Mystery
The "What If" Lives of Jeanie the Dreamer
'Let’s have no two ways about it. Jeanie really could be a twat.' El leaned over the lectern and looked the front row of mourners straight in the eyes. She had one elbow on the celebrant’s notes, and for all the world looked like she was ordering a pint of Bishop’s Finger down at her local in Dalston.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
The Night We Killed Kyle: A Middle School Breakup Gone Hilariously Rogue
Kyle had a few good days before we found out he was a no-good, lying, cheating, sack of you-know-what. “Twelve days,” Mei cried, sprawled on my bedroom carpet like a collapsed Jenga tower. “Right before our two-week anniversary.”
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
I Saw You in the Static
The old television hadn't worked properly in years. It sat like a relic in the corner of the living room, bulky and dust-covered, with dials that clicked and stuck. My father never got rid of it. Even after he upgraded to a flat screen, the old set stayed. He always said, "She liked this one."
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Celestia and the Feather of Dawn
Under the pale crescent moon, Celestia tiptoed along a silver riverbank, her heart aglow with wonder. Shimmering lilies unfurled into the night, and unseen chimes echoed from the woods beyond. Something called to her—a soft, lilting melody on the midnight breeze. It felt as if the forest itself were singing. Enchanted by its magic, Celestia followed the song wherever it led.
By Muhammad Sohailabout a year ago in Fiction
The Game of Fate
The rain tapped steadily against the cracked windowpane as Arjun stared into the dark city below. The neon lights flickered, casting restless shadows across his apartment — a reflection of the turmoil inside him. Fate had always seemed like a distant concept, something spoken about in hushed tones or poetry. But tonight, it felt real. Tangible. A game he never signed up to play but was trapped in nonetheless.
By Nauman Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Drawing of My Life
When I was a child, I believed that pencils held magic. Not the kind of magic that turned frogs into princes or moved mountains—but the quiet kind. The kind that turned thoughts into pictures, emotions into shapes, and silence into color. I didn’t speak much as a kid. While other children chased each other on the playground or shouted answers in class, I sat in the corner of my own world, sketching stick figures and stars on the backs of my notebooks.
By Esther Sunabout a year ago in Fiction
Good or Bad
It was the kind of morning that felt like a blank page. The sun rose soft and amber over the sleepy town of Willow Creek, painting golden stripes across rooftops, and chasing the mist from the cobbled streets. The air held that rare stillness that makes you feel like anything is possible.
By Ashley Anthonyabout a year ago in Fiction
