Series
Wings of Kindness
Once upon a time, in a lush green forest nestled between tall mountains and flowing rivers, there lived a tiny ant named Aroo. Aroo was small even by ant standards, but his heart was full of curiosity and kindness. He spent his days collecting food, exploring tree roots, and greeting all the creatures he met along the way.
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Fiction
The Royal Legacy of King Barkley
Once upon a time, in a faraway realm hidden beyond icy mountains and ancient forests, there reigned a noble king unlike any the world had seen. His name was King Barkley, a Golden Retriever of majestic stature and unmatched wisdom. With his gleaming golden coat, kind eyes, and a crown that shimmered in the sunlight, King Barkley ruled the Canine Kingdom of Arvendale, a land where dogs of all breeds lived in peace, honor, and unity.
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Fiction
He Was My Brother’s Shadow
My brother came into the world screaming, like he already knew he had something to prove. They named him Adam—strong, simple, biblical. He had this magnetic energy, the kind that made kindergarten teachers forget other kids existed. People used to say, “You must be so proud of him,” and I’d nod, even when I wasn’t sure if I existed in the same sentence.
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Notification
The Last Notification It was 11:11 PM when Ethan’s phone buzzed. Normally, he wouldn’t have even looked—he got hundreds of notifications a day. Likes, comments, updates, news flashes, random pings from apps he never remembered downloading.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
I Found a Hidden Room in My Grandfather’s House and--- a Secret
I never imagined that a routine visit to my grandfather’s house would change the way I saw my family forever. Grandfather’s house sat on a quiet street lined with oak trees that whispered in the breeze. It was a two-story structure that looked ordinary from the outside, but inside it was a time capsule. Nothing had changed—the faded wallpaper, the smell of old books and pipe smoke, or the grandfather clock that had stopped ticking but still stood proudly in the hallway.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
I Married a Ghost. Last Night, He Served Me Divorce Papers. AI-Generated.
The divorce papers appeared at 3:07 AM. One moment: empty pillow. Next moment: parchment thick as graveyard soil, smelling of bergamot and decay. Ink the color of dried blood spelled out *Silas Alistair Thorne v. Elara June Finch*. A wax seal pulsed with cold blue light. I didn’t scream. After ten years married to a Victorian-era industrialist’s ghost, you learn panic is pointless. Especially when your undead husband’s idea of foreplay is reciting Edgar Allan Poe during your showers. *How Do You Meet a Ghost? Badly. It started with a Ouija board at a frat party—cliché, I know. We’d aimed for "spooky fun." We summoned Silas Thorne, dead since 1889 (typhoid fever, complicated by poor stock investments). He haunted my apartment for months: freezing my wine, rearranging my books into cryptic symbols, whispering investment tips that *actually* worked. He was charming. For a corpse. He’d materialize as a flicker of top-hatted shadow, quoting Keats while I burned toast. When my fiancé left me ("You’re emotionally cheating… *with a ghost?*"), Silas manifested fully for the first time—a translucent gentleman in waistcoat and cravat, offering a spectral handkerchief. "Modern men lack fortitude," he’d sniffed. "Shall I haunt his Tesla?" *The Chapel of Lingering Vows* We married at a paranormal chapel in New Orleans. Our vows: *"Beyond breath, beyond bone, ‘Til entropy claims the last stone."* Our prenup was… unusual: **§3.2* *Corporeal Spouse (Elara) retains all tangible assets (real estate, chocolate, living pets).* **§5.7: *Ectoplasmic Spouse (Silas) reserves right to manifest during showers/baths for "aural companionship."* **Addendum B:** *Infidelity defined as "consorting with rival spirits (e.g., Gertrude the flapper ghost, who sings show tunes off-key in the parlor on Wednesdays)."* *The Trouble with Immortal Husbands* Immortality makes ghosts *particular*. Silas despised: - Smartphones ("Soulless pocket-spies!") - Scented candles ("Cloying bourgeois propaganda!") - My historian boyfriend, Liam ("That beard has the audacity to touch my wife!") Liam tried. He left 1873 port wine by the fireplace. Read Dickens aloud. Silas retaliated by making Liam’s coffee taste like grave dirt. **The Last Straw: The Tesla Coil Incident** Liam installed an "ambiance enhancer" in the study—a singing Tesla coil. Silas saw it as an act of spectral war. For weeks, our brownstone became a paranormal battleground: - Lights flickering in Morse code insults (*"L-I-A-M I-S A P-E-A-S-A-N-T"*) - Antique portraits weeping black oil - My bathwater turning inexplicably… *chunky* When I unplugged the coil, Silas froze every bottle of Chardonnay in the house. "Prioritizing that *bearded transistor* over our matrimonial resonance?" His voice vibrated from the gramophone horn. "This union is a crypt, Elara." *The Phantom Plaintiff’s Grievances* His legal filing was absurd, even for the dead:
By Wondermindabout a year ago in Fiction
The Midnight Bargain: When My Brother's Voice Cracked a Decade of Silence. AI-Generated.
3:17 AM The phone’s vibration drilled into the silence like a bone saw. I fumbled blindly, squinting at the screen. The name flashing there—*Jake*—felt like a ghost punching me in the throat. Ten years. Three thousand six hundred fifty days of radio silence. And now this. 3 AM. The hour of emergencies and drunks. I almost silenced it. *Almost.* That old bitterness—thick as scar tissue—rose in my chest. The last time I’d heard his voice, he’d called me a "self-righteous parasite" before slamming the door so hard our dead mother’s photo rattled on the wall. Grief over her loss had twisted us into strangers, then enemies. We’d built walls with the bricks of her absence. But something in the *way* it rang… frantic. Relentless. A sound that bypassed my anger and hooked straight into my lizard brain. *Danger.* I swiped answer. Held my breath. *The Static and the Gasp* "E-Ellie?" His voice was shredded glass and static. Not drunk. *Terrified.* "Jake? What—" "They’re… inside the walls." A wet, ragged cough. "The bugs. Can you… *hear* them?" My blood froze. This wasn’t an apology. Wasn’t a reunion. This was a Code Red from a collapsing mind. The Unspoken War Our estrangement wasn’t simple. After Mom’s cancer won, Jake dove headfirst into conspiracy forums and cheap whiskey. I buried myself in spreadsheets and sterile relationships. We became caricatures: *The Crazy Brother. The Ice Sister.* The last fight was nuclear—him screaming about government trackers in his fillings, me hissing that he’d dishonored her memory. Truth? We were both drowning. Just in different oceans. Now, listening to him wheeze about "bioluminescent mites" chewing through his drywall, I faced the gut-punch truth: *He wasn’t calling for forgiveness.* **He was calling because I was still his emergency contact.** *Driving into the Storm* I broke every speed limit driving to his rust-belt apartment. Key still fit the lock (why did I keep it?). The smell hit first—sour milk, stale smoke, and something acrid. Ammonia? He was crouched behind a toppled bookshelf, face gaunt in the blue light of a dead laptop screen. A makeshift "weapon"—a fireplace poker wrapped in duct tape—clattered from his hand when he saw me. "Ellie?" He blinked, childlike. "The… the ventilation shafts. They’re laying eggs in—" "Shut up, Jake." My voice surprised me. Cold. Steady. *Nurse-mode activated.* "Where are your meds?" *The Diagnosis in the Debris* His lithium bottles were empty. Anti-psychotics, untouched since November. Piles of printed forum rants about "nano-parasites" covered the moldy carpet. This wasn’t just addiction. This was schizophrenia’s cruel masterpiece, painted over a decade of neglect. As I forced water into him, wiped grime from his forehead, the old rage flickered. *Why me? Why now?* Then I saw it. Taped to the fridge beneath a takeout menu: A faded Polaroid. Mom, laughing, arms around us at Coney Island. Age 12 and 14. Before the wars. *"My Keepers,"* she’d scribbled on the border. *The Bargain* Getting him committed wasn’t gentle. He fought, sobbing about "extraction teams." I signed papers with hands that didn’t feel like mine. In the sterile hospital hallway, a social worker asked, "Relationship to patient?" I opened my mouth. Closed it. The word *sister* felt foreign. Heavy. "Emergency contact," I finally said. *The Silence After the Storm
By Wondermindabout a year ago in Fiction
The Night My World Turned Upside Down
I was curled up in my favorite armchair, half‑asleep with a mug of lukewarm coffee in hand, when my phone buzzed at 2:47 a.m. The screen lit up with a name I hadn’t thought about in months, and my heart skipped. Four simple words stared back at me: “We need to talk.”
By Hamayoun Tareen about a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Basement Floor
Previously... Hira has uncovered pieces of a disturbing truth: her name tied to a psychiatric record she doesn’t remember, voicemails from her own voice, and a child claiming to be forgotten. A mysterious mirror message begged for help. Photos show her with a girl she doesn’t know. And now, in the basement of her building, an ancient wooden box and a tape revealed chilling therapy sessions she supposedly had. One message keeps repeating in different ways: “You left her behind.” The Trapdoor It started with a sound — a faint, rhythmic tapping beneath the floorboards of the basement. A sound no one else could hear. She returned to the basement that evening, armed with gloves, a flashlight, and a crowbar. She moved aside old furniture, broken filing cabinets, and a dusty mattress. And then she saw it — a square outline on the ground that didn’t match the rest of the concrete floor. She pressed her ear to the center. Silence… then, a heartbeat? She pried the corner open. A gust of cold air rushed upward — damp, earthy, and metallic. A wooden staircase led downward into darkness. Beneath the basement… there was another room. The Underground Room Hira descended carefully. Each step creaked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. The flashlight flickered. When she reached the bottom, she found herself in a stone room with no windows. The walls were covered in scratched writing. Dozens of them. Repeating again and again: "Find her. Find her. FIND HER." In the corner, a single cot with old bedsheets. Next to it, a desk, a tape recorder, and a stack of photos — of her. And the girl. A girl no older than seven. Same long black hair. Same eyes. In some photos, they were laughing. In others, crying. In one, Hira was hugging her tightly — like a mother would. Her knees went weak. “What is this?” she whispered. The Hidden File Inside the desk drawer, she found a thick folder marked "Ridge Town Psychiatric – SUBJECT H13". She opened it. Patient: Hira Saeed Case Type: Dissociative Identity Disorder Report Date: July 2015 Subject believes she has a daughter who doesn’t exist. Subject repeatedly enters altered state where she assumes “Mother” personality. Severe trauma suspected, but cause unknown. Subject claims: “My daughter is real. She lives in the place beneath the floor.” Hira dropped the folder. She was reading about herself. And yet, she remembered none of it. The Voice Returns Suddenly, the old tape recorder clicked and began to play. Mommy?" a soft voice whispered. Hira spun around, her light darting across the stone walls. Nothing. I waited here. Like you told me to." Her heart pounded. But you never came back." She backed up toward the stairs. And that’s when she saw it. A child’s drawing on the far wall. Crayon lines. Stick figures. A girl and a woman standing side by side, holding hands. Above their heads: “Me and Mama” The Rusted Door In the back of the stone room, almost camouflaged by shadows, was a small rusted metal door. It was locked. She rattled the handle. Something moved behind it. She stepped back. Then — three slow knocks from the other side. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. Followed by a muffled whisper. “Hira…” She ran. Back in the Apartment That night, she collapsed on her bed, covered in dirt and dust. Her mind spiraled. Could the reports be true? Had she suffered a breakdown years ago? Was this “child” just a mental projection — something she invented to survive? But if so… Why were there photographs? Why did she have voicemails she didn’t remember recording? Why did the camera show her standing up in her sleep and whispering things to herself? She looked in the mirror again. Her reflection blinked out of sync. Once again, words formed in the fogged glass. “She’s still down there.” The Letter from the Past Early the next morning, an envelope slid under her door. No stamp. No name. Inside: a single letter, handwritten on torn paper. > "Hira, If you’re reading this, it means the walls between you and her are collapsing. You weren’t supposed to forget. You weren’t supposed to leave. Go back before it’s too late. She still believes you’re her mother." Signed: “You.” The Flashback And then it hit her — a wave of memory so strong it knocked her to the floor. She was in a hospital room. A child was screaming. Doctors were holding her down. A voice — her own — yelling: “Give her back! She’s mine!” And then the injection. Blackness. And silence. The Final Decision Hira stood in front of the trapdoor again. If this was madness, so be it. If she was wrong — if the child never existed — she’d find out once and for all. But if she was right… Then that girl had been trapped beneath the earth, forgotten, alone, for years — waiting for someone who promised she’d return. And now… Hira was ready. She took a deep breath, opened the trapdoor again, and began her descent — flashlight in one hand, the drawing in the other. To Be Continued... Next in Part 5: "The Girl Who Never Existed" She searched for herself... and found a lie.
By Abid Ali Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
