Fantasy
Built of Scales and Steel
"Stand up all the night and call the fight, let your mind before the light." The sky was ablaze with smoke, fire and glory. Ferocious dragons sweeping down like meteors to face the foolhardy heroes who answered the call to face them. Subversion, intimidation, exhaustion, extermination and annihilation were five types of military strategy we utilised throughout the war.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Gentle Cycle Only
People bring them in under their coats like wet smuggled birds, such as the person who said something that split a room, the smell of rain on nappy street, and despite their father only telling his son about cries of anger. This is just an example. With their arms crossed to prevent them from spitting out, I approach the counter with the plastic smile my mom gave me. The smile signifies: You are not the antecedent.' You aren't alone. Also: We can help.
By Osman Ahmedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day I Lost My Family. AI-Generated.
It was a Sunday morning when the world I knew shattered into pieces. I still remember the sunlight sneaking in through the curtains, warm on my face, and the faint smell of tea drifting from the kitchen. For a moment, everything felt normal. My mother humming an old tune, my father tapping his newspaper, and my younger sister chasing our old cat around the living room—it was a picture of peace I never thought could disappear so suddenly. I had no idea that within hours, that very picture would only live in my memory. --- The Last Breakfast That morning, I joined them at the table. My mother served parathas the way she always did, slipping the crispy ones to my plate because she knew they were my favorite. My father reminded me to check the car’s oil later, while my sister teased me about how badly I drove. We laughed. We ate. And I didn’t realize I was experiencing my last breakfast with them. There’s a strange cruelty in life—it doesn’t tell you when a moment will be the last. --- The Call I was running late for work, so I left before everyone else. My parents and sister had plans to visit my grandmother in the nearby town. I promised I would join them in the evening. An hour later, I was sitting at my desk when my phone rang. It was an unknown number. I answered, expecting it to be a client, but instead, a shaky voice said: “Are you related to Mr. Rahman?” “Yes… he’s my father. Why?” “There has been an accident. Please come to the General Hospital immediately.” I froze. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. The words didn’t make sense. Accident? What accident? My heart pounded so hard I thought it would rip out of my chest. --- The Hospital When I arrived, the smell of antiseptic hit me first. The waiting area buzzed with cries, hurried footsteps, and whispers. A doctor walked toward me, his eyes heavy with pity. He didn’t even need to speak. My knees went weak, and the world blurred. “They didn’t survive,” he finally said. “I’m so sorry.” Those four words broke me. My family—my mother, father, and little sister—were gone. Just like that. A truck had lost control on the highway and slammed into their car. Instant. Final. Irreversible. --- The Funeral The days that followed were a haze. I don’t remember much except standing by three graves, the soil freshly turned, and my hands trembling as I tried to throw a fistful of dirt over each coffin. People came and went, offering condolences, touching my shoulder, whispering words I couldn’t hear. My ears rang with silence, the kind of silence that screams louder than any sound. At night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for my mother’s call to dinner, my father’s voice discussing the news, or my sister’s laughter echoing down the hall. Nothing came. Only darkness. --- The Empty House Returning home was the hardest. The walls still smelled of my mother’s cooking, my father’s slippers were by the door, my sister’s books scattered on the floor. Everything was frozen in time, untouched, waiting for them to return. But they never would. The first night, I couldn’t bear it. I sat in the living room and cried until my body gave up. I thought about packing up everything, moving away, running from the pain. But how do you run from memories that live inside your chest? --- Guilt and Questions The days turned into weeks, but the pain didn’t ease. Instead, it changed shape. At first, it was raw grief, then it became guilt. Why didn’t I go with them? Why wasn’t I there? Could I have done something? Saved them? Taken their place? People told me it wasn’t my fault, but grief doesn’t listen to reason. Every mirror showed me the face of a survivor, and every night I asked myself: Why me? Why am I the one still breathing? --- Learning to Live Again It took months before I realized something: my family wouldn’t want me to waste the life I still had. My father always said, “Life is not in our hands, but how we live it is.” My mother wanted me to be strong, no matter what. My sister dreamed of traveling the world, and she used to say, “Don’t sit in one place too long, bhai. Life is bigger than this town.” Those memories became my strength. I started writing letters to them, pouring my pain on paper. I began volunteering at an orphanage, telling stories to children who also knew the sting of loss. And slowly, I discovered a truth: grief never really leaves you, but it teaches you how to carry it. --- The New Me Years have passed since that day, but it still feels like yesterday. I haven’t “moved on,” because you never move on from losing your family—you move forward, carrying their love with you. Their absence is a wound that never fully heals, but their memory is the reason I keep walking. Every time I cook parathas, I hear my mother’s humming. Every time I read the newspaper, I see my father’s glasses sliding down his nose. Every time I laugh a little too loudly, I know my sister is laughing with me. They may be gone, but they live in me. And that is how I survive. --- Closing Thought The day I lost my family was the darkest day of my life. But it also became the day I learned what love truly means—that it doesn’t end with death, that it remains alive in the heart of the one left behind. I am that one. The survivor. The carrier of their memory. And though my house may be empty, my heart is still full of them. ---
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
Eyelens: The World Beneath Sight
The first time Kieran slipped the Eyelens into his eye, he expected nothing more than sharper vision. He had read the promotional tagline—“See the world as it truly is”—and assumed it was just clever marketing. After all, every breakthrough in optics for the last century had promised the same thing.
By Princess Ladlyabout a year ago in Fiction
Footprints in the Snow
It was the kind of winter morning when the world felt like it had paused. The night’s snowfall had laid a thick white blanket across the city, softening every edge and silencing every sound. The usual noise of cars and chatter was gone; only the crunch of snow under careful footsteps could be heard.
By arsalan ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Wrote Letters Back
When Lydia first stepped into the weathered seaside house, it smelled faintly of salt and old wood. The realtor had called it charming with potential, but to Lydia, it felt like something else entirely—like the house had been waiting. She had come here after her divorce, tired of the city, tired of voices that promised comfort but carried nothing but noise. The ocean was meant to be her quiet, her restart. But the very first morning, she discovered something that turned her solitude into a mystery: a folded letter on the kitchen table in her own looping handwriting.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
Of Ash and Ivy
Elowen despised humans. They carved the very roads through sacred groves, hunted what they did not need, and burned without the thought of what the flames were consuming. Whilst on patrol in the foggy mists of the forest, the patrol became the reason to draw her bowstring fiercely. The man, a trespasser in the Sylvanwood Forest, her home, no less- she took it upon herself to protect the borders herself. She squints with disdain.
By Cinnaminnieabout a year ago in Fiction
