Fan Fiction
Whispers of the Blue Rose Creek
Start writing...In the heart of the lush green valley known as Viridia, where the air was thick with the scent of wildflowers and the rustling of leaves whispered forgotten tales, there existed a legend that few dared to believe. It was said that deep within the forest, where the sunlight kissed the dew-draped grass and the wind sang lullabies to ancient trees, blue roses bloomed—guardians of a forgotten magic.
By Mukhtiar Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
Strings of a Dream
In a small town nestled between golden fields and winding rivers, lived a boy named Ayaan. While most children of his age were obsessed with cricket, video games, or chasing kites across the rooftops, Ayaan had a different obsession—an old sitar that sat gathering dust in his grandfather’s storeroom. The sitar had belonged to his grandfather, once a respected classical musician in Lahore, who had long since retired, his fingers now better suited for prayer beads than strings. Ayaan had stumbled upon the instrument one summer afternoon while looking for a lost cricket ball. The moment he plucked one of its strings, something inside him stirred—an unfamiliar, magical vibration that made his heart race. “Dada, can I have this?” he had asked, clutching the sitar like it was treasure. His grandfather chuckled. “That old thing? It's been silent for years. You can try, but it’s not easy. The sitar doesn’t sing for just anyone.” That only made Ayaan more determined. Every evening after school, while the other kids played outside, Ayaan sat cross-legged on the floor of the courtyard, the sitar on his lap, fingers fumbling over the strings. At first, the sounds were… catastrophic. It was less music and more like a family of angry cats expressing their feelings. His elder sister begged him to stop. His father suggested maybe he should try the tabla instead. Even the neighbor's parrot started mimicking his off-key notes. But Ayaan was undeterred. He watched YouTube videos on his father’s phone, scribbled notes on napkins, and once even fell asleep with the sitar beside him like a favorite stuffed toy. His grandfather, amused by the boy’s persistence, began giving him small lessons—just five minutes at a time, but they made a world of difference. “You’re not playing the strings,” Dada would say, “You’re playing your heart. Feel it first, then play.” One day, their school announced a talent show. Ayaan signed up with quiet confidence, though everyone expected him to change his mind last minute. “A sitar? Seriously?” a classmate teased. “Why not just bring your grandpa to play for you?” But Ayaan had something to prove—not to them, but to himself. The night before the show, disaster struck. One of the strings snapped. Devastated, Ayaan ran to his grandfather in tears. “It’s ruined! I can’t play!” His grandfather smiled gently, replaced the string, and said, “Now it’s truly yours. Every sitar player breaks a string before something big. It’s tradition.”
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
When Tiger Met Lion at Lake
The Pact by the Lake The sun filtered gently through the towering trees, painting the forest in hues of gold and green. The air was thick with the scent of moss and blooming wildflowers, and somewhere nearby, a stream trickled its way into a still, glistening lake. At the water’s edge, two magnificent beasts crouched in silence— a Bengal tiger and an African lion.
By Mukhtiar Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Queen of His Heart: A Royal Love Story That Began in Disguise
In the golden lands of Vallabhgarh, where sun-kissed palaces met the scent of blooming jasmine, King Aarav ruled with a noble hand. Admired by his people, respected by his court, and envied by rival kings, Aarav had everything—except the one thing he craved most: a love not born of politics, but of poetry.
By Naeem Mridhaabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers Beneath the Mango Trees
The First Light of Mango Grove In the gentle warmth of dawn, the first light of the sun crept across the horizon, spilling gold over the lush, dew-drenched fields. The scent of mango blossoms floated on the morning breeze, soft and sweet, stirring the peaceful landscape awake. It was the time when even the birds hesitated to chirp, reverent of the stillness that hovered over the land like a sacred prayer.
By Mukhtiar Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Embrace
The station was quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that fills the spaces between two heartbeats. The train had not yet arrived, but my time with her was already slipping away, like sand from an open hand. She stood beside me, arms crossed, her eyes flicking between my face and the empty tracks. I tried to memorize everything about her—the way her hair curled around her cheeks, the faint trace of her favorite perfume in the air, and the sadness she tried so hard to hide behind a half-smile.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
In the Quiet of Her Store
The chime above the door rarely rang these days. Evelyn sat behind the counter of her small corner store, "Maple & Dust," named not for any product it sold, but for the way light danced through the maple tree outside and settled like soft memory across the shelves. The store had once been a modest hub of the neighborhood—filled with jars of candy, handwritten notes pinned to a corkboard, and local stories traded over the purchase of sewing needles or loose-leaf tea.
By Taslim Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
A morning of misunderstanding
It was morning. A kind of orange sun came through the Thai glass of the balcony and made the room sparkle. Shan's room was already filled with orange bedsheets, curtains and carpets. As soon as he woke up, his mood was spoiled. He forgot to draw the curtains of the window last night—such a beautiful sleep was ruined
By Ishrat Jahan about a year ago in Fiction
