Fantasy

Aliens Stole My Wi-Fi
It all started at exactly 2:47 AM on a random Tuesday when my Wi-Fi stopped working. Now, for most people, that’s mildly annoying. For me, it was a code-red emergency. You see, I wasn’t just scrolling memes or watching cat videos (okay, maybe a little of that)—I was in the middle of an epic online battle in Call of Duty. One second I was sniping enemies like a digital Rambo, and the next, my screen froze, and my soldier stood there like a clueless statue, ready to be shot.
By Md. Muzammal Rahman Pirabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of Wings in Blooming Fields
"The Whispering Wings" The valley was alive with color. Petals of every hue—red, pink, yellow, blue—swayed in a soft breeze, while tall trees lined the horizon like guardians of a sacred realm. The scent of wildflowers hung in the air, thick with summer’s warmth. Above the blooms, hummingbirds danced, their wings a blur of iridescent green and ruby.
By Mukhtiar Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker's Paradox
Chapter One: The Clock That Ticked Backward In the cobblestone heart of Greystone Hollow, nestled between a crooked bookshop and an ivy-choked bakery, stood the peculiar little shop of Elric Thimble. Above its warped wooden door hung a hand-painted sign that read:
By Ashikur Rahman Bipulabout a year ago in Fiction
The Stranger on the Bench
It was a gray Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day that feels like it forgot to wake up. I was sitting on a park bench, hands in my coat pockets, watching a leaf spin hopelessly in the wind. Life had lost its color for me—my career had stalled, a long-term relationship had ended, and my father had just been diagnosed with early-onset dementia. I didn’t know where to go or who I was anymore. That’s when the old man sat beside me. He didn’t say anything at first. Just adjusted his brown fedora, straightened his scarf, and looked straight ahead as though he’d come to watch the same spinning leaf. He carried a small canvas bag that looked older than time, and a cane with a lion’s head carved on top. I glanced at him, then quickly looked away. He seemed ordinary, but there was something about his presence—something... grounded. Like he belonged to a different time where people looked you in the eye and meant what they said. “Rough day?” he asked, without turning to me. I hesitated. “You could say that.” He nodded. “Yeah. You can feel it in your chest, like a rock sitting there. Heavy. You breathe around it, but never through it.” I blinked. “That’s... exactly how it feels.” He smiled faintly. “I used to be a rock collector. Geologist, technically. Traveled the world. You’d be surprised how much a rock can tell you—how it was formed, what it endured, how it adapted. You can learn a lot from rocks.” I chuckled despite myself. “I’m not sure I want to become a rock right now.” He looked at me then, his eyes a steely blue with a surprising fire behind them. “But you already are. You just don’t know what kind yet.” There was a pause. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but something in me wanted to hear more. “I lost my wife in '92,” he said softly, turning his gaze back to the path. “Cancer. The kind that whispers and then screams. I thought I’d fall apart after she passed. Came to this bench every day for months. Sat right where you are.” I looked down at the weathered wood beneath me, suddenly feeling the weight of it. “You don’t forget pain,” he continued. “You just learn to carry it. Mold it. Like lava becoming stone.” “What helped you?” I asked. He tapped his chest. “Time, mostly. And purpose. I started talking to strangers. Helping where I could. Sometimes, people just need someone to sit next to them and say, ‘Hey, I see you.’ Not ‘fix’ them. Just *see* them.” Something about those words hit me like a soft punch. I’d spent so much time feeling invisible—going through the motions, pretending I was okay. “I used to write,” I said. “Poetry, short stories. Haven’t touched a notebook in three years.” “Why not?” “Life got in the way. Or maybe I stopped believing anything I said mattered.” He leaned back. “Ah. The old ‘why bother’ question. I asked myself that once. You know what I figured out?” I shook my head. “You create because you must. It’s not about mattering to the world. It’s about mattering to *you*. If you’re the only one who ever reads what you write, and it keeps you alive—then it matters.” I swallowed hard. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to hear that. How starved I’d been for validation not from applause, but from honesty. We sat in silence for a while. A breeze stirred the trees, sending leaves tumbling across the path like lost thoughts. “I come here every Tuesday,” he said eventually. “Same bench. Maybe you’ll come back. Maybe you won’t. But either way, write something tonight. Anything. A word. A sentence. Just let it out.” I nodded slowly. “Okay.” He stood up, wincing a bit as his joints protested. Then he gave me a smile that was both sad and hopeful. “Be the rock,” he said. “Not the one that sinks. The one that holds the mountain up.” And then he walked away. I never saw him again. I came back the following Tuesday, hoping he’d be there. I came back the next Tuesday too. But he was gone—like a ghost, or maybe a teacher who appears just long enough to give you the nudge you need. But I wrote that night. And the night after that. It wasn’t good writing, not at first. But it was *me*. And eventually, it led to more—freelance gigs, short stories published online, and then, slowly, a life that started to breathe again. My father still has his bad days, but I visit him more often. I even read him my poems. He always says, “That’s good,” even if he forgets he heard it the day before. It’s been two years now. And every Tuesday, I sit on that same bench, with a notebook and a pen. Sometimes strangers sit next to me. Some cry. Some just stare ahead. I don’t fix them. I just see them. And I tell them about the stranger who once changed my life.
By Muhammad Ahmar about a year ago in Fiction
A Journey from Silence to Self-Discovery
In the crowded, fast-paced city of Mumbai, where competition is fierce and success is the only measure of worth, lived an 8-year-old boy named Ishaan Awasthi. To his family, teachers, and classmates, he was nothing but a lazy, daydreaming troublemaker. He couldn’t read properly, failed in most of his subjects, and was constantly scolded for not paying attention. But what no one saw was the world that Ishaan lived in — a magical place filled with colors, fish swimming in the sky, and letters dancing off the pages of books.
By SHEIKH about a year ago in Fiction
Fail, Fight, Rise: The Power of the Human Spirit
Introduction Failure. A word we often associate with shame, regret, and loss. But what if failure isn’t the end? What if it's the beginning of something extraordinary? "Fail, Fight, Rise" is not just a phrase—it's a mindset, a way of life embraced by those who refuse to be defined by their lowest moments. In this article, we explore the incredible power of the human spirit through real-life stories of people who fell hard, fought fiercely, and rose even stronger. These are not just success stories—they are life lessons wrapped in pain, perseverance, and personal growth.
By Mian Nazir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Savannah: The Lion and the Deer
fragile friendship that tests the boundaries of fear, courage, and trust beneath the golden grasses. --- The dawn light draped the savannah in delicate ribbons of rose and amber, awakening the murmuring choir of insects and birds. Acacia silhouettes stretched long shadows across the tawny sea of grass, while high above, a lone Martial eagle traced lazy circles, its sharp gaze searching for motion. Among the waist-high blades, dust-mottled and still, a young lion named Amani crouched in the hush that precedes a hunt.
By Wasif islamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Symphony of Our Goodbye
You left in crescendo. Not with whispers, but with slamming doors and shattered glass—a cymbal crash of finality. The neighbors must have heard it, that last terrible note of us. I wonder if they pressed their ears to the walls, if they recognized the melody. Love should end with a diminuendo, I think. A slow fading, like sunset pulling color from the sky. But we were never good at quiet. I find the remnants in minor key: - Your toothbrush, fossilized in dust by the sink - The indentation of your ring finger on my skin - The way my coffee still turns too bitter, the way you used to take yours The apartment hums with absence. The fridge drones its electric lament. The faucet drips staccato grief onto last night’s unwashed wine glass. I compose symphonies from these silences. Yesterday, I saw you at the grocery store. Your hands hovered over the pears—*you always knew how to pick the ripe ones*—and for one suspended measure, our eyes met across the produce aisle. A fermata of what might have been. Then you turned away. The checkout line beeped its mechanical requiem as I watched you walk out, the automatic doors sighing shut behind you. Somewhere, a cello string snapped. Or maybe that was just my heart, finally catching up to the song you stopped writing months ago. --- Musical Metaphors That Cut Deep: 1. **"Cymbal crash of finality"** - The violent percussion of a relationship's end 2. **"Fermata of what might have been"** - That suspended moment when time stops (music: 𝄐) 3. **"Mechanical requiem"** - The mundane sounds of life continuing after loss Three Ways to Make It Hurt Worse: 1. **Add a flashback:** *"The first time you kissed me, it tasted like the D-flat major you'd been humming all day."* 2. **Incorporate real music:** *"Now when I hear Brahms' 3rd—your favorite—I turn it off before the 2nd movement. I can't bear how the violins weep."* 3. **Twist the ending:** *"Today I played our song backwards. It sounded like an apology. Or maybe just static."*
By Wiki Rjmabout a year ago in Fiction
Guardians of the Floating Mango Grove
The Mango Grove Mystery In a quiet village nestled between velvet hills and crystal-clear streams, there was a magical mango grove known as Sundarvan. The grove was unlike any other—its trees, rich with golden mangoes, floated several feet above the ground. Their roots dangled gently in the air, as if sipping moisture from the breeze itself. The villagers believed the grove was a gift from the forest gods, guarded by two watchful spirits: a pair of green parrots named Mithu and Meera, and two clever rabbits named Chikki and Chintu.
By Mukhtiar Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
orbit of the forgotten
Somewhere, far beyond Earth’s sun, lies a planet untouched by time. It circles a soft lavender star in the quiet solitude of the sixth spiral arm of a forgotten galaxy. The planet has no name spoken aloud, though the winds that ripple its endless fields whisper a word older than memory: Elserin. On Elserin, there are no cities. No machines. No war. Only silence, flowers, and echoes. The planet is a garden—a celestial bloom drifting through space. From space, it looks like a blue and gold marble, but when you step onto its soil, you see it is covered from pole to pole in flowers: towering silver tulips with petals like glass, cobalt vines that hum faintly when touched, and blossoms that glow with warmth under moonlight. Their fragrances linger in the air like memories. But no people live among them now. No one, except for her. She was called Solenne. And she had no memory of Earth. Her arrival was the last act of a dying spacecraft that had carried her across galaxies while she slept for centuries in frozen solitude. A forgotten passenger on a forgotten mission. The ship had broken apart in orbit, scattering metal and fire into Elserin’s skies. She fell like a star and woke among the flowers. The planet welcomed her. The flowers leaned toward her when she walked. The wind carried melodies that echoed her thoughts. Even the sky seemed to pulse with something ancient and kind. Yet there were no humans. No answers. Solenne wandered the fields for weeks, then months. She built a small hut of woven vinewood near the Sea of Petals, a place where the breeze stirred the blossoms into waves. Every morning, she would walk among them, tracing spirals in the soil with her feet, breathing in their scents, waiting for the loneliness to lessen. One day, she found the first statue. It was half-buried in a field of scarlet bloomlights—massive, daisy-like plants that opened only in the presence of grief. The statue was of a child, eyes closed, arms raised toward the sky. Around its base were carvings—thousands of names in a language she couldn’t read. In the days that followed, Solenne found more statues. A mother cradling an invisible baby. Two lovers mid-embrace, faces soft with longing. An old man with a telescope, gazing skyward forever. Each surrounded by flowers that only bloomed when she cried. And cry she did. Not just for the statues or their unspoken stories—but for herself. For the life she never knew, the Earth she would never return to, the voices she would never hear. Her tears watered the soil, and wherever they fell, strange new flowers grew: star-shaped, violet, and trembling with light. She began to understand then. Elserin was not a garden for the living. It was a sanctuary for the forgotten—souls, names, hopes, and dreams cast into the abyss of time. Lost astronauts. Abandoned colonists. Memoryless AIs. Creatures who had once loved, laughed, feared. All gone now, but not erased. The planet remembered them. The flowers were not just flowers. They were echoes—emotions embedded into root and petal, pressed like letters into paper. Each bloom held a story. Solenne stopped walking then. She began listening. She would lie among the flowers for hours, her cheek against warm soil, hearing the stories the wind carried. Stories of a girl who sang to the stars, a boy who built wings from dreams, an old scientist who died with the taste of hope on his tongue. The more she listened, the less alone she felt. Years passed. She did not age—Elserin did not allow it. It was not a world that followed time’s rules. She began to sculpt. Not with stone, but with seeds. She planted gardens in shapes: spirals, galaxies, lullabies, handprints. Entire fields in the form of sleeping children or weeping lovers. And around each, she whispered stories back into the wind. And the wind whispered back. One night, under a sky rippling with five moons and drifting lights, she asked the wind: “Why me?” The answer came not in words, but in feeling—like the warmth of a mother’s hug, the breath of a lover’s sigh, the weight of a goodbye that was never said. Because she remembered. That was her purpose. To remember. To be the orbit of the forgotten. The next morning, something had changed. In the distance, across the River of Blossoms, a new flower had bloomed. It was the size of a house, pale and translucent, and as she approached, she realized it wasn’t a flower at all—but a door. A gate woven of light and petals. She stepped closer, heart aching. Inside the glowing frame, she saw visions: people walking on a distant world, laughing, living, loving. A city by the sea. Children with her eyes. mini versions of her own self. A name she had forgotten—spoken gently, like a prayer. Earth. But the flowers around her rustled. The statues watched with silent eyes. The wind held its breath. She had a choice. Go back. Be Solenne again. Or stay. The decision crushed her like gravity. She turned from the door. She fell to her knees and placed her palm on a new patch of earth. And she cried—not from sorrow, but from love. The door faded. In its place grew a single flower—gold, with petals shaped like stars. It whispered her story. Now she walks still, in that eternal field under the lavender sun, weaving memories into petals. Every once in a while, a new flower blooms where none had before—a life lost in the void, found again in her orbit. And in the silence, she is never alone. Because Elserin remembers. Because Solenne remembers. Because someone must. —
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
And It All Falls Down
“Ain’t no better lumberjack in all the Northwoods than Ole Dick!” The bar man at Musky Jacks always said, and Dick always laughed without a hint of disagreement.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
A Thousand Watts of Grace
Story ; The summer I turned seventeen, I discovered that light could do more than illuminate—it could rewrite your soul. It wasn’t the kind of lesson you learn in a classroom or from a parent’s lecture. It came from a single night in a dusty Nebraska field, under a sky so big it felt like it could swallow you whole.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction