Microfiction
Shattered
The reflection was like when light breaks water; the shattered fragments were from the glass table destroyed by a vandal's hammer blow, strewn all over the floor, with sharp shards that would cut anyone who tried to pick them up and clear away the debris.
By Mike Singleton đź’ś Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
Turnstile
Treasure the moments--before they are gone. 🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇🚇 It was a typical July afternoon in Singapore--the sort that smelt like Kopi O and a crowded train platform.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Promise
Part 1: The Inheritance of Gears Elara’s grandfather died on a Tuesday. By Friday, she stood in his clock shop, "Chronos & Heart," breathing air thick with oil and loneliness. Hundreds of timepieces covered the walls—grandfather clocks sighing like tired giants, pocket watches humming in drawers, cuckoo clocks silent behind sealed doors.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
Two weeks later, the world had changed — or maybe we had changed enough to see it clearly. The headlines were still buzzing. Investigations were underway. Arrests had been made in the land fraud case tied to my uncle’s death. My father's political allies had started to disappear like shadows under sunlight.
By Mehmood Niazabout a year ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
The night was colder than usual, with a restless wind scraping across the empty roads as I rode toward the old farmhouse. I had no backup. No phone. Just the folded copy of the evidence Hamza had given me, tucked in my inner coat pocket. And a flicker of hope that somehow, this meeting — this trap — might be the end of it all.
By Mehmood Niazabout a year ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
The sun had barely risen over the horizon when I opened my eyes in Hamza’s small apartment. The air was still, heavy with tension. Alya lay beside me on the mattress, curled up, clutching the shawl Hamza had given her the night before. I could see the bruise on her arm — Azeel’s mark. My blood boiled at the sight.
By Mehmood Niazabout a year ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
The SUV disappeared into the dust of the road before I could even take a step. I stood there frozen, the world spinning around me. Alya had been crying. Her eyes had locked with mine. She wanted me to stop him. To save her. But I was too slow.
By Mehmood Niazabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Promise. AI-Generated.
In the sleepy village of Merrow’s Cove, tucked against a rugged coastline, the lighthouse stood tall—weather-worn but proud. Its white stone walls bore the salt and storms of a hundred seasons, and within it lived the last lighthouse keeper: Elias Wren, a man of habit, of silence, and of unshakable devotion.
By Adil Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Train Home. AI-Generated.
The night air was chilly. The train station was quiet, almost empty. A few people stood near the platform, waiting. The lights above buzzed and flickered. It was almost midnight. This was the last train home. A young man named Daniel stood near a bench. He held a small backpack and looked tired. His work boots were dusty, and his hoodie wasn’t warm enough for the night. He had just finished a long shift at a diner downtown. His home was almost two hours away. Every night, he caught the last train after work. Next to him stood an older woman named Mrs. Jenkins. She wore a thick coat and held a grocery bag close to her. Inside was a homemade apple pie for her granddaughter’s birthday. She had baked it at her daughter’s place earlier that day. “Cold night,” Daniel said, trying to be friendly. “It is,” Mrs. Jenkins replied. “But I like the peace and quiet after a busy day.” Daniel smiled. “Same here. Headed far?” “Just a couple stops,” she said. “My granddaughter is waiting.” A few more people arrived. A young couple stood close, holding hands and sharing quiet laughs. A man with a guitar sat down and strummed soft music. A tired mom with two kids tried to keep them close while looking at her phone. Then came the announcement: “Train 317 to Brookville arriving shortly. This is the final train of the night.” Everyone turned to the tracks. A soft rumble grew louder. Headlights appeared in the distance. The last train was coming. Daniel looked around. Everyone had their own story. Their own reason to be heading home. The train stopped with a gentle screech. The doors slid open, and the group climbed aboard. Daniel found a window seat. Mrs. Jenkins sat next to him. The mom and her kids sat across the aisle. The young couple moved to the back. The guitar player sat on the floor near the door and kept playing. As the train rolled forward, the city lights faded behind them. They passed fields, quiet streets, and houses glowing with porch lights. “Do you take this train often?” Mrs. Jenkins asked. “Every night,” Daniel said. “I work late at a diner. My mom lives out in Brookville. I send her money and try to visit when I can.” “You sound like a good son,” she said. Daniel looked down. “I try.” She gave him a kind smile. “That’s all anyone can do.” The train stopped at a small station. A boy stepped in with a box of snacks and flowers. “Chocolate bars and roses! Just one dollar each!” he called. The young couple bought two roses. The mom bought a chocolate bar for her daughter. Daniel checked his pocket and found a dollar bill. “I’ll take a rose,” he said. He turned and handed it to Mrs. Jenkins. “For your granddaughter.” Her eyes lit up. “That’s very sweet of you. Thank you.” The train rolled on. People grew quiet. Some leaned back to rest. Others watched the dark scenery pass by. Soon the train stopped again. “This is my stop,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Have a good night, Daniel.” “You too, Mrs. Jenkins. Enjoy the birthday.” She stood up, holding her pie and the rose, and walked slowly to the door. More people got off at the next few stations. The mom and her kids. The couple. The guitar man gave Daniel a nod before leaving. Now Daniel was alone in the car. The train hummed through the night. After a while, it reached his stop. He stepped onto the platform. The station was small, with a single streetlight glowing near the road. In the distance, he saw the porch light at his mom’s house. She was waiting. Daniel walked home, his feet tired but his heart warm. The train had carried more than people that night — it carried kindness, stories, and simple moments of connection. It was the last train home. And it meant more than just a ride.
By Muhammad Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
