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Gambler's Hope
A Gambler's Hope by Theodore Homuth Homuthbooks.com Lila sat at the slot machine, her fingers trembling as she fed another crumpled bill into the flashing maw. The casino’s neon glow bathed her in a false promise of fortune, the air thick with cigarette smoke and desperation. She was down to her last twenty, rent due in three days, and the electric bill already two weeks late. But the pull of the lever, the spinning reels, kept her rooted. One win, she told herself. One win could fix it all.
By Theodore Homuth12 months ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Skill of Letter Writing
In an age of instant messages and voice notes, the art of writing letters has quietly slipped into history. Yet for centuries, letter writing was more than a way to communicate—it was a training ground for patience, reflection, and emotional intelligence.
By Shohel Rana12 months ago in Fiction
Petrichor Between Us
I ponder if you wait long enough. The universe will intercede, interject a prolonged separation from humanity. If merely sitting, doing little to cause ripples—would that eventually create causation, and would the universe answer?
By Paul Stewart12 months ago in Fiction
The Quantum Locksmith
The bell above Elias’s door didn’t tinkle; it hummed a faint C-sharp, the resonant frequency of their particular slice of reality. His shop was a chaotic museum of what-ifs and almost-weres. Gears turned without touching, crystals hummed with captured starlight, and on the wall hung keys of every description—not for physical doors, but for temporal and quantum ones.
By Habibullah12 months ago in Fiction
ayuda. Top Story - September 2025. Content Warning.
“ayuda?,” a soft voice knocks on the gates of my sanctuary. a modest plea from the other side of my mental fortress; opposite my walls, locks, moats, and more walls of security after security within my thoughts.
By ⸘jason alan‽12 months ago in Fiction
Ditched and Cleaned
In the morning after the botched romantic night, while getting ready to go to work, Brad said to Emily, “Babe, I’m so sorry about yesterday. I should have told you about the allergy. I just thought that since it’s so rare and I never buy anything with rosehip I didn’t really need to.”
By Lana V Lynx12 months ago in Fiction
The Fawn Who Forgot His Mother’s Words
The Fawn Who Forgot His Mother’s Words BY:Ubaid In the heart of a dense forest, surrounded by towering trees and thick shrubs, there lived a graceful doe with her delicate, beloved fawn. The little one was so small that he could barely stand on his wobbly legs when his mother had already begun teaching him the ways of the wild. She knew the forest was full of dangers, and she could not be certain how long she would remain by his side. Hunters roamed the woods with guns and traps, while lions, leopards, and wolves prowled in search of prey. The doe’s heart was always restless. At the faintest sound, she would leap in fright, for her little fawn could not yet run fast enough to follow her. In those moments of danger, she would signal her baby to hide in tall grass or thick bushes while she bolted far away to distract predators or hunters. What she longed for most was the day her child would be strong enough to roam freely with her along the riverbank, to graze in the open meadows, and to escape swiftly from danger. Time passed, and slowly the fawn grew. He began following his mother into the forest, learning how to stay still in the shadows, how to leap gracefully, and how to vanish into the grass when threatened. The doe taught him every trick of survival she knew. One evening, as she lovingly nuzzled him, she said with a heavy heart, “My child, I do not know how long I will be with you. One day, when you are grown, you will go your own way, and my duty to protect you will be over. But it could happen that danger separates us before that day arrives. So remember my words carefully. Your heart will always warn you when danger is near—listen to it. Keep your ears sharp, and when you must run, always choose wide open paths, not narrow ones. Never pause on high ground, for there you are most visible and easily targeted. And above all, my son, never forget this truth: you are a deer, fragile and gentle. From wolves to lions, every beast stronger than you is your enemy. Stay with your own kind. Do not befriend the powerful, for that will only bring harm.” The little fawn listened with wide, innocent eyes, absorbing her wisdom. But one day, curiosity led him astray. His mother had gone off with the herd, and left alone, he wandered through the woods. There, in a sunny clearing, he found three lion cubs tumbling and wrestling in a pile of dry grass. At first, he stood at a distance, enchanted by their play. The cubs chased each other, climbed on one another’s backs, and rolled about in joy. The sight was so delightful that soon the fawn forgot his fear. Slowly, he stepped closer, and before long, he was leaping and running with them as though they were old friends. The cubs welcomed him with playful innocence. They tugged at his ears, jumped over his back, and treated him as one of their own. Time passed swiftly until the fawn suddenly remembered his mother and rushed home. When he arrived, the doe was waiting anxiously. He told her everything. Her heart sank with dread. She scolded him sternly: “Foolish child! Lions are not your friends. Their cubs may play with you today, but when they grow, they will tear you apart. And if their mother catches you with them, she will kill you instantly.” The fawn, still intoxicated by his new adventure, refused to believe her. “But Mother,” he insisted, “the cubs like me. They would never hurt me. We are friends now.” The very next morning, fate struck. Hunters captured the doe as she grazed with the herd. She never returned. The young deer was left alone. For days, he survived on grass, feeling lonely and lost. At first, he kept his promise to his mother and avoided the cubs. But loneliness gnawed at his heart, and soon he returned to the clearing. The lion cubs were there, larger and stronger than before, but they greeted him eagerly. They played together as they had before—until the cubs’ mother appeared. The lioness froze at the sight of a deer among her children. Her instincts flared, and with a powerful bound she struck. Her paw landed on the fawn with crushing force, hurling him into the air. He crashed to the ground, bleeding and broken. The cubs circled, eager to pounce, but the fawn—though wounded—gathered all his strength and fled. Somehow, he slipped away into the safety of the forest. Gasping and trembling, he collapsed far from the danger. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind: “Stay with your own kind. Do not befriend the strong, or you will suffer harm.” The fawn healed slowly, but the scars remained—not only on his body but in his heart. From that day onward, he lived by his mother’s words. He never again sought friendship from those stronger than himself, for he had learned that wisdom comes at a heavy price when ignored. And so, the young deer grew wise, carrying his mother’s lesson with him always: to know who he was, to stay with his own, and to never forget the warnings of love.
By Ubaid 12 months ago in Fiction
The Missing Ledger
In the small town of Millford, Ohio, where the days blended into one another under a canopy of maple trees, 38-year-old Ellen Porter arrived in the spring of 2025. After years as an accountant in Cleveland, where the city’s noise and pressure wore her down, she’d taken a job at Millford’s town hall to escape the grind. The town was unremarkable—neat lawns, a single diner called Betty’s, and a library that doubled as a community center. Ellen, with her practical mindset and reserved nature, wanted a life with less chaos, even if it meant embracing boredom.
By Shohel Rana12 months ago in Fiction
The Toys
Author’s Note: This dramatic monologue is inspired by Coventry Patmore’s poem “The Toys.” It reimagines a father’s moment of regret and longing as a heartfelt stage piece—one that speaks to the fragile bond between discipline and love.
By Mohsin Shah12 months ago in Fiction
The Last Innings
There is a cricket ground in our village that looks empty now, though it is never truly silent. If you stand on its edge in the late afternoon, when the sun begins to drown itself in the horizon, you can almost hear echoes of the past—the crack of the bat, the laughter of boys, the urgent shouts of fielders chasing a red tennis ball across the dusty earth.
By Shehzad Anjum12 months ago in Fiction
In This Memory
That we lived in the house so long after what happened is something I'll never understand. We sealed up her room but the house itself was an altar to her presence. You couldn't walk over a creaky floorboard or see a line on a wall from one of her markers that didn't flood your mind with memories so vivid and strong it felt like a stroke. God, did we miss her.
By Wings of Time 12 months ago in Fiction
🌾 The Little Lamp in the Village
In a quiet valley surrounded by rolling green hills, there was a small village where life moved slowly and peacefully. The houses were built of clay and stone, with wooden doors and straw roofs. Each evening, when the sun began to set, the air would fill with the soft fragrance of cooking fires, and the sound of children’s laughter echoed between the narrow lanes.
By Muhammad Riaz12 months ago in Fiction