Mystery

LOST !
Once upon a heavy dusk, when the sky was painted with tired blues and forgotten gold, a simple boy stood on the edge of a field he couldn’t name. His name was Nilo, and he was not lost in the world — no, the world was where it had always been. But he was lost from his own mind, far from the shores of his own soul.
By Shades of Faith 2 years ago in Fiction
I Missed My Flight — and It Saved My Life
I’ve always prided myself on being punctual. I’m the type who sets three alarms, arrives at the airport two hours early, and triple-checks the boarding gate before grabbing a coffee. So when I missed my flight that morning, I was furious—at myself, at the airline, at the universe.
By kamran khan2 years ago in Fiction
The Abyss of Yathalith
The wind howled through the jagged peaks of the Forsaken Mountains, whipping snow and ice into blinding flurries. Far below, the land stretched out in an endless expanse of grey and brown, a barren wilderness that seemed to be without end or mercy. At the center of this desolation, there was a legend—a legend so old, so buried in the annals of forgotten history, that few still believed it. But for those who dared to search, the legend promised untold riches, unfathomable knowledge, and perhaps, most intriguing of all, the answers to the world’s greatest mysteries.
By Muhammad Sohail2 years ago in Fiction
The Vanisher
They whispered his name in hushed tones like a rumor, velvet-soft as a knife's keen edge: Elric Vane. He was nowhere to belong, but he'd played every casino from Monte Carlo to Macau, leaving wide eyes and empty vaults in HIS wake.
By Komal2 years ago in Fiction
Mysterious Discovery in Our Galaxy Broke
There are many mysteries in the universe, but none have stumped astronomers as much as the recent discovery of a mysterious object deep within our galaxy. Scientists have been forced to reevaluate their understanding of cosmic mechanics as a result of this mysterious phenomenon, which has disproved long-held scientific theories. A team of astrophysicists used cutting-edge radio and infrared telescopes to make the discovery, which has sparked intense debate and excitement in the scientific community.
By jannatul bushra2 years ago in Fiction
The Starlight Spoon
Once upon a time, in a town settled between velvet slopes and whispering woods, there lived a small young lady named Lila. She had a head full of twists, eyes like morning dew, and a heart that accepted enchantment. Lila adored making a difference her grandma, who was the town pastry specialist and made the fluffiest cloud-cakes and the wealthiest honey-buns in all the arrival.
By MD Tarek Aziz 2 years ago in Fiction
The Last Upload
By the year 2097, Earth had turned into a hyper-connected globe where humans did not just live physically—they lived virtually as well. As a result of a revolutionary project called NeuroNet, humans were able to upload their consciousness into a virtual globe that was really vast, where time passed more quickly, and there was no limit to possibilities. Humans could experience decades of learning, dreaming, and creating in just one year in the real world.
By Sourove Kumar2 years ago in Fiction
The Road Within. AI-Generated.
Eli woke up in a place that didn’t exist yesterday. There was no ceiling, no walls, no bed—just sky, pale and infinite. He stood barefoot on soft earth, the ground breathing slightly beneath his feet, like the lungs of some slumbering beast. Trees lined the horizon, twisted like dancers frozen mid-pirouette. A single path unfurled ahead of him, glowing faintly as if lit from below. A wooden sign stood crookedly at the edge of the road. "This way to Yourself." He scoffed. "Right. Because that makes sense." But something in his chest, old and half-awake, stirred. He took the first step. --- The first person he met was sitting on a bench carved out of clouds. She wore a sunflower-yellow dress, legs swinging like a child’s, and her smile made the air warmer. "You’re early," she said, not looking at him. "Early for what?" "Me." She hopped off the bench and faced him. "I'm Happiness." Eli blinked. "That feels... fast. Shouldn't you be at the end?" "Nope. I'm the bait," she grinned. "Most people start walking because they think they’ll find me. So I show up early, let them taste the idea of me. Then I leave." "That's cruel." "It's honest." She handed him a balloon. It shimmered like a soap bubble. "Don't hold too tight. It'll pop." He took it. She vanished. --- The forest thickened. The trees whispered names he hadn’t heard in years. Some he had tried to forget. The balloon tugged him forward until the fog rolled in. There, sitting beneath a gnarled tree, was a girl in a tattered blue dress. Her eyes were hollow, red-rimmed. "You again," she said. "Have we met?" "Every time you cried and didn't know why. Every time music made your chest ache. I'm Sadness." He sat beside her. "Do I have to be here?" "No. But you'll come back anyway. They all do." She touched the balloon, and it dimmed. "People try to skip me. But I'm not a punishment. I'm a compass. I show you where it hurts. So you know where to heal." Eli nodded. He stayed a while. When he stood, she whispered, "Don’t treat me like a stranger next time." --- Eventually, the forest opened into a courtyard made of polished stone. At its center, a man stood before a towering statue of himself, chiseling cheekbones with obsessive precision. "Ah, the walker arrives," he said without turning. "Admire me." "Who are you supposed to be?" "Ego." "Of course you are." Ego turned, smirking. He wore mirrored sunglasses, reflecting Eli's confused face back at him. "You don’t get far without me," he said. "I make you stand tall, ask for the raise, smile at the girl. I'm your armor." "And your prison." Ego shrugged. "Fair trade." He handed Eli a mask. Blank. White. Featureless. "Wear it when you're scared to be seen. Everyone else does." Eli took it. Didn't wear it. Yet. --- Next came the Spiral. The road looped on itself, and time bled strange. Night and day chased each other like mad dogs. At the center, a small girl rocked back and forth. Her skin bore bruises that shifted with the light. "I shouldn't be here," Eli said. "I remember this place." "Good," the girl said. "Because I never left. I'm Trauma." She handed him a cracked mirror. "You see yourself through me now. That's why everything feels distorted." "How do I fix it?" "You don't. You learn to hold it differently. Not everything that hurt you was your fault. But healing is your responsibility." Eli looked into the mirror. He saw himself as a child, hiding beneath a kitchen table. He kept the mirror. --- It began to rain. Not water. Memories. They fell as photographs, letters, whispers. He walked through them until he reached a café with only one patron: a faceless figure sitting alone at every table. "Let me guess," Eli said. "Loneliness." The figure tilted its head. Its voice was many voices. "I am who you call when no one answers. I'm the echo chamber. The craving. The void you fill with distractions." "You're terrifying." "I'm necessary. Without me, you wouldn't recognize Connection when it finally came." A cup of coffee appeared. Eli drank. It was bitter. But it woke him up. --- The road caught fire. Flames danced but didn’t burn. At their center stood a woman in a dress made of smoke. Her eyes glowed. "You're here," she growled. "Anger." "I am the heat in your blood. The scream in your throat. You keep locking me away." "Because you destroy things." "I also protect. I show you what you will no longer tolerate. Use me with purpose, and I become power. Suppress me, and I become poison." She placed a coal in his palm. It didn’t burn. It pulsed. --- A storm rose. Lightning cracked the sky open like an egg, and from the wound stepped a boy, barefoot, wide-eyed. He looked like Eli, but younger. "I'm Fear," he said. "I've been dragging your feet for years." "Why?" "To keep you safe. And stuck." Eli wanted to run. Instead, he knelt. "What do you need?" Fear handed him a rope. "Something to hold. Not something to be tied by." --- The sky turned gold. A woman with hair like candlelight walked toward him. "I am Hope," she said simply. "You buried me once. Under cynicism. Under grief. But I grew roots." She offered a seed. "Plant me in darkness. That's where I thrive." --- Later, he entered a cathedral made of glass. In the center stood a woman wrapped in warmth. "Love," she said before he could ask. "Real or romanticized?" "Both. And more. I am what you give. What you fear. What you deserve." She gave him a candle. "Even when I'm small, I light everything." --- He found a river next. On one side stood Guilt, hunched and trembling. On the other, Forgiveness, calm and waiting. Eli stepped into the water. Guilt clung to his legs, whispering, "You don't deserve this." Forgiveness simply held out a towel. Eli crossed. --- He reached a hill where everyone he'd met waited: Happiness, Sadness, Ego, Trauma, Loneliness, Anger, Fear, Hope, Love, Guilt, Forgiveness. And a man in gray. Acceptance. "You ready?" Acceptance asked. "To die?" Acceptance smiled. "To live." He handed Eli a journal. "You are not a fixed thing. You are a process. A becoming. The point was never to be perfect. The point was to be whole." Eli turned the page. Blank. "Now write." --- Eli woke up in his own bed. The sun rose like a promise. He checked under his pillow. The balloon. The cracked mirror. The coal. The seed. The candle. The journal. All still there. He smiled. Not because he had found peace. But because he finally understood how to build it. --- The End.
By Haad Khan2 years ago in Fiction
A Story of Love
I used to believe love and hate were opposite ends of a spectrum. But that was before I met her.Rhea. She entered my life like a storm in the dead of summer—unexpected, loud, and with the power to rearrange everything. I hated her the moment I met her, and maybe that was why I couldn't stop looking. We first crossed paths in our literature class during our final year at university. She was loud, opinionated, and constantly challenged everything I said. I was precise, methodical, and believed that words were tools—not weapons. She, on the other hand, wielded them like knives dipped in honey. “Love is a battlefield,” she said one day in class. “It’s not sweet, it’s not safe. It’s war.” I scoffed. “Sounds like you’ve never been in love.” She didn’t flinch. Just smiled. “Sounds like you’ve never been in war.” Everyone laughed. I didn’t. That was the beginning. We were assigned as partners for a final project—an in-depth analysis of tragic love stories across literature. Irony, the professor said. I cursed him internally. We met after class, surrounded by the scent of old books and bitter coffee in the university café. I suggested Wuthering Heights, thinking the classic tale would impress her. She rolled her eyes. “Too predictable. Let's do The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Love, sex, politics—messy and real.” Of course, she would pick something like that. We argued for days. Over the theme. Over the characters. Over the damn font on the presentation slides. But somewhere between heated debates and silent, stormy glances, something shifted. I started looking forward to our meetings. The day she showed up soaked from the rain, cursing the weather and still holding a crumpled printout of her notes, I offered her my hoodie without thinking. She looked surprised. “Wow. You have a heart.” “You sound disappointed,” I replied, smirking. We laughed. For the first time, without tension. It was strange, how quickly the lines blurred.
By Muhammad Numan Khan2 years ago in Fiction
Will AI Replace Programmers
As I sit here typing code for a client project while simultaneously drafting this article, a notification pops up on my screen: “GitHub Copilot can generate this function for you.” The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m writing about AI potentially taking my job while actively using AI to do my job. It’s this strange paradox that keeps me up at night, wondering: will AI replace programmers and writers like me?
By Muhammad Sudais2 years ago in Fiction
The Anatomy of a Slip
Tim gazed curiously at his reflection in the mirror, his moral slip weighing heavily on his already fractious mind. Laughter from beyond the bathroom pierced through flesh, sinew, muscle, and marrow—straight to his metaphysical conscience.
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Fiction
"The Ghost Ship of 1872: What Really Happened to the Mary Celeste?"
A Sailor’s Account December 4, 1872 – Mid-Atlantic The wind was wrong. On the deck of the Dei Gratia, I was looking at the far-off brigantine via my spyglass. She was half-abandoned, her hull listing slightly, her sails half-furled.
By Md Jabed Hassan2 years ago in Fiction