Love
The last breathe of love
You never know what you have until it's gone. A statement of truth in this current moment. Because as I watched the yellow I missed the blue , as the clouds sunk I missed the way they so effortlessly swayed and wished I could dance with them one last time .
By Holly Griffiths12 months ago in Fiction
When Stars Remembered Our Names. AI-Generated.
He first saw her under a flickering streetlight. Not at a party, not through mutual friends — just one of those moments that feel like an accident until you realize the universe probably planned it that way.
By Ahmet Kıvanç Demirkıran12 months ago in Fiction
When One Voice Turns Into a Roar — and a City Listens
It began as a whisper. In the narrow alleyways of Nizamabad, the kind where crooked balconies lean over laundry lines and stray cats dart between shadows, a solitary voice rose before dawn. A young woman—barefoot, ragged vest, eyes blazing—stood atop a faded crate in the market square and screamed:
By Alexander Mind12 months ago in Fiction
The Last Prayer of Rahim
There’s a small village at the edge of nowhere — the kind of place where time moves slowly, and people remember everything. That’s where Rahim lived. He wasn’t always sick. Once, he was the strongest man in the village — the kind who carried bricks all day and still helped his neighbors fix their roofs before sunset. People used to call him “Bhai Rahim — the man with a heart bigger than his hands.” But life has a strange way of testing the kindest souls. A few years ago, an illness crept into Rahim’s body. At first, it was just pain — something he could hide behind his smile. Then came the swelling, the weakness, the nights of burning fever. Doctors called it incurable. Rahim just called it “Allah’s test.” His house was small — two rooms and a wooden door that always creaked. Every morning, before the sun climbed over the rooftops, he would spread his prayer mat and whisper the same words: >Ya Allah… give me patience, not comfort. Give me strength, not ease.” The neighbors would hear his voice through the thin walls. Some pitied him. Others just shook their heads and said, “He won’t live long.” But Rahim always smiled when he heard that. “I’ve already lived longer than despair,” he’d say softly. -- One cloudy afternoon, a traveler named Saeed arrived in the village. He wasn’t looking for Rahim — he was just passing through, tired and lonely, searching for something he couldn’t name. Someone at the tea stall told him about “the sick man who prays for others.” Curious, Saeed went to find him. When he reached Rahim’s home, the sight stopped him cold. Rahim was sitting on a thin mattress by the door. His body looked fragile, but his eyes — those eyes had light. He wasn’t praying for healing; he was praying for gratitude. Saeed sat quietly beside him. Neither spoke for a while. The sound of their breathing filled the silence between prayers. Finally, Rahim opened his eyes and smiled. “Brother, you look troubled,” he said softly. Saeed’s eyes were wet. “I came to see you, but now I don’t know what to say. I feel helpless.” Rahim chuckled faintly — a dry, gentle sound. “Don’t be. Pain is not always a punishment. Sometimes it’s a reminder… that we still belong to Him.” -Saeed took out a bundle of money, hands trembling. “Please, take this,” he said. “Use it for medicine, for care… for anything.” Rahim looked at it for a moment, then closed Saeed’s hand around it again. “Brother, money can fix a body, but not a heart. And my heart is fine.” Saeed couldn’t hold back his tears anymore. “What can I do then?” he asked. “Pray with me,” Rahim whispered. “That’s all I ever need.” So they sat together — two strangers who suddenly felt like brothers. Their hands lifted, voices low but full of meaning. “Ya Allah, forgive us when we forget to be grateful. Forgive us when we fear pain more than we fear losing faith. And when we suffer, let us remember — You never test without purpose.” The air grew still. Even the birds seemed to listen. Saeed could feel the weight of those words settle deep inside his chest. Rahim’s hands slowly dropped to his lap. His eyes stayed open, but something changed — a softness came over him. He whispered one last time, barely audible: “Tell the world… I wasn’t waiting for death. I was waiting to meet the One who gave me life.” And then, silence. Complete, peaceful silence. The azaan began to echo from the nearby mosque. Saeed sat there, motionless, tears falling one by one. He wasn’t crying out of pity anymore — he was crying because he’d just seen what faith truly looked like. Before leaving, he looked around the little courtyard. There was no wealth, no comfort, no sign of healing. Yet somehow, Rahim had everything Saeed had been searching for — peace. When Saeed walked back to the main road, the evening light touched the village roofs. He whispered to himself: "He healed me, even as he was dying.” And from that day on, wherever Saeed went, he carried Rahim’s prayer in his heart — a prayer that wasn’t just about pain or faith, but about finding light in the darkest corners of life. Moral / Reflection: Some people leave this world without fame or fortune, but they leave behind something far greater — a lesson that faith can turn suffering into strength, and sorrow into peace.
By Vocal Member 12 months ago in Fiction
The last breathe of love
You never know what you have until it's gone. A statement of truth in this current moment. Because as I watched the yellow I missed the blue , as the clouds sunk I missed the way they so effortlessly swayed and wished I could dance with them one last time .
By Holly Griffiths12 months ago in Fiction
The Buzzer
The apartment where she was starting her life over had one of those outdated intercom systems with a loud, jarring buzzer that always made her heart jump and her skin itch. Her cats hated it too, always scattering when the noise rang through her apartment, sprinting for that dark, enclosed space under her bed that made them both impossible to find. She wondered, as that buzzer echoed through her apartment and her breath caught in her chest and her cats' claws slid over the hardwood floor as they ran for cover, if it would still make her feel that way if she wasn't now built out of anxiety and PTSD. But there was no point in what ifs and maybes in this brave new world.
By Mallory Rose12 months ago in Fiction
Who's Knocking?. Top Story - October 2025.
My grandmother once told me that she didn't much like cats because they were too demanding. But I don't think she knew the character of all cats. It's true that some are a bit needy, though. But not Whiskers. He was purely just a yellow mass of fuzzy politeness and sincerity. And this story is about him; how he changed my life since meeting him early one unassuming and very ordinary Sunday morning in October.
By Shirley Belk12 months ago in Fiction
The Lost Art of Thinking Deeply
We live in a time when our phones vibrate more than our thoughts do. Notifications, videos, updates — they all arrive faster than we can process them. We scroll, we react, we move on. But somewhere along the way, we’ve forgotten how to think deeply.
By Shohel Rana12 months ago in Fiction
