Script

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
Bitch The Witch
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. So they come to earth on a broomstick, sit and stir up problems all day. And night! At night is when they really play. They are conning and conniving. Mysterious and magical. Beautiful and bold. A lot of the "norms", is what they call them, can't take them. They are the odd balls who can make balls appear out of thin air. Of course many will fear what they do not understand. But understanding is the last thing these "Witches", or so the Norms call them, care for because they blend in so well. They work hard and love even harder. They are one of a kind and a force to be reckoned with when attacked.
By Ahnesia Johnsonabout a year ago in Fiction
*The Whispering Library*
In the quiet corner of a forgotten town stood a library older than memory. Its stone walls were veiled in ivy, its windows perpetually misted, as though the building breathed in secrets and exhaled silence. Most people passed it without a glance. Few dared to enter. But Amina did.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
The Chair by the Window. AI-Generated.
Mara had been in the apartment for three days before she noticed the chair. It wasn’t an extraordinary chair—wooden, low-backed, scuffed on the legs—but it sat in the far corner by the window as though it had been put there deliberately. The cushions were sun-faded on one side, as if someone had sat there for years, facing the street.
By Mohammedseid Ahmedinabout a year ago in Fiction
*The Clockmaker's Promise*
In a quiet town nestled between rolling hills and a slow-moving river, there stood a small shop with a crooked sign that read “Timeless Hands.” Inside, the air was warm and still, filled with the soft, steady rhythm of ticking clocks. Wall clocks, pocket watches, mantel clocks—they all chimed and clicked in quiet harmony, each keeping time in its own way.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
Operation Lassi Spill
It was one of those golden Punjabi afternoons—the kind where the sun hangs warm in the sky, the air smells of cardamom and fresh roti, and every lane in the village hums with celebration. A wedding was in full swing, the biggest the village had seen in years. Banners fluttered above the courtyard, children darted between guests with sticky fingers, and uncles danced with the kind of energy that defied their age.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
*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
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