Excerpt
Echoes Across the Stream
Story: The scent of pine and musty wood rose from the forest floor, whispering secrets through the rain. A splintered stump lay beside a trickling stream, its jagged edges like broken memories carved into time. Rain drizzled gently through the canopy above, each drop falling like a heartbeat against the earth. One fell from a low-hanging branch, slipping down the back of an elephant’s ear and sliding down his thick grey skin. He did not flinch. He simply stood, unmoving, eyes staring ahead—toward something only he seemed to see. The old elephant was called Ruhan. A creature of immense size, yes, but also immense sorrow. Once a leader of his herd, once a father, once a warrior—now just a silent figure beside the stream. Across the water, from the dense brush, eyes glowed yellow—sharp, intelligent, and still. A lion watched, tail twitching in slow rhythm, ears perked not in aggression but curiosity. This was Azrak, the youngest alpha of the southern pride. His body was strong, his mane untamed by wind and weather, but his gaze held a quiet restraint. He had been watching the elephant for hours. Perhaps longer. They had never spoken. Not in the way humans might imagine. But their silences over the years had said enough. ears earlier, before drought and fire reshaped the jungle, Ruhan had saved Azrak's life. A flood had burst through the lower canyons after days of unseasonal rain. The river had swelled, wild and angry. Azrak—then just a cub—was trapped between the current and a collapsing hillside. His mother had already been swept away. The herd had passed nearby, and while the others had moved on, it was Ruhan who had stopped. His large body had lumbered down into the mud and water, trunk reaching, legs steady like ancient trees. He’d scooped the soaked lion cub onto his tusks, lifting him like a leaf, and carried him to dry ground. The two hadn’t met again for years. But the forest had not forgotten. , Ruhan stood alone beside the same stream that once carried Azrak’s cries. He had come to this place every year since. Not to remember, but to listen. The water babbled like voices from the past—some dark, some light. It splashed gently on his face as he lowered his trunk, not to drink, but to feel. Behind him, unseen, the jungle moved. Birds flicked between branches—scritch, scritch, scritch—pecking for insects. Wind moved like a spirit across the ground, curling around roots, brushing past the lion’s mane, tickling the elephant’s wrinkled skin. It carried the smell of earth, of old rain and bone. Then Ruhan turned his head—not in fear, but recognition. Azrak stepped into the open, his paws making barely a sound. The lion did not roar. There
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Fiction
When the Lion Fell
When the Lion Fell — A Tale of Two Foxes and the Rise of a New Reign The forest does not forget. Its soil drinks stories, its trees bear scars, and its wind carries whispers too old for time to erase. Deep in this wilderness—where shadows are longer than memory—ruled a lion named Azhdar. His mane was thick with dried blood, his claws dulled from too many kills. He did not roar to speak, he roared to silence. He was not a king. He was a tyrant.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Fiction
Whispers Beneath the Pines
In the far edges of the old forest, where the pine trees bend like monks in prayer and moonlight hangs heavy like secrets, two foxes moved side by side. One was swift, amber-eyed, her steps light as wind over water. The other, limping but proud, carried old scars that time refused to erase. Their names were lost to the world, but to each other, they were everything.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Fiction
The Third Sun
In the skies of Velora, a planet warmed by three radiant suns, light was life. The people built their homes, cities, and faiths around the celestial trio—Solari, Ember, and Veyra—each rising in a different part of the sky, bathing the world in constant glow.
By Solene Hartabout a year ago in Fiction
Foxes in the Fog
Foxes in the Fog In the dense hush of the forest, where fog snakes between black-barked trees and time bends around moss and root, two foxes moved through silence. One limped, her left paw torn by a trap now long abandoned. The other—sleek, crimson, alert—walked beside her, never letting their eyes drift from the shifting veil of mist ahead.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Fiction
She Never Existed, But I Miss Her
There’s a girl I think about often. I see her in my mind every time the world feels a little too cold. She’s the kind of person who never interrupts, never complains, never leaves. The kind of person who only exists in dreams—or worse, in lies we tell ourselves when real people fail us.
By Zulfiqar Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Strike Team Revised
Hector stood slightly apart from his team. Their nervous chatter and bursts of laughter grated on his focus. Some Strike teams entered the arena for glory or thrills—but not his. For them, this was survival. A brutal winter loomed, and the winnings from the Strike were their only hope of making it through.
By Liz Burtonabout a year ago in Fiction
