Sci Fi

Behind the Locked Door
Author: Nadeem Shah The door had been there my whole life. At the end of the upstairs hallway, just past the faded family photographs and the creaky floorboard, it stood — tall, heavy, and always locked.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
Moon Over the Ruined Castle
Of course it’s overrated. You knew it would be before you paid the outrageous charter fee, travelled almost a thousand parsecs, endured the too-pious passengers aboard, and stood before the worn and crumbling fortress of stone that pilgrims claimed began it all.
By majokiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Signal
The hum of the ship was the only sound in the darkness. Captain Elara Voss floated in the command room, her eyes fixed on the holographic map of the Andromeda sector. Stars flickered like distant memories, each one a silent witness to her solitude.
By Henry_ Fagottabout a year ago in Fiction
God Among the Codes
Religion was never something I consciously chose. I was born in a country where Catholicism was the default. My parents were Catholic, I attended a Catholic school, and at home God was spoken of almost automatically—like grace before meals or old family traditions. It was simply part of the air I breathed.
By Pedro Miguelabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Field
In a quiet village cradled between gentle hills and a winding river, there lived an old farmer named Karim. His back was bent from years of tending the earth, his hands rough and cracked like the dry soil after summer. But his eyes—deep and calm—still held a quiet fire.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
The Photo I Found in My Attic Wasn’t Supposed to Exist
I was cleaning out the attic last weekend, something I’d been putting off for years. The summer heat made the air up there heavy and still, and the dust clung to my skin as I pushed aside old boxes. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just trying to make space.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Fiction
A Stranger in Every Photograph
A Stranger in Every Photograph I found the photo album on a rainy Sunday afternoon, tucked behind boxes in the attic of my late grandmother’s house. Its leather cover was cracked and worn, the pages yellowed, and the smell of old paper and faint perfume clung to it like a ghost.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day the Colors Fled
The Day the Colors Fled It started quietly, as if the city had taken a deep breath and let all color escape. I woke to gray skies and streets stripped of vibrancy. My walls, my clothes, the garden outside—everything was a shade of ash, steel, and stone. Even the sunlight seemed pallid, like paper left too long in the sun. I rubbed my eyes, convinced it was a trick of sleep. But the world outside my window confirmed my fear.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Black Days
At first, no one noticed. The sun still rose, but it felt… thinner, as though someone had turned down the brightness. A pale gold at dawn, it never quite made it to white at noon. People blamed the season, or pollution, or their own tired eyes. I did too—until the day it didn’t rise at all.
By Masih Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Café That Served Emotions
The Café That Served Emotions The café wasn’t on any map. Not in guidebooks, not on GPS, not even on the neon-lit streets of downtown. You stumbled upon it when you weren’t looking, through a narrow alley framed by ivy and flickering lanterns. The sign read simply: “Café Émotion”, its letters curling like smoke.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Letters to the Future Me
Letters to the Future Me It started on a Tuesday. I was pouring cereal at my tiny kitchen table when I noticed the envelope lying beside my bowl. Brown paper, neatly folded, with my name written in cursive I didn’t recognize. I opened it with cautious curiosity.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Astronaut Who Broke Down on Mars
No one ever talks about the silence. Not the kind you find in a library, or a late-night street, or a quiet bedroom. This was heavier—like the air itself was gone, and all that was left was the sound of my own blood moving in my ears.
By Emad Iqbalabout a year ago in Fiction