Holiday
How the Conflict Nearly Escalated into Full War
How the Conflict Nearly Escalated into Full War For years, the region had lived under a cautious balance—an invisible thread of pressure between Pakistan, India, and Afghanistan. Diplomats called it “controlled tension,” generals called it “the edge,” and civilians prayed it would never snap. But last week, the impossible nearly happened. For seventeen hours, the region stood just one wrong move away from a full three-front war.
By Wings of Time 11 months ago in Fiction
Tom Turkey Learns About Human Kindness
Tom Turkey was a fat, waddling turkey who was a great help to Farmer Jones. He’d been spared and had seen many Thanksgivings come and go. He had many chores and duties on the farm, and he was proud of it all. Each morning when the rooster crowed, Tom would hurry into the hen coop to see how many eggs there were for the farmhouse breakfast. Then he’d wait until the milking was done, and when he gobbled, the cows would hurry out into the fields, and in the evening, he’d gobble them back home. During the day he’d make rounds of all of the animals and enjoyed sitting by the river that ran by. In other words, Tom Turkey had everything he could want except for a good friend and a family. Oh, the other animals were kind enough, and they all loved Tom, but well, it just wasn’t the same.
By Rasma Raisters11 months ago in Fiction
Silent Night, Bloody Night
The snowstorm hit with a ferocity none of them had anticipated. Emma, Brian, Lisa, and Todd had been en route to a ski lodge for a Christmas getaway when their SUV skidded off the icy road and into a snowbank. Miles from the nearest town and with no cell service, the group had little choice but to follow a faint trail illuminated by the moonlight. It led to a remote village nestled in the shadows of the pine forest.
By V-Ink Stories11 months ago in Fiction
A Thanksgiving Story
When I woke up this morning, I couldn't believe that it was Thanksgiving week once again. Where has the year gone? I guess it's true as one gets older the years do go faster just as our parents said they would when they told you "Just wait till you're my age. You'll find out." Now planning the menu and seeing how many will actually be around for it seems they come and do all the requisite things that are supposed to be said and enjoy the food and company of family all together. Happy Thanksgiving and remember what is important.
By Mark Graham11 months ago in Fiction
Kitchen of Wynorrific. Top Story - November 2025. Content Warning.
Thanksgiving at the Greenfield household was always a mess. It’s something that I’ve dealt with since I was ten. Mom would be slaving away at the turkey and other things. While dad would be setting the table. Cleaning the living room and barking at me to take care of our large dogs.
By Raphael Fontenelle11 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Promise
M Mehran Everyone in the quiet town of Eldenbrook knew Elias Thorn, the old clockmaker whose shop stood at the corner of Willow Street. The windows were always fogged with dust and time, and the shelves were filled with clocks—grandfather clocks, pocket watches, delicate sand timers, and curious contraptions no one had names for. But the most mysterious thing about Elias was not his clocks. It was his secret: He could fix time. Some said he once repaired a moment of regret for a grieving widow. Others whispered he restored a lost memory for a child who had forgotten her mother’s face. No one knew how he did it. They only knew the price was never money. And so people came, quietly, secretly, leaving with lighter hearts—or heavier ones, depending on the moment they chose to change. But none of that mattered the night fifteen-year-old Rowan Carter walked into the shop with a shaking hand and a broken watch. It had belonged to his father. The man who never came home. --- The door chimed softly as Rowan stepped inside. The hum of ticking clocks filled the air like thousands of tiny heartbeats. Elias Thorn, with silver-thread hair and warm, unreadable eyes, looked up from a clock he was polishing. “You’ve been outside my door for three days,” Elias said. “Come in, child.” Rowan swallowed. “I… I wasn’t sure.” “You are sure now.” Elias nodded. “What do you want fixed?” Rowan opened his hand. The pocket watch lay cracked, its glass shattered, its hands frozen at 7:12 PM—the exact minute his father’s car went off the old Briarwood Bridge. “I want to go back,” Rowan whispered. “Before it happened. I want to stop him.” Elias didn’t take the watch. Not at first. “Time is not a toy,” he warned. “It doesn’t like being moved. It resists. It demands sacrifice.” Rowan’s voice broke. “I’d give anything.” Elias’s expression softened with a grief that seemed older than the town itself. “Many have said that,” he murmured. “Few understood what it meant.” Still, he held out his hand. “Let me see it.” Rowan placed the broken watch in Elias’s palm. The moment the clockmaker touched it, the shop grew cold. The ticking of the other clocks slowed until the whole room held its breath. Elias closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they glowed faintly with a golden light. “This watch is tied to a moment you wish to rewrite,” he said quietly. “I can open the door. But remember—every changed moment steals something from another.” “What do you mean?” “If you return to the past,” Elias said, “you must leave something behind.” “Like what?” Rowan whispered. “A memory,” the clockmaker said. “A piece of your life. Something time will take as payment.” Rowan hesitated only a moment. “My father is worth more than any memory.” Elias nodded. “Then hold the watch. And do not let go.” --- The shop dissolved. Rowan felt himself falling through light, through ticking, through moments stretching and snapping like threads. Then his feet hit solid ground. He stood on Briarwood Bridge. Wind brushed against his face, cold and familiar. The wooden planks creaked beneath him. And there—just ahead—stood his father, leaning over the railing, staring down at the rushing river below. Rowan’s breath caught in his throat. “Dad!” His father turned, surprised. “Rowan? What are you—” “Don’t drive tonight,” Rowan gasped. “Please. The bridge… your brakes—” Before he could finish, headlights glowed on the road behind them. A car swerved, tires screeching on wet wood. Rowan lunged. He shoved his father out of the way. The car hit Rowan instead. Everything went black. --- When Rowan opened his eyes, he was lying on the ground, rain hitting his face. His father hovered over him, frantic. “Rowan! Rowan, stay with me!” “I’m… okay,” Rowan murmured. But he wasn’t. Something inside his mind felt hollow, missing. Elias Thorn stepped out of the shadows of the bridge as if he had always been there. “It is done,” the clockmaker said quietly. Rowan’s father looked up, confused. “Who—?” “You don’t remember me,” Elias said gently. “That is how it should be.” He held the restored pocket watch in his hand. The glass was whole, the hands moving again. Rowan sat up slowly. “Did I save him?” “Yes,” Elias said. “Your father will live. The accident will never happen.” Rowan exhaled in relief. “Then… what did I lose?” Elias hesitated. Then he handed Rowan the watch. Rowan looked at it, waiting for memory to rise. But nothing came. “What… what is this?” Rowan asked. “It belonged to your father,” Elias said softly. “It was your favorite birthday gift. He saved for months to buy it for you.” Rowan blinked. “I don’t remember any of that.” “That was the price,” Elias said. “To save your father, time took the memories you had of him.” Rowan’s chest tightened. All the laughter. All the stories. All the moments they shared—gone. His father knelt beside him, tears in his eyes. “Rowan? Do you know who I am?” Rowan looked into his father’s face. It felt warm… familiar… but distant, like a name he once read long ago. “I don’t remember,” Rowan whispered. “But… I want to learn.” His father pulled him close, holding him like something precious returned from the brink. Elias watched them silently. Sometimes saving someone meant losing the part of yourself that loved them. Sometimes love meant choosing the loss anyway. When Rowan looked up, the clockmaker was gone. Only the steady ticking of the pocket watch remained.
By Muhammad Mehran12 months ago in Fiction
The Lantern Maker of Lyria
M Mehran Lyria was a town that did not sleep. Even at midnight, its narrow cobblestone streets glowed with strings of paper lanterns—blue for peace, yellow for hope, white for healing, and red for courage. But the most beautiful lanterns, the ones people whispered about, came from the workshop at the very edge of the riverbank, where an old woman named Sera lived. Sera was a lantern maker, but not the ordinary kind. Her lanterns were said to hold memories—real ones, taken from hearts that were too heavy to carry them. People came to her door in the quiet hours of dawn, clutching their pasts like burdens they no longer wanted. No one knew how Sera collected the memories. Some said she caught them like fireflies. Others believed she carved them out of shadows. A few whispered that she had once given up a memory of her own, and since then, she had been able to touch the memories of others. But none of that mattered to Mika, a sixteen-year-old girl who had spent the last month sitting outside Sera’s workshop, waiting. Mika held a small silver ring around her neck. It belonged to her brother, Lior, who had disappeared in the river storm three months ago. The river had given back his ring—but not him. Tonight, she finally gathered the courage to knock. The door opened before she touched it. Sera stood there, her eyes pale like moonlit water. “You’ve been waiting a long time,” she said softly. “Come in.” Mika stepped inside. The workshop was filled with hundreds of glowing lanterns. Each seemed to pulse faintly, as if breathing. “What memory do you want to let go?” Sera asked. Mika clutched the ring. “None,” she whispered. “I want to find one.” That made Sera pause. Nobody came for retrieval; they came for release. “I want to see the last memory my brother left behind,” Mika said. “Before the river took him.” Sera studied her face. “Memories do not always show what we want,” she warned. “Some show only truth.” “I still want to see it.” Sera nodded slowly and turned to the shelves. She pulled down a lantern—unlit, white, frail as winter glass. “This one is empty,” she said. “It will hold whatever you seek.” She handed the lantern to Mika, who felt it tremble as if sensing her grief. “Close your eyes,” Sera instructed. “Hold the ring. Think of him—the sound of his voice, the way he laughed, the last time you saw him.” Mika shut her eyes. Memories surged—Lior teaching her to skip stones, Lior racing her across the riverbank, Lior promising he’d be back before the storm turned fierce. A warm wind brushed her face. The lantern glowed. Suddenly, the world changed. --- Mika stood on the edge of the river. But it was not the river as it was—it was brighter, clearer, shimmering with something almost unreal. Lior stood there too, barefoot, smiling at her as if nothing had happened. “Lior?” Mika breathed. He turned, eyes widening. “Mika? What are you doing here?” “I… I came to see your last memory.” The sky flickered, as if the world knew something it wasn’t supposed to. “This place isn’t a memory,” Lior said sadly. “It’s a doorway. A place between letting go and holding on.” Mika’s heart tightened. “I don’t understand.” Lior knelt beside the river. “The storm didn’t mean to take me. I tried to come back. But sometimes the river keeps what it loves.” Tears filled Mika’s eyes. “I wasn’t ready to lose you.” Lior reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek. But his fingers passed through like mist. “I know. That’s why you came. But Mika… if you stay here, you’ll get stuck between the worlds. Like me.” The lantern flickered in Mika’s hand. Its light was fading. “You’re not gone,” she whispered. “I can still see you.” “Only because you haven’t let me go,” Lior replied gently. “But you must. You deserve a life outside of this memory.” Mika shook her head. “I can’t. You’re my brother.” “And I always will be,” he said. “But I don’t belong in your world anymore.” Thunder rolled in the distance—the storm returning, repeating, as memories often do. “You have to leave before the lantern goes dark,” Lior said urgently. “If it closes, you’ll be stuck here.” Mika looked at the fading light, then at Lior. Her chest ached with a pain she wasn’t ready to face. “Will I ever see you again?” she whispered. Lior smiled—soft, warm, familiar. “In every river you walk beside. In every storm that passes. And in every lantern Sera hangs above the town. I’ll be there.” The wind surged. The river roared. The lantern’s glow dimmed to a thread. “Mika, go!” She reached for him one last time. Their hands almost touched—almost. Then the world shattered into light. --- Mika gasped and opened her eyes. She was back in Sera’s workshop, the lantern in her hands now glowing softly—steady, peaceful. Sera watched her with gentle knowing. “You saw him.” Mika nodded, tears falling silently. “Did you find what you needed?” Mika closed her fingers around the lantern’s warm surface. “Yes,” she whispered. “I did.” Sera smiled faintly. “Then you are ready.” Mika stepped outside. The town of Lyria shimmered with lanterns, each one holding a piece of someone’s heart. She lifted the lantern and walked to the riverbank—the same place she had once searched for Lior. She set the lantern on the water. It floated out, glowing stronger than all the others, drifting toward the horizon like a small piece of the moon. Mika watched until it became only a dot of light. Then she whispered into the wind, “Goodbye, Lior.” And for the first time in months, the river looked calm.
By Muhammad Mehran12 months ago in Fiction
Whispers of Winter Light
The night lay still beneath a soft blanket of snow, each flake a whisper from the heavens. The forest was hushed, the air so crisp it seemed to chime when the wind brushed through the frost-laden trees. Amid the silver silence stood a small wooden cabin, its windows glowing softly like two golden eyes against the indigo sky. Beside it, a single lantern glowed warmly on the snow, casting an amber halo that shimmered like hope itself. Inside the cabin, Emma sat near the window with a cup of steaming cocoa in her hands. She watched the light outside, a simple lantern she had placed earlier in memory of her grandfather, who had built the cabin decades ago. He always said that light was a promise — a small, glowing reminder that warmth could exist even in the coldest of places. Every year, on the first heavy snow of winter, Emma returned to the cabin. It was her sanctuary — a place untouched by time, where memories of laughter, stories, and the comforting scent of pine logs still lingered in the air. Outside, the forest stretched endlessly, cloaked in quiet beauty. The trees bowed under the weight of snow, their branches sparkling under the starlit sky. The North Star gleamed high above, a constant companion to the light below. As she gazed out, Emma thought about how her grandfather used to tell her stories by the fire. “The world may freeze, little one,” he would say with a twinkle in his eye, “but hearts like ours carry the flame.” His words had guided her through life — through challenges, losses, and new beginnings. The light, he said, was not just a symbol, but a way of living: to bring warmth, kindness, and courage into a world that sometimes felt cold. Tonight, that light seemed to glow brighter. Perhaps it was the stillness of the night, or perhaps it was the feeling of being home again after so long. Emma took a deep breath, feeling the quiet peace settle in her heart. She stepped outside, her boots sinking into the fresh snow with a soft crunch. The lantern’s flame flickered gently as she approached, its glow reflecting in her eyes. She knelt beside it, brushing off a light layer of snow from its glass top. “Grandpa,” she whispered, “I made it back.” Her voice trembled, not from the cold, but from the rush of memories flooding her heart. “You were right. Even in the darkest times, there’s always light.” The wind stirred gently through the trees, carrying a faint whisper — or maybe it was her imagination — that sounded like a sigh of contentment. She smiled, standing up and looking toward the horizon where the first hints of dawn began to soften the sky. A pale golden hue mingled with the deep blue, and the stars slowly faded into the morning light. The lantern’s glow blended with the rising sun, two lights meeting — one human, one heavenly. Emma knew she wouldn’t be alone, not really. The warmth she carried was more than memory; it was legacy — the same light her grandfather once carried, now passed on through her. She turned back toward the cabin, where the fire still crackled in the hearth. The little home glowed like a beacon in the midst of winter’s stillness, its windows radiating welcome to any soul lost in the snow. That night, and every night after, the lantern would continue to burn outside her cabin — a soft promise that even the coldest season cannot dim the light within. Visitors who passed through the forest in later years often spoke of that single glowing lantern, how it stood unwavering through every storm, a quiet guide for those seeking warmth or direction. And though Emma would one day be gone, her light — like her grandfather’s before her — would remain. For in every winter’s heart lies a spark waiting to shine, a whisper of warmth that says: Even in the deepest snow, love keeps the world aglow.
By Muhammad Saad 12 months ago in Fiction
