Microfiction
The Secrets of The Forgotten City - Part 2
Chapter 2: Blackwood's Bargain The morning light, fractured by dust motes swirling in Anya's workshop, felt accusatory. It illuminated the clutter, the scraps of metal that were both her sanctuary and her prison, each discarded gear a silent witness to her isolation. Silas Blackwood stood amidst it all, an unwelcome intruder in her carefully constructed world. His presence was a discordant note, a harsh clang against the gentle hum of her internal world.
By hiteshsinh solanki2 years ago in Fiction
The Secrets of The Forgotten City - Part 1
Chapter 1: Whispers of Rust The wind carried dust and the metallic tang of long-dead machinery across the Blasted Lands, stinging Anya’s eyes as she wrestled with the broken water pump. Each groan of the rusted gears was a lament, a faded echo of Aerilon, the clockwork city slumbering beneath their feet. She tightened a bolt, the metal cold against her grease-stained fingers, listening. Not just to the pump’s struggling rhythm, but to the whispers beneath, the faint, fractal symphony of the city’s slumbering heart.
By hiteshsinh solanki2 years ago in Fiction
The Dead 5
She was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that he longed to run after her noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders and say something foolish and affectionate into her ear. She seemed to him so frail that he longed to defend her against something and then to be alone with her. Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast-cup and he was caressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web of the curtain was shimmering along the floor: he could not eat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform and he was placing a ticket inside the warm palm of her glove. He was standing with her in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man making bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in the cold air, was quite close to his; and suddenly he called out to the man at the furnace: "Is the fire hot, sir?"
By Favour Nyimbili2 years ago in Fiction
The Last Letter: A Story of Second Chances
Mara had continuously accepted that enchantment didn't exist. It was a child's dream, a whisper from ancient pixie stories. That conviction remained consistent until the day she gotten a letter that shouldn't have been conceivable. It arrived on a stormy Tuesday, slipped beneath her entryway with no title, no stamp, no return address. The paper was thick, overwhelming, the kind utilized for wedding solicitations or old scrolls. Mara nearly hurled it aside, considering it was garbage. But something approximately it — possibly the way her title was composed in cautious gold ink — made her delay. She opened it gradually. Interior, a single line was composed: "In the event that you had one chance to alter your story, would you take it?" No signature. No clarification. Fair that one frequenting sentence. She snickered to herself. It was likely a few peculiar advancement or trick. She set it on her kitchen table and went almost her day, attempting to overlook the unusual shudder running down her spine. But no matter what she did, her eyes kept floating back to that letter. That night, she imagined of a entryway standing alone in a field. It was broken open, and warm brilliant light spilled out. She woke up wheezing, the picture burned into her intellect. The letter lay precisely where she had cleared out it, but presently there was something unused — a little, old-fashioned brass key sitting on best. Mara picked it up, feeling the chill of the metal against her skin. Something interior her whispered: Go. She didn't indeed bother changing out of her night wear. She snatched a coat, pushed the key into her take, and cleared out the flat. The rain had ceased. The roads were calm. By one means or another, she knew precisely where to go. Three pieces absent, tucked between two disintegrating buildings, was a entryway she had never taken note some time recently. It looked antiquated, like it had a place to another time. Without considering, she pulled out the key. It slid into the bolt like it had been holding up for her. The entryway creaked open, and a delicate, warm light spilled out. Interior was not a room but a glade, filled with tall, waving grass beneath a sundown sky. Stars sparkled overhead, and within the center of the field was a little table. A lady sat there, grinning delicately. "I was pondering when you'd come," the lady said. "Where...what is this?" Mara stammered. The lady motioned to the purge chair over from her. "Sit. Usually your story, Mara. And today evening time, you get to choose how it proceeds." Mara sat, her heart beating. The lady waved her hand, and scenes from Mara's life showed up within the discuss — her childhood, the botches she lamented, the dreams she had buried beneath fear and question. They played like delicate, shining movies. "You carry so much pity," the lady said delicately. "But pity doesn't need to be the conclusion of your story." Tears welled in Mara's eyes. She whispered, "But what on the off chance that I can't change?" The lady grinned, the kind of grin that wrapped around you like a blanket. "Alter doesn't eradicate who you're . It builds on it. You're permitted to trust once more. You're permitted to undertake." The stars over them beat tenderly, like they were breathing. "All you've got to do is select," the lady said. "Remain caught by your fear, or step into the life holding up for you." Mara looked down at her hands. She thought of all the times she had given up on herself, all the times she had let fear win. But possibly... fair possibly... she didn't have to be any longer. She stood up gradually. The woman's eyes shimmered. "I'm prepared," Mara said. The glade moved, the stars twirling into a entryway of light. Mara ventured through without looking back. When she opened her eyes, she was back in her apartment. The letter and key were gone. But something interior her had changed. She felt lighter, braver. The following morning, Mara did something she hadn't drained a long time. She marked up for the craftsmanship lesson she had continuously imagined of. She applied for the work she thought she wasn't great enough for. She called her father, after a long time of hush. Small by small, she revamped her story — and this time, she made beyond any doubt it was a story worth living.
By Maharuf Islam2 years ago in Fiction
Unbelievable!
“What? You like boys?” The little first grade girl named Jordyn frantically shrieked at her friend Maggie during recess. Maggie held her head down low like she was about to undergo her life sentence to prison for her crime. She braced herself because she knew the wrath of Jordyn wasn’t over yet. Sure enough, Jordyn continued…
By Rowan Finley 2 years ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Changed My Silence
The Girl Who Changed My Silence "What I Never Believed… Happened" I never thought my heart would soften. That a single glance could shake the cold walls I had built around myself since childhood. But here I am, telling my story with full honesty—no exaggeration, no romantic embellishments. I grew up in an emotionally barren environment. I never liked talking to girls. Even my sisters—I treated them with a quiet sort of contempt. I hated anything that had to do with emotions and believed getting close to a girl was a kind of unforgivable weakness. People around me found me strange, distant, even harsh. They couldn’t understand me… maybe they were right. I was always top of my class, passionate about learning, obsessed with perfection—especially in people. I came from a modest middle-class family, but I always dreamed of something higher, greater… purer. Flaws disgusted me. Even sitting with my friends became unbearable if one of them brought up a girl. Any girl. Even if he was just admiring his cousin or a child passing by. I saw it as filthy. Revolting. My mother often sighed, saying, "I don’t know what’s going to become of you when you grow up..." I remember that day like it was yesterday. We were in fourth grade. Our school was hosting a joint industrial-agricultural exhibition, with schools from all over the province. Since I was one of the top students, I was selected to help manage part of the event. A nearby girls’ school had their booth next to ours. I was assigned to coordinate with just one girl… and I refused. Flat-out refused to talk to her. Then, without warning, I found myself accused. That girl went to her supervisor and claimed I was harassing her with words! Despite everyone denying it… I was removed from the exhibition. From that day on, the doors to my heart didn’t just close—they were sealed shut. Years passed. I made it to university with the same harshness, the same aversion, the same isolation. I also picked up a part-time job in a decent place to support myself. Then one day She walked in. I don’t know how she entered the place, But she entered my soul first. Her eyes struck something deep in me. It was like I was wearing a new skin for the first time. A skin made of warmth… of wonder… of light. I stuttered. Words escaped me. I found my gaze locked in hers as if she was the mirror of my hidden self. And her gaze? Her gaze didn’t wound me. It awakened something I never knew was asleep. I barely heard the voice of my manager: "What’s wrong with you? She’s waiting!" I apologized, walked out, pretending I was sick Just to run away from this hurricane inside me. The next day She came again. Same time. Same calm. Same eyes. She kept coming. So did the looks. And between us bloomed a language of silence. Then one day, as I greeted her, she whispered: "Wow... it's been a while!" I froze. Blushed. "What?" I asked. She laughed. The manager walked in and said: "Don’t be shy. She’s my only daughter." Then added: "She saw you on your first day and liked you, but disappeared for a while due to illness. Later, she told her mother she liked you and begged her not to tell me, afraid I’d fire you!" I stood there Thinking Is this the end of my solitude? Is love even possible for someone like me? I don’t know But I do know this What came next was stranger, truer, and more beautiful than I ever imagined.
By Ali Sadeek Ahmed2 years ago in Fiction
The Bench by the River
On the edge of a sleepy town, nestled beside a winding river, there stood an old bench made of oak wood. Weather-beaten and creaky, it had stood there for decades, watching the river change with the seasons. Every evening, just before sunset, a man named Haroon would come and sit quietly, like a ritual. Haroon was 78. His back was bent, his hair silver, but his eyes—oh, his eyes still held the glint of a boy who once dreamt of flying. He lived alone now. His wife, Rina, passed away five years ago, and his son lived abroad, sending postcards twice a year and calling only on birthdays. But Haroon never complained. Not once. He would just sit on that bench, watching the river flow, whispering to the wind as if it carried his words to heaven. One rainy afternoon, a teenage girl named Sumi, on her way back from school, noticed Haroon. His eyes were wet—not from the rain. She hesitated but walked up and asked, Uncle, do you come here every day? He smiled, nodding. Every single day since 1972. Why? she asked curiously. Haroon looked at the river. “Because this bench holds my whole life. I proposed to my wife here. She said yes and cried. We came here after our son was born, after his first day at school, after every big fight and every little joy. And after she died, I still come here—because I feel she never left. Sumi didn’t know what to say. Her world was fast, loud, and full of distractions. But something about the stillness in Haroon’s words made her sit beside him. From then on, she started visiting him often. Listening. Learning. Her Instagram captions turned into Haroon’s quotes. Her heart, which once beat for trends and likes, now beat for stories and soul. One Winter Evening Haroon didn’t come. Nor the next day. Worried, Sumi ran to the nearby houses asking about him. No one had seen him in days. She finally reached his little home. The door was ajar. A letter sat on the table addressed: To the girl who listened. Inside it read: > Dear Sumi, You reminded me that life isn’t just about breathing—it’s about being heard. You made an old man feel seen in a world that forgets the silent. I am not afraid of going, because I know stories like mine will live in hearts like yours. If anyone asks, tell them the river listened to my last story, and smiled. - Haroon Sumi sat on the bench, the letter trembling in her hand. The river flowed on, softly glowing under the evening sun. Epilogue Years passed. Sumi grew up, became a writer. Her first book? The Bench by the River: Untold Tales from a Silent Man And every page carried Haroon’s soul.
By Digital Home Library by Masud Rana2 years ago in Fiction
Heartbeat on Wheels
The road unfolded endlessly ahead, a silver pathway shimmering beneath the golden sunset. Aanya tightened her hold on the steering wheel, her heart racing as she caught a quick look at the man seated next to her. Riyan was in the passenger seat, softly humming along to an old Bollywood tune playing on the radio, his fingers tapping lightly on the dashboard.
By Mubarak Hossain Akash2 years ago in Fiction
The Lantern Keeper
Sometimes, the brightest light is carried by the one who walks through the darkest path. The town of Windmere was like any other—a quiet place where everyone knew your name, and secrets didn’t last long. But there was one secret that lived in plain sight.
By Digital Home Library by Masud Rana2 years ago in Fiction
