Satire

*The Forgotten Bench*
In a small town cradled by rolling hills and thick forest, there was a wooden bench by the lake. It wasn’t grand—its green paint had peeled, one leg was uneven, and the wood bore the soft scars of time. But if you sat there long enough, you might feel something linger in the air—quiet, familiar, like the echo of a laugh carried by the wind.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
My Friend’s Last Words Came in a Dream
It’s been a year since Lily passed away, but sometimes it still feels like she might text me, or I’ll turn a corner and see her laughing in that way only she could. Grief is strange like that—it never really goes away, it just changes shape.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Fiction
Yippie-kay-yay, Mother Crustacean
It all started one fateful day when I was searching the Great Coral for interesting trinkets to show my mother and father. I happened across something so intriguing that I had to fight a literal frogfish. You don't know what a frogfish looks like? Well, brother, you're in for a shock. They don't actually look like frogs at all—and they're nasty omnivores.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Window That Waited
In a quiet corner of the city, where the traffic never quite quieted and the buildings leaned into each other like old friends, stood a weathered apartment block with peeling paint and a rusted fire escape. It wasn’t grand or new, but it had stood for decades, holding stories in its walls.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
The Call Came After Midnight
I was half-asleep when my phone rang. The screen lit up my dark bedroom, the name flashing across it like something out of a dream — or a nightmare.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Fiction
“The Last Paper Crane”*
In a narrow lane where the sun barely touched the ground by midday, tucked between a tea stall and an old tailor’s shop, stood a small stationery store with peeling green paint and a wooden sign that read “Baba Jan’s Papers” in faded ink.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
User’s Guide to Disappearing (Terms, Conditions & Mild Trauma Apply)
Sometimes disappearing isn’t about running away. It’s about testing who notices you’re gone—and who never did. Consider this your survival manual, with a splash of sarcasm and a few bite marks.
By Jellyabout a year ago in Fiction
Chalupa Gangsta . Content Warning.
It was a large barrel. That was he thought has he stared down the gun. He wasn't sure, how longit would be, but not this big. The pimply kid behind the counter looked less than 16 years old. The kid was stoned faced, as if this wasn’t his first rodeo but Matt doubted that. This kid had almost a marine level of control under his belt.
By Kasey Reneeabout a year ago in Fiction
*The Bench by the Lake*
There was a lake on the edge of a quiet town, half-hidden behind sycamore trees and tangled ivy. It wasn’t on any tourist map, and no signs pointed to it. But those who found it—by accident or ache—often came back.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
Why Most People Fail to Achieve Their Dreams — And How You Can Succeed
Hook > You had a dream once. A big one. But somewhere along the way… life got in the way. Days turned into months, and now that dream feels like a distant memory.
By Sharifullah Muhammadiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room Number
The Room Number – Part 1 I didn’t come to the coast looking for trouble. I came to forget. The hotel was everything the brochure promised — marble lobby, sweeping ocean views, and the kind of staff who smiled without actually looking at you. I’d booked a junior suite for the weekend, just me, my camera, and the sound of the sea.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers Between Frost and Bloom
By [Masih ullah] They say the forest speaks, but only between seasons. At the edge of Elowen Wood, where snow still clings to the roots and buds tremble in the hush of late winter, the villagers dare not tread. Not in the gap days—those few, quiet hours where winter still breathes, and spring has just begun to stir. The old folk call it the Whispering. The children call it nonsense. And every year, one wanderer listens. This year, it was Liora. She had always felt it—the ache in the air when the last frost hung stubbornly to the moss, and the sun began to rise just a little earlier. It was more than seasons changing. It was a pulse. A turning. A soft breath exhaled from the earth’s lungs. She left just after dawn, when the village rooftops were still silvered in ice. Her boots broke the frozen crust of snow, and her lantern swung gently at her side, its flame defiant against the cold. The deeper she walked, the more the world changed. Ice clung to one side of the trees, while the other was streaked with green. It was as if the forest couldn't decide which life to live. Liora stopped at the heart of the wood—the Clearing of the Divide. No birdsong. No wind. Just silence thick enough to stir a memory. “Why did you come?” The voice was not loud, but it rang in the hollows of her bones. Liora turned slowly. There, where the snow ended and grass began, stood a figure. Not man nor woman. Not old nor young. Cloaked in woven frost and petal, light pooling around their feet. “To listen,” Liora said. Her voice sounded small, but not afraid. The figure tilted their head. “Most only come to ask.” Liora stepped closer. “Then they forget to listen.” The figure walked the edge of the seasons. Where their foot touched snow, it melted; where it touched grass, flowers bloomed and closed again. “Spring waits. But winter lingers. They war over time, and time is tired.” The figure looked at her with eyes like thawing ice. “The world must shift. Something must give.” Liora’s breath caught. “What must be done?” The figure offered a hand. “What are you willing to give?” Liora looked down. Her lantern flickered. It had belonged to her mother, who once told her stories of this forest. Stories others had called myth. “I can give this,” she whispered. “It has guided me through every dark I’ve known.” The figure took it gently. “A light given freely carries great weight.” The flame glowed brighter, leaping higher until the lantern shimmered with both fire and flower. Then the figure raised it high. In an instant, the forest breathed again. Snow slid from the trees like shedding skin. Buds opened, trembled, then stretched. The sky broke into soft gold. A robin sang. Spring had arrived—not with thunder or cry, but with quiet understanding. The figure lowered the lantern. “You have heard the Whispering,” they said. “Few do. Fewer still respond.” “Will I remember this?” Liora asked. The figure smiled. “Not in words. But in the warmth of soil beneath your hands. In the scent of the first rain. In the way grief softens and becomes growth.” They stepped back. The line between frost and bloom blurred, then vanished. And Liora stood alone, lanternless, yet filled with light. When she returned to the village, the old folk only nodded. They saw the petals in her hair, the thaw in her eyes. The children followed her, asking about the woods, about magic. But she did not speak of it. Not fully. Instead, she taught them when to plant, when to wait. She sang the songs of seeds and frost. She left lanterns at the forest’s edge on the cusp of each spring. And every year, Elowen bloomed a little brighter. Not because of her, she would say. But because someone listened. Author’s Note: Sometimes, the most powerful changes come not from battle, but from balance. Whispers Between Frost and Bloom is a story of transition—not just of seasons, but of heart. As we move through the pauses in life, may we all learn to listen between the silences.
By Masih Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction