Fan Fiction
“The Website That Only Appeared at Midnight”
The First Discovery It was a typical sleepless night. I had my phone in one hand, tea in the other, scrolling through articles for inspiration. Writing for digital platforms like Medium and Vocal had become a daily habit—sharing thoughts, tips, and motivational pieces that felt honest.
By Awais Qarni about a year ago in Fiction
The Whisper of the Willow
There was a willow tree standing at the edge of a quiet village, older than the oldest grandmother’s memory. Its wide canopy spread like a protective embrace, branches sweeping low to the earth as if to comfort every living soul that wandered close. The villagers believed it had been planted long before their ancestors built the first cottages, before the first laughter had echoed through their narrow streets.
By Terence Lisherabout a year ago in Fiction
How My Best Friend Saved Me Without Knowing It. AI-Generated.
I never told him. Maybe I still won’t. But my best friend saved me — not in some dramatic, Hollywood way with sirens and last-minute rescues — but slowly, quietly, without even realizing it. And for that, I owe him everything. The Year Everything Fell Apart It started in a year I’ll never forget — not because something huge happened, but because nothing happened. I had just entered university. Everyone around me seemed excited, making plans, dreaming big. But I felt… nothing. Empty. Numb. Lost. Each morning, I dragged myself out of bed and went through the motions. I smiled when people expected me to smile. I laughed when something was “funny.” But inside, it felt like I was disappearing. Slowly. Quietly. I wasn’t sleeping well. I wasn’t eating much. And the worst part? I couldn’t explain why. I didn’t have a tragic past or a broken home. On paper, I had no reason to be depressed. But depression doesn’t care about reasons. It just sneaks in and makes you feel guilty for even feeling it. Enter: My Friend Let’s call him Ammar. Ammar was the kind of person who didn’t know how to sit still. He was always moving, planning something, cracking jokes, dragging me to random food stalls or parks just to “get some fresh air, bro.” He had dreams too big for his small town, but he never acted like he was better than anyone. That’s what made him different. And honestly, he annoyed me sometimes. Not because he did anything wrong, but because he was full of energy — and I was full of nothing. I couldn’t match his pace, and I didn’t want to bring him down with mine. But Ammar never gave up on me. Every time I ignored his calls, he’d show up at my door. When I gave one-word replies, he’d tell entire stories just to fill the silence. When I canceled our plans last-minute, he’d act like it was no big deal and ask again the next day. At first, I thought he just didn’t get the hint. But now I realize — he got the hint. He just didn’t believe in giving up on me. The Turning Point There was one night I’ll never forget. I had spent the whole day feeling like I was stuck in my own body. I hadn’t spoken to anyone. I hadn’t eaten. I had deleted all my social apps and turned off my phone. I was sinking. Deep. I lay in bed that night thinking, “Would anyone even notice if I disappeared?” And then there was a knock. It was Ammar. Holding two burgers and a stupid grin. “Figured you forgot how to eat,” he said, tossing one at me. I didn’t respond. I didn’t smile. I just stared at him. He sat on the floor, unwrapped his burger, and took a huge bite. “I’m not leaving till you eat,” he mumbled with a full mouth. “So you might as well save me the awkwardness.” I don’t know why — maybe it was the ridiculousness of the moment — but I laughed. For the first time in weeks, I actually laughed. And then I cried. Hard. And Ammar? He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t say some deep quote about life. He just sat there, quietly, as I cried like a child. When I was done, he passed me the burger again. “Still warm,” he said. That moment was the first time I felt seen. Heard. Alive. He Still Doesn’t Know To this day, Ammar doesn’t know how close I was to giving up. He doesn’t know how many nights his random messages or memes pulled me out of dark thoughts. He doesn’t know that his stubborn, annoying, constant presence gave me a reason to hold on. He never called himself a hero. He probably never will. But in my story, he’s the reason I’m still writing it. Not every savior comes with a cape. Sometimes, they come with burgers, memes, and bad jokes. --- Final Thought If you’re reading this and you have a friend like Ammar — tell them. Thank them. Show up for them the way they show up for you. And if you are someone like Ammar — never underestimate your presence. You might be saving someone without even knowing it.
By Farid Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Message in the Library Book
By Dawood Khan The dusty scent of aging paper clung to the air as Clara Morgan, head librarian at the Willow Creek Public Library, ran her fingers along the spine of an old leather-bound book. It was a first edition of *The Bell Jar* by Sylvia Plath, donated years ago but rarely checked out. As she flipped through its yellowed pages, a slip of paper fluttered to the floor. Clara bent to pick it up, unfolding it carefully. The handwriting was delicate, almost hurried, as if written in a moment of desperation: >"If you’re reading this, I’m already gone—but meet me at the café on 5th Street tomorrow at noon. Please. It’s about the letter. – E." Clara’s pulse quickened. The note was dated **October 17, 1987**—over thirty years ago. ---
By Dawood Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room Upstairs
The real estate agent called it “cozy,” which I’d learned meant small, old, and likely full of ghosts — though she never used the word. She said it was ideal for a single writer, which was generous considering it had no working outlets in the kitchen, and the upstairs bathroom faucet ran backwards.
By Yasir Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
Shadows of the Same Star
In the quiet town of Elmsridge, nestled between the rolling hills and whispering forests, lived two boys—Eli and Marcus—who had been friends since the age of five. From the moment they built their first fort out of sticks and leaves in the woods behind their houses, the world seemed to exist only for the two of them.
By NIAZ Muhammadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Diamond That was Glass
Long ago, in the dusty village of Rampur where fields stretched like patchwork quilts under the sun, lived a farmer named Mohit. His hands were calloused from dawn-to-dusk labor, tilling the stubborn earth alongside his devoted wife, Bhavna. Their greatest sorrow was their son, Lokesh—a young man whose bones seemed woven with idleness. While Mohit’s back bent beneath the weight of grain sacks, Lokesh sprawled in the shade, dreaming of riches without sweat. "Look at Raju!" he’d complain, "A government job without cracking a book! Why must *I* wallow in cow dung?" One mist-laced morning, Lokesh slipped away unseen. Mohit returned from the fields at noon, his brow furrowed like plowed soil. "Where is that boy?" he demanded of Bhavna. "Roaming again! He’ll crumble beneath life’s burdens!" Bhavna wiped flour from her hands, defending softly, "Let him see the world. One day he’ll make us proud." Unbeknownst to them, Lokesh was trudging back from the nearby city, his mind buzzing with fantasies. On the dirt path, a saffron-robed sadhu materialized like a mirage. "Young man!" the holy man’s voice rasped, eyes piercing. "Raj Yog blazes in your destiny! Richer than all in Rampur—give but one rupee, and I’ll unveil your future." Heart drumming against his ribs, Lokesh surrendered his only coin. At home, Bhavna met him anxiously. "Your father’s fury simmers like hot oil! Where were you?" Lokesh’s declaration burst forth: "I can’t suffocate in this village! A holy man says I’m born for business—get Father to give me 500 rupees!" Bhavna’s eyes glistened. After a tense silence, she unlocked a small wooden box hidden beneath saris, revealing her painstakingly saved coins. "Take it," she whispered, pressing the cold metal into his palm. "But tread wisely, my son." At first light, Lokesh set off, the 500 rupees a heavy secret in his pocket. By midday, exhaustion pinned him to the roadside. He stumbled into a ramshackle inn, its air thick with woodsmoke and mildew. As he collapsed onto a cot, angry voices sliced through the thin wall: "—won’t sell for 400, you cheat! The diamond’s worth 2,000!" "Greed blinds you," snarled another. "My new buyer pays double!" A door slammed. Pulse racing, Lokesh crept to the adjoining room. A scar-faced man held up a stone that caught the light like captured starlight. "Diamond?" Lokesh breathed. The man’s grin was jagged. "Yours for 500—now." Without hesitation, Lokesh traded Bhavna’s savings for the glittering prize. He raced back to Rampur, bursting into the moneylender’s shadowy stall. "How much for this treasure?" The moneylender’s magnifying lens hovered, then his laughter cracked like whip. "Glass, you fool! Worthless!" The world tilted. Lokesh fled to Bhavna, whose face crumpled as he confessed. "Years of saving… gone," she wept, clutching her sari’s edge. "Your father mustn’t know." Weeks later, the rhythmic thud of grain sacks hitting the cart announced harvest’s end. Mohit counted silver coins at their wooden table. Lokesh tugged Bhavna’s sleeve. "The grain money—ask him for 500 more!" Mohit’s voice cut through their whispers: "Secrets? Out with it." Bhavna stammered, "Lokesh… needs capital for business." Mohit’s knuckles whitened. "Business? He couldn’t sell rainwater in a desert!" Yet Lokesh pleaded, spinning tales of city partners and guaranteed profits. Finally, Mohit leaned forward, eyes flinty. "Earn five rupees daily—like my field hands—and I’ll fund you." The next dawn, Lokesh sought shortcuts. He approached the moneylender’s sneering son, Shiv. "Lend me five rupees? Father pays tomorrow." Shiv’s laugh was cruel. "Still peddling glass diamonds? Get lost!" Humiliated, Lokesh visited his uncle, who pressed ten rupees into his hand with pity. Each evening, Mohit examined the coins. "Throw them in the well," he’d order. With a shrug, Lokesh obeyed, watching silver vanish into the dark water without a ripple of regret. On the third day, despair hung heavy as storm clouds. Rain lashed suddenly, turning lanes to rivers. An elderly man struggled under leaking sacks of rice. "Lad! Help me save these—two rupees yours!" Lokesh heaved the sodden burdens, muscles screaming, mud sucking at his sandals. Water streamed down his neck as he stacked the last sack inside the dry storehouse. The old man pressed two warm coins into his blistered palm. "Bless you, son." At home, dripping and aching, Lokesh offered the coins. Mohit’s command came: "To the well with them." Fire surged in Lokesh’s chest. "No!" he shouted, clutching the rupees. "I carried half a ton in the downpour for this!" Mohit’s stern facade finally softened. He took the coins, then gently returned them. "Feel that anger? That’s the worth of *earned* sweat. You didn’t flinch losing your mother’s savings or your uncle’s charity. But *this*—" he tapped the two rupees, "—this you fought for. Raj Yog isn’t handed out by sadhus or thieves. It’s built by hands that honor their own labor." The truth crashed over Lokesh like a monsoon wave. At dawn, he stood beside Mohit in the fields, the raw handle of a plow blistering his palms anew. Season after season, he learned the language of soil and seed. When the harvest came, golden heaps overflowed their carts—yields doubled by diligence. Mohit’s rare smile was sun breaking through clouds. Bhavna sang as she cooked. And Lokesh, once chasing glass illusions, now measured wealth in the weight of honest grain and the quiet pride in his father’s eyes. The village whispered of the lazy boy reborn—proof that true fortune is reaped not by stolen diamonds or holy predictions, but by the relentless, sacred toil of one’s own hands.
By Alice Talesabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Dead
In the old quarters of Philadelphia, autumn had wrapped the city in a blanket of sorrow. The yellow leaves, fallen from trees, lay scattered on the roads like symbols of a mysterious dream. Within this melancholic atmosphere lived a nine-year-old boy, Cole Sear — his life entangled in secrets no one could see.
By Ameer Gullabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Evening of Memory
Raindrops tapped gently against the window, like the echoes of a memory trying to break through time. Inside a quiet nursing home, an elderly man named Noah sat beside an old woman, his voice trembling as he read aloud a love story. That woman — once the center of his world — was now lost in the fog of Alzheimer’s.
By Ameer Gullabout a year ago in Fiction
