book. This time, she was older, sitting on a porch with a ring on her finger and children laughing in the yard. A man whose face she didn’t recognize handed her a glass of lemonade. She felt warmth spread through her chest—love, family, belonging. But again, she closed the book, shaking. Book after book, life after life. Some glorious, some tragic. In one she was a surgeon. In another, a thief. In one, she died young. In another, she lived to a hundred. The librarian watched silently as her hands trembled. “Every choice you’ve ever made opens one door and closes another. Here, you may step into whichever you desire.” Her eyes burned. “But… if I choose one, do I lose the others?” He nodded. “That is the cost. You cannot carry them all.” Aria sank to the floor, overwhelmed. All her life she had wondered about the what ifs—what if she hadn’t given up music, what if she’d said yes to love, what if she’d dared to be braver. And here they all were, stacked neatly on shelves. But as she stared at the endless books, another thought broke through: she had always been so busy regretting the lives she hadn’t lived, she had never honored the one she was living. “I… I can’t choose,” she whispered. The librarian’s eyes softened. “That, too, is a choice.” He reached out, placing a single blank book in her lap. Its cover was plain, its pages empty. “This one is still being written,” he said. “It is yours, and only you can finish it. Not by stepping into someone else’s story, but by living your own.” Her throat tightened. She clutched the book as the shelves began to fade, the candles snuffing out one by one. When she blinked, she was back in the alley, the blank book still warm in her hands. The brass plaque was gone, and the door with it. The city’s noise returned around her—cars honking, people laughing—but everything felt different. For the first time, Aria wasn’t chasing what ifs. She was carrying a story still unwritten, and she knew she had the power to make it extraordinary.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction