Series
The Ace of Spades Murders-1st Part
Chapter 1: The Body in the Alley The fog rolled in from the harbor, thick and suffocating, swallowing the neon glow of Blackwood City’s streets. Detective James Callahan hated nights like this—the kind where the air clung to his skin like a second layer, where every shadow seemed to shift just beyond his vision.
By Md. Muzammal Rahman Pirabout a year ago in Fiction
Small Town USA #4
Ok, let me back up and explain why I’m so passionate about lighting off my own fireworks. And no, I don’t think every Tom, Dick, and Sally should be allowed to light their own. Let’s be honest — fireworks are dangerous. And they’re even more dangerous when they fall into the wrong hands, especially adults with alcohol. Sometimes even the “good kids” do stupid shit when left unsupervised. Especially a group of prepubescent boys growing up in a small Eastern Washington town in the late 1980s.
By Clifford Kincaidabout a year ago in Fiction
Love and Pride
It was an old street in Lahore, lined with dusty rose-colored bricks and narrow lanes that seemed to whisper stories of years gone by. In a modest house on that street lived Zimal, a beautiful, headstrong, and stubborn girl. Her greatest flaw was her pride. Since childhood, she had been taught never to bow her head before anyone — no matter how close, no matter how dear. Not far from her house lived Arham. Arham was a calm, thoughtful young man, known for his soft smile and kind heart. He had loved Zimal for as long as he could remember. Their story had begun like countless others — as childhood friends chasing kites on rooftops, sharing secrets under neem trees, laughing over stolen mangoes in summer. As they grew, so did the feelings they had for each other, changing from innocent childhood companionship into something far deeper. They never needed to say it aloud. It was there in every glance, every accidental brush of hands, every time Zimal saved a sweet for Arham or he carried her books home from college. The whole neighborhood whispered about them. It was only a matter of time before they would be married — everyone was sure of it. --- The Seeds of Pride But pride has a way of poisoning even the sweetest love. One evening, under the same old neem tree, Arham finally decided to speak. He brought a small silver ring, simple yet sincere. His hands trembled as he held it out to her. “Zimal, you know me better than anyone. I want you with me — forever. Will you marry me?” For a moment, a shy smile danced on her lips. Her heart screamed “yes,” but her mind held her back. What if people thought she was too eager? What if they thought she had no self-respect? Instead of answering, she teased, “So soon? Maybe you should prove your love a bit more. Besides, I don’t like simple rings.” Arham was startled. “It’s not about the ring, Zimal. It’s about us.” “But it is about these things too. Why hurry? Let’s wait. Let’s see how serious you are.” Hurt flickered in Arham’s eyes, but he nodded. “Alright, if that’s what you want.” --- The Growing Distance Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Zimal waited for Arham to come again with a grander proposal, perhaps something flashy, something that would satisfy her pride. Arham, on the other hand, felt humiliated. His heart broke a little every day, thinking that the girl he loved cared more for show than his sincere feelings. Their meetings became fewer. Conversations, once filled with laughter, were now edged with irritation. Neither was willing to take the first step back. Pride stood like an iron wall between them. One afternoon, Arham saw Zimal at the market. He smiled and walked toward her, hoping to mend things. But Zimal turned away, pretending to fix her dupatta, too proud to greet him first. Arham stopped in his tracks, his smile fading. If she couldn’t even acknowledge him in public, what was left? He decided then that he would no longer chase her. His love was deep, but his dignity was deeper. --- Love Lost to Ego Months later, news spread through the street that Arham’s family had finalized his engagement to a distant cousin. It was a quiet affair, arranged by elders who thought it best to help him move on. Zimal heard the news from a neighbor. Her hands trembled, the cup of tea she held slipped and shattered on the floor. That night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind echoing with “What if…?” What if she had just said yes that evening? What if she had swallowed her pride for the sake of love? But pride is a cruel companion. Even now, her heart ached to run to Arham, to tell him how deeply she loved him — yet her stubbornness chained her tongue. Arham, too, spent countless sleepless nights. His heart still longed for Zimal, but his wounds were too raw, his humiliation too fresh. Both of them loved fiercely, yet neither could humble themselves enough to save that love. --- The Silent End Years passed. Zimal remained unmarried, living with memories of laughter under neem trees and hands brushing by accident. Often she stood by her window, watching children fly kites in the street below, wondering how her life might have been if she had simply listened to her heart. Arham had a family of his own now, a wife who cared for him and children who laughed in his lap. Yet every time he passed that neem tree, something deep inside him twisted with an old, unhealed ache. Thus ended a love that could have been beautiful — ruined not by time, not by fate, but by two hearts too proud to bend for each other.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Small Town USA #22
Eddy and I trailed slowly behind Jesse as we approached the militant’s compound of a house on the corner of Lefevre and Idaho Street. We moved through the alley behind my parents’ house, guiding ourselves through the shadows, toward our unsuspecting victim of the infamous “Knock and Run.”
By Clifford Kincaidabout a year ago in Fiction
❤rian’s Night: When the Dark Almost Won❤
It was late at night. The wind whispered through the cracked window of a small room, lit only by a dying bulb. Arian sat on the edge of his bed, his hands gripping his face, his shoulders trembling — not from cold, but from the weight of everything he had tried to carry for too long.
By Abdulmusawerabout a year ago in Fiction
Who's the real monster?
It started off as a normal Friday the 13th. Me and my folks were doing a marathon for the day's name sake just for fun. When the opening for the first movie began my mom touched her very pregnant belly before saying, "Something is wrong." Dad heard the fear in her voice then ran to grab the keys for the pickup. I froze in place just looking at her. Never in my life had I seen mom look so scared. Hearing dad yell over his shoulder, "Get the bag!" On instinct I grabbed the go bag my mom had been filling with stuff all day. From what I knew it was called nesting. It's what expecting mothers do when the baby is about to be born.
By Lucy Torralbaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Upper Hand
It was really pissing me off, if I'm completely honest, how he sloped about the place with that little smirk on his face. If he'd been arrested (as he bloody well should have been) he'd have been locked up wouldn't he? At least for a while, surely. I would have had the whole flat to myself. That would have felt good. The tantalising opportunity to... oh I don't know. Go through his stuff or something.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Dark Order 1.18: The Golem Market Pt.3
The moon has retreated beneath the horizon. The Garden District has been laid to ruin. The rain is heavy, yet it does not affect the multitude of fires around the city. The elves stand amongst the aftermath of a deadly battle against the SSA. Eldyn has the unconscious Maggie draped over his shoulder. "We should leave her." His sister spats.
By Donnie Barlowabout a year ago in Fiction
The Roar and the Whisper
The Roar That Ruled "eep in the heart of the forest where sunlight cracked through tangled canopies and shadows held secrets, ruled the mighty lion, Ragnar. His mane was like flame, his roar like thunder, and no creature dared question his rule. He hunted when he pleased, roamed where he chose, and took what he wanted. The law of the wild was simple: “The strong survive, and the weak obey.” And no creature was considered weaker than the lambs of the northern meadow. Their soft bleats and peaceful grazing made them easy prey. They never ran far. They never fought back. And they always feared Ragnar. But the lion was growing tired. No hunt thrilled him anymore. No roar echoed long enough. A gnawing emptiness followed every victory, though he didn’t know why. The Lamb Who Didn't Run One overcast morning, Ragnar padded through the forest and came upon a stream near the meadow. There, alone and humming a strange little tune, stood a lamb—Lyra—her snow-white wool glowing against the gray sky. She was far from her flock, vulnerable, unaware. Or so Ragnar thought. He stepped forward, ready to pounce, but Lyra didn’t flinch. She looked up, locking eyes with the predator of her kind. "You’re the lion they all whisper about," she said. Her voice was calm. Almost... curious. Ragnar paused mid-step. No creature had ever spoken to him without trembling. "You should run," he growled. "I know," she replied. "But I won’t." "Why not?" Lyra smiled faintly. "Because I don’t believe you want to eat me. Not today. A Strange Curiosity Instead of devouring her, Ragnar sat down. For the next hour, they talked. Or rather—she talked, and he listened. She told him about the wind and how it carried the scent of wildflowers from the southern hills. She told him about a mother bird building her nest in a crooked tree. She even sang him a lullaby her grandmother used to hum during storms. When the sky darkened, Ragnar rose. “You’re strange for a lamb.” "And you’re quiet for a lion," Lyra said, unbothered. He left without a word, but that night, Ragnar didn’t sleep. He kept hearing her voice—soft and steady like a whisper brushing against thunde- Return to the Meadow The next day, Ragnar returned. And the next. And the next. They never talked about fear. Or death. Or what might happen if one day his hunger outweighed his curiosity. They spoke of stories instead. The myths of the forest. The colors of the moon. The dreams Lyra sometimes had where lions and lambs danced together without fear. “You’re ridiculous,” Ragnar said once, but he found himself wondering—what would that world look like The Challenge But the jungle noticed. And the pride grew restless. “You’ve gone soft,” snarled Drax, Ragnar’s younger rival. “You sit with prey while your strength withers.” “I’m still king,” Ragnar growled. “Then prove it. Hunt her. Bring her back as your prize.” Ragnar said nothing. But inside, something cracked. That night, he stood at the edge of the meadow. Lyra was waiting. She always waited. But this time, he didn’t sit. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time—as a lamb, as prey, as the weakness he had once vowed to destroy. "Is today the day you eat me?" she asked gently. "I might have to." Lyra nodded. “Then at least let me tell you one more story.” He listened. It was a story about a lion and a lamb who were born into war but dreamed of peace. Who were told they could never be friends but still shared shade under the same tree. A story that never had an ending—because no one dared imagine one. “You can write it,” Lyra said. “You’re the lion. You decide how the story ends.” The Roar That Changed Everything The next morning, Ragnar returned to the pride. He roared—not a roar of dominance or hunger, but something new. A roar that echoed with choice, not instinct. “I will not hunt the lamb,” he declared. “Nor any creature who offers no harm.” The pride erupted. "You’ve betrayed your nature!" Drax roared. “No,” Ragnar said. “I’ve rewritten it.” A battle followed. Fierce, brutal, primal. But in the end, Ragnar stood over Drax, bloodied but unbowed. “This is our law now: strength with mercy, power with restraint.” Some lions left. Others stayed. But the jungle heard. And the whisper began to spread. A New Meadow Months passed. The forest changed. Predators and prey still lived by instinct, but not by fear. A fragile truce was born—not perfect, not without setbacks—but real. And sometimes, in the quietest part of the meadow, Ragnar would sit beside Lyra, listening to her stories as the sun dipped low. “Do you miss being feared?” she asked once. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I’ve found something better.” “What’s that?” He smiled. “Peace.” The Final Story Years later, when Lyra grew old and her steps slowed, she asked Ragnar for one last favor. “Tell the story,” she whispered. “Even when I’m gone. Tell it like it mattered.” Ragnar, now grayed and gentler, nodded. And he did. He told the cubs and the calves, the foxes and the fawns. He told them of a time when the jungle was ruled by fear, and how a lamb changed a lion with nothing but her voice. He ended each tale the same way: > “Strength isn’t in how loud you roar, But in how quietly you can listen.”
By Arshad khanabout a year ago in Fiction
