Mystery
Kisses in a Floral Dream
In the lush, flower-strewn valley of Provence, France, in the summer of 2024, the air was thick with the scent of lavender and the hum of bees. For 22-year-old Elise, this was a place of rebirth, where the wounds of her past could bloom into something new. Her story, woven with the delicate threads of love, friendship, and self-discovery, unfolded in a garden where kisses felt like dreams and flowers whispered hope.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Crumbling Smiles of Drake
In the gray drizzle of Manchester, England, in 2024, the streets of Ancoats bore the weight of forgotten dreams and urban renewal. For Drake, a 34-year-old street artist known only by his tag, life was a canvas of fleeting moments—murals painted under cover of night, smiles offered to strangers, and a past he couldn’t outrun. His art was his voice, but beneath his vibrant colors lay a crumbling foundation of guilt and loss. This is the story of Drake’s journey to reclaim his smile, woven through the lives he touched and the walls he transformed.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Stamp of Memory
In the quiet town of Eldridge, England, in 2023, the scent of ink and old paper filled the cluttered shop of Mr. Hawthorne’s Philatelic Emporium. For 19-year-old Clara, this was more than a workplace—it was a sanctuary of stories, each stamp a fragment of history. As she sifted through her late grandfather’s collection, Clara uncovered a mystery tied to her family’s past, a tale of love, sacrifice, and the final stamp that would bind her to those she’d lost. This is the story of Clara’s quest to preserve the last stamp of memory.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Shadows of Humanity
In the year 2075, the city of Nova Espera sprawled beneath a sky choked with ash, its neon lights flickering like the last breaths of a dying star. The world had fractured after the Great Collapse—decades of climate crises, wars, and unchecked AI had left humanity teetering. Amid the ruins, a new society emerged, divided between the gleaming towers of the Elite and the shadowed slums of the Forgotten. This is the story of Kael, a scavenger with a haunted past, and Aria, an android seeking her soul, whose unlikely bond would cast light on the shadows of humanity.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lizard Man's Tale
In the heart of the Louisiana bayou, where the cypress trees draped their moss like mourning veils, the legend of the Lizard Man whispered through the humid air. It was 2025, and the small town of Bayou LaCroix clung to its secrets as tightly as the swamp held its waters. This is the story of Eli, a young journalist, and the enigmatic figure known as the Lizard Man, whose tale would unravel the town’s hidden truths.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The House on Laurel Lane
When I was seven, I met someone who didn’t exist. Her name was Elsie, and she lived in the house on Laurel Lane. Everyone said the place was abandoned—empty since the fire that took the old woman who lived there alone. But I saw a little girl, just my age, watching me from the second-floor window, her hand pressed to the glass like she was trying to remember what touch felt like.
By MUHAMMAD SHAFIEabout a year ago in Fiction
Silent Struggles and Nigerian Roots
In the bustling streets of Lagos, Nigeria, in 2023, Amara stood at the edge of Yaba Market, her camera slung over her shoulder. At 27, she was a freelance photojournalist, capturing stories that the world often overlooked. Her latest project was personal—a documentary on the silent struggles of Nigeria’s queer community, a group forced to navigate a society where their existence was criminalized under the 2014 Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act. Amara’s own identity as a bisexual woman fueled her passion, but it also made her work dangerous. Her Nigerian roots, intertwined with her love for her culture and her fight for justice, were the threads that wove her story.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Perfume of the Slave
Once, in the time when kings ruled with iron fists but claimed to wear velvet gloves, there was a land called Khumyar, veiled in gold but rotting beneath. Its courtyards echoed with poetry while its prisons bled with silence. The king, Jalib the Proud, had a beard as thick as his cruelty and eyes that glistened with suspicion. His court was filled not with wise men but with flatterers dressed as philosophers. The pen was praised, but the sword decided justice.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
My love story
"When the Lilacs Bloomed Again" It was always the scent of lilacs that brought her back. Each spring, when the bushes in the town square bloomed, Ava found herself walking the old path, past the rusted bike racks and toward the bench under the maple tree. It wasn’t marked, but it might as well have been his memorial. This was where they fell in love. And this was where she last saw him. Ten years. A decade had passed since Ben left. The pain had dulled, as time always promises, but never disappeared. It lingered like a scar — quiet, tender, but always present. They were only twenty-two when they met, both new to town and broke in every way that counted. Ava had moved for a job that barely paid enough to cover rent; Ben was chasing music and working nights at the diner. He'd sing under his breath as he wiped tables, and she, always the last to leave, started humming along without realizing it. That’s how it started. Not with fireworks — but harmony. Their first date wasn’t really a date. He walked her home after a late shift and stopped to point out the stars. “We don’t look up enough,” he said. “The sky’s been watching us our whole lives, and we barely say hello.” She laughed, not because it was funny, but because she was scared of how fast her heart responded. They fell in love like the seasons changed — inevitable and unnoticed until the cold turned to warmth. Days melted into nights filled with music, shared silence, and dreams too fragile to speak aloud. He wrote songs about her but never played them in full. “Not until it’s perfect,” he’d say. She never needed perfect. But life, as it does, got in the way. His mother got sick back home. He left with promises—calls, visits, letters. And at first, they came. Until they didn’t. The last time she heard from him, he sent a song — raw and unfinished. It ended with her name, like a whisper in the wind. No explanation. No goodbye. Just silence that stretched years long. People told her to move on. That he didn’t deserve her grief. That maybe he changed, or maybe he never really loved her. But she knew better. Love like theirs doesn’t vanish. It just waits. She tried, of course — to forget. Dated men who were kind, stable, even funny. But no one saw her the way he did — like she was the lyric he’d been waiting to write his whole life. So each spring, when the lilacs bloomed, she returned to the bench. Not because she believed in miracles. But because love, real love, deserves remembering. Today, the breeze carried the familiar scent. Ava sat, closing her eyes, letting herself ache just a little. “Still sitting here without me?” The voice was older, deeper, but unmistakable. She turned. Ben. Time had changed him — gray at the temples, lines around eyes that once only knew laughter. But the way he looked at her? That hadn’t changed. She stood, unsure whether to cry or hit him. Maybe both. “I wrote you every month,” he said softly. “They were returned unopened. I called. Nothing.” “My number never changed,” she replied, voice cracking. His hands trembled. “My father found the letters, Ava. I think he... I think he tried to protect me. Or maybe punish me. I don’t know. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.” Tears spilled silently. The years rushed back — all the birthdays, the loneliness, the hope she buried but never killed. “I thought you left,” she whispered. “I never did.” He reached for her hand — gently, like asking permission. And in that moment, under the maple tree, with lilacs in bloom and ten years behind them, Ava realized something simple and sacred: Some love stories don’t end. They just wait for the right season to return.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
THE LAST MEAL
Description: Packed into cramped quarters with no memory of the outside world, they wait in darkness as giants reach in to claim them one by one. When Big Jim gets snapped in half trying to escape, the remaining inmates realize this isn't just another stretch in maximum security, it's something far worse. A darkly comic horror story about survival, hope, and the terrible moment when you finally understand, you're never getting out.
By Joey Rainesabout a year ago in Fiction
