Fan Fiction
THE WEIGHT OF SALT. AI-Generated.
# The Weight of Salt *by an Accra voice* --- The morning Kweku's father died, the harmattan came early. It arrived the way bad news always does — quietly, without warning, settling a fine white dust over everything that had once been familiar. The mango tree that had stood in the compound since before Kweku was born. The zinc roof that sang in the rain. The weathered face of his father lying still on the mat in the corner room, his mouth slightly open, as though he had been interrupted mid-sentence and was still waiting to finish his thought.
By Manuel NARTEY4 months ago in Fiction
The Night We Met Again
The rain had just begun when Ethan stepped off the train. Cold wind rushed through the empty station, carrying the smell of wet concrete and forgotten memories. The city looked exactly the same as it had five years ago — crowded streets, glowing lights, people rushing somewhere important.
By younas khan4 months ago in Fiction
The Sahara did not welcome them.
The Sahara did not welcome them. It tolerated them. Twelve students from universities across Europe arrived in northern Africa beneath a sky so large it seemed to erase human importance. Their professors called it an interdisciplinary expedition — biology, environmental science, entomology, behavioral ecology. They came with cameras, notebooks, sensors, microscopes packed in hardened cases, and the quiet arrogance carried by people who believed the world could be understood if enough measurements were taken.
By Dagmar Goeschick4 months ago in Fiction
the Amazon Driver Who Delivered More Than Packages: My Brother’s Killer Was on Route 7
Three hours earlier, my neighbor’s Ring camera caught him getting into a dark blue Amazon delivery van outside his apartment in Phoenix, Arizona. The driver was wearing the vest, had the tablet, looked legit. Police called it “voluntary disappearance.” They said Michael was 24, an adult. He could leave if he wanted.
By hassan khan4 months ago in Fiction
The Well of Secrets
I. The Village of Mirabad The village of Mirabad had no secrets — or so the elders claimed. Nestled between two hills like a sleeping child between its parents' arms, it was the kind of place where the smell of bread from one household drifted to another, where every birth was celebrated by the whole street, and every death was mourned by every soul who could walk to the graveyard. People believed that here, under the open sky, nothing could stay tv hidden for long. But there was the well. It stood at the very center of the village square, older than anyone could remember. The stone walls were dark with age, the rope that hung over it had been replaced a hundred times, and the water that rose from its depths was the coldest, clearest water in the entire valley. Children drank from it. Women washed vegetables beside it. Old men sat on its edge and told stories that had no endings. Everyone used the well. But no one — not even the oldest elder — knew how deep it truly went. It was beside this well that the trouble began, on the last Tuesday of October, when the body of Tariq the miller was found. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ II. The Morning After Rukhsana was the one who found him. She had come before dawn, as she always did, to draw water before her mother-in-law woke and demanded tea. The lantern in her hand threw a pale circle of light onto the cobblestones — and there he was, Tariq, slumped against the base of the well, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing. She did not scream. Rukhsana had grown up in this village and she had seen death before — her father, a drought that killed their crops and then their animals, two children buried before they could learn to speak. She set down her lantern. She pressed two fingers to Tariq's neck. Cold. Long gone. Then she noticed something. His right hand was clenched tight around a piece of cloth — torn, dark blue, the kind of fabric the wealthy men of the village wore. Rukhsana stared at it for a long moment. Then she looked up, into the dark mouths of the houses surrounding the square, the shuttered windows, the closed doors. She felt the village watching her, even in its sleep. She left the cloth where it was and went to wake the headman. "In a village this small, a secret is not something you keep. It is something you bury — and pray the rains do not come." III. The Questions Begin By midmorning, the square was full. The headman, old Bismillah Khan, sat on a wooden chair that had been brought out from his house, and one by one the men of the village came to stand before him. The women watched from a distance, gathered in tight clusters, their voices low. The constable from the district town had been sent for, but the road was muddy from the night's rain and it would be hours before he arrived. In the meantime, Bismillah Khan asked the questions himself. Who had seen Tariq last? His wife, Zainab, said he had left after the evening prayer, saying he needed to check on his mill wheel. He had not returned. She had assumed he stayed there, as he sometimes did when the work ran long. She had gone to sleep. Who had been in the square after dark? No one admitted to it. And the cloth in Tariq's hand? Bismillah Khan held it up. The crowd went very quiet. It was good fabric, fine weave, the colour of deep water. Several eyes shifted — briefly, involuntarily — toward the house of Saleem the merchant, the richest man in Mirabad, whose long coat was made of exactly that kind of cloth. Saleem stood at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, his face as smooth and unreadable as river stone. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ IV. What Rukhsana Knew It was Rukhsana who held the real secret, though she had not yet decided what to do with it. Three weeks ago, she had been drawing water late at night — her mother-in-law had been feverish, and she needed water for the medicine. The square had been empty, the village asleep. But as she pulled up the bucket, she had heard voices from the alley beside the merchant's storehouse. Tariq's voice and another — hushed, urgent, arguing. She had caught only fragments. "You promised. The land was to be mine—" "Keep your voice down. Things have changed." "I have the papers. I have proof of what you did." Then silence, and footsteps fading, and she had gone home and told herself it was none of her business. Village men argued about land constantly. It meant nothing. Now Tariq was dead and Rukhsana stood in the crowd with the weight of those words pressing against her ribs like a stone. She looked at Saleem. He was already looking at her. Their eyes met for just a second — and in that second, something passed between them. An acknowledgment. A warning. Rukhsana looked away first. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ V. The Well Gives Nothing Back That afternoon, one of the boys threw a stone into the well to measure its depth. They waited for the sound. And waited. And waited. There was no splash. The boys went pale and ran home and told their mothers, who told their husbands, and by evening everyone in Mirabad was talking about the well — about how deep it truly was, what was really at the bottom, whether it had always been so silent or whether something had changed. The constable arrived at dusk, a tired young man with mud on his boots and no patience for village superstitions. He examined Tariq's body, took the cloth as evidence, wrote in his notebook, and told Bismillah Khan that the cause of death appeared to be a blow to the back of the head. Murder. He would return in three days with an investigator from the city. Three days. The village settled into an uneasy silence. That night, Rukhsana lay awake listening to her mother-in-law snore. She thought about Tariq's wife, Zainab, who had wept all afternoon with a grief that looked genuine. She thought about the papers Tariq had mentioned — proof of what Saleem had done. Where were those papers now? Had Saleem found them? Had he been searching Tariq's mill, even now, in the dark? She rose before her husband could stir, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and slipped out into the night. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ VI. The Mill The mill sat at the edge of the village where the stream ran fast over smooth rocks. The door was ajar. Rukhsana pushed it open and stepped inside. A figure was already there, crouched by the far wall, holding a lantern. He stood when he heard her — and the light fell on his face. It was not Saleem. It was Zainab. Tariq's wife looked at Rukhsana with red, swollen eyes and clutched something to her chest — a folded bundle of papers, tied with string. "I knew he kept them here," Zainab said. Her voice was very calm, in the way that voices go calm when all the fear has already passed through them. "He told me once, when he was drunk. He said: if anything ever happens to me, go to the loose stone behind the millstone. He knew this day might come." Rukhsana stepped forward. "Are those—" "Land records. Forged signatures. Saleem has been stealing land from the families of this village for fifteen years. Tariq found out six months ago. He was going to give these to the investigator from the city." Zainab's jaw tightened. "He waited too long." Outside, the stream rushed over its stones. Somewhere in the village, a dog barked twice and went quiet. "What will you do?" Rukhsana asked. Zainab looked down at the papers. Then she looked up, and in her eyes was something that Rukhsana recognized — the look of a woman who has nothing left to lose and has therefore become the most dangerous kind of person in the world. "I will not wait," Zainab said. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ Epilogue When the investigator arrived from the city three days later, Zainab was waiting for him at the entrance to Mirabad, the papers in her hands. Saleem the merchant was arrested before the afternoon prayer. The stolen land was the subject of a case that would take two years to resolve but would, in the end, return what had been taken. No one ever determined exactly how deep the old well was. But the morning after Saleem was taken away, the boys threw another stone into it — and this time, faint and far below, there was a sound. Small. Distant. Real. A splash. The village of Mirabad breathed again. — The End —
By Ikram Ullah4 months ago in Fiction
I Smiled in Front of Everyone… But I Was Breaking Inside.
Write by Matiullah If you had seen me back then, you would’ve thought I was fine. I smiled in conversations. I laughed at jokes. I showed up where I was supposed to be. On the outside, I looked like someone who had things under control. And maybe that’s why no one noticed. Because the truth is, the better you become at hiding your pain… the less people see it. The Silence Behind the Noise There were moments when I was surrounded by people, yet felt completely alone. Voices filled the room. Laughter echoed around me. But inside my mind, there was only silence—heavy, suffocating silence. I wasn’t physically alone. But emotionally… I was somewhere far away. And I didn’t know how to explain that to anyone. When Pretending Became a Habit At first, the smile was a choice. I didn’t want to worry anyone. I didn’t want to seem weak. So I told myself, “Just act normal. It will pass.” But days turned into weeks. And weeks turned into something deeper. Smiling stopped being a choice—it became a habit. A mask I wore without thinking. Even on days when I felt completely drained, I still smiled. Not because I was okay… But because I didn’t know how to be anything else. The Weight No One Could See Pain isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet. Invisible. Hidden behind small, ordinary moments. It’s in the way you lose interest in things you once enjoyed. It’s in the way your energy disappears without reason. It’s in the constant feeling that something is wrong—but you can’t explain what. I carried that weight every day. And the hardest part? No one could see it. The Fear of Being Understood There were times I wanted to talk. Moments when I felt like I couldn’t hold it in anymore. But every time I thought about opening up, something stopped me. “What if they don’t understand?” “What if they think I’m overreacting?” “What if I become a burden?” So I stayed quiet. Because silence felt safer than being misunderstood. Breaking Without Falling Apart The strange thing about breaking inside is… you don’t always fall apart on the outside. Life continues. You still wake up. You still go through your routine. You still respond when someone talks to you. But inside, something is slowly collapsing. Piece by piece. And no one notices—because you’re still functioning. The Moment I Faced the Truth One night, everything felt heavier than usual. There was no distraction, no noise—just me and my thoughts. And for the first time, I stopped running from them. I asked myself a simple question: “Why am I pretending I’m okay?” That question hit harder than anything else. Because I didn’t have an answer. Letting the Mask Slip I didn’t suddenly fix everything that night. But something changed. I stopped forcing myself to act okay all the time. I allowed myself to feel what I had been ignoring. I admitted—to myself—that I wasn’t fine. And strangely, that honesty felt like relief. Not happiness. But relief. Learning to Be Real Again Healing didn’t happen overnight. There were still difficult days. Moments of doubt. Times when I slipped back into old habits. But I started doing things differently. I stopped trying to impress everyone. I stopped pretending to be strong all the time. I stopped comparing my life to others. And slowly, I started feeling… lighter. Not perfect. Not completely healed. But real. What I Realized Too Late Looking back, I understand something I didn’t before: Smiling doesn’t always mean someone is okay. Sometimes, it’s the opposite. Sometimes, the people who look the happiest… are the ones hiding the most. And sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is not to hide—but to admit the truth. If You Feel This Way Too If you’re reading this and it feels familiar… If you’re smiling in front of people while struggling inside… I want you to know this: You don’t have to keep pretending. You don’t have to carry everything alone. It’s okay to not be okay. Final Thoughts I still smile. But now, it’s different. Now, it’s not a mask. It’s real. Because I’m no longer hiding from what I feel. And that changed everything. Did you like this feature?
By Matiullah k4 months ago in Fiction
Salubrious part three
Allan felt very accomplished that he finally made Charlie smile. So why did he feel so weird, bad and a little angry? It was as though the fact that his mission was very important made it feel more real than a lot of the interactions he had with others.
By Melissa Ingoldsby5 months ago in Fiction
I Felt Like a Failure at 20—Here’s What Changed
Writing I Felt Like a Failure at 20—Here’s What Changed At 20, I genuinely believed I was already behind in life. It sounds dramatic, I know. But when you’re in that moment—scrolling through social media, watching people your age “winning,” achieving, building, succeeding—it doesn’t feel dramatic. It feels real. It feels heavy. Every day, I compared myself to others. Someone had already started a business. Someone else was traveling. Another person was earning online, buying things, living what looked like a perfect life. And then there was me—confused, stuck, and unsure of what I was even doing. I wasn’t where I thought I should be. And that thought slowly turned into something worse: “I’m a failure.” The Quiet Pressure No One Talks About No one sat me down and told me I had failed. No one said it directly. But the pressure was everywhere. Family expectations. Society’s timeline. The invisible checklist: Graduate early Earn money quickly Be successful fast And if you weren’t doing those things? You start questioning yourself. I remember waking up some mornings with zero motivation. Not because I was lazy—but because I felt lost. There’s a difference. When you don’t know your direction, even small tasks feel pointless. I tried different things. I started something, then stopped. Tried again, failed again. Every failure felt like proof that I wasn’t good enough. And slowly, I stopped trying as much. The Turning Point (It Wasn’t Big) You might expect some dramatic turning point—something huge that changed everything overnight. But that’s not what happened. It was actually a very small moment. One night, after overthinking for hours, I asked myself a simple question: “Compared to who?” That question stayed with me. I realized that all my feelings of failure were based on comparison. I wasn’t measuring my progress—I was measuring someone else’s highlight reel against my behind-the-scenes life. And of course, I was losing. The Shift in Mindset That night didn’t magically fix everything. But it changed how I started looking at things. Instead of thinking: “I’m behind” I started asking: “What can I do today?” Instead of: “I failed again” I asked: “What did I learn?” It sounds simple, maybe even obvious—but when you actually start thinking this way, things begin to shift. I stopped focusing on being “successful” at 20. I started focusing on becoming better than I was yesterday. I Lowered the Pressure (And That Helped) One of the biggest problems was that I had unrealistic expectations. I wanted fast results. Quick success. Instant progress. But real life doesn’t work like that. So I made a change: I allowed myself to be a beginner. I gave myself permission to: Make mistakes Be slow Not have everything figured out And strangely, that’s when I started improving. Because I wasn’t afraid anymore. Small Wins Started to Matter Before, I ignored small progress. Now, I started noticing it. Finishing something I started Learning a new skill Staying consistent for a few days These weren’t big achievements. But they were real. And they built confidence. Confidence doesn’t come from thinking you’re great—it comes from proving to yourself that you can improve. I Stopped Looking at Everyone Else This was hard. Social media makes it almost impossible not to compare. But I realized something important: Most people only show their best moments. You don’t see: Their failures Their struggles Their doubts You see results, not the process. Once I understood that, I stopped taking it personally. Their journey isn’t mine. And mine doesn’t have to look like theirs. What Actually Changed So what changed? Not my life overnight. Not my financial situation instantly. Not my success level immediately. What changed was: My mindset My expectations My focus And those things slowly started changing everything else. If You Feel Like a Failure at 20 Let me tell you something honestly: You’re not behind. You’re not late. You’re not a failure. You’re just at the beginning. Feeling lost at 20 is more normal than people admit. Most people are figuring things out—they’re just better at hiding it. Where I Am Now I’m still not perfect. I still have doubts sometimes. I still compare myself occasionally. But I don’t feel like a failure anymore. Because now I understand something I didn’t before: Life isn’t a race. It’s a process. And at 20, you’re not supposed to have everything figured out. You’re supposed to be learning. Final Thought If you’re reading this and feeling the same way I did, take this with you: You don’t need to have a perfect plan. You don’t need instant success. You just need to keep going. One step. One day. One small improvement at a time. That’s what changed everything for me. Did you like this feature?
By Matiullah k5 months ago in Fiction
