Short Story
Cellar Of Dreams
Introduction This tale was first inspired by the Volkov image, and as I was putting this together, I had put a Silencers album on the player, and the absolutely gorgeous "Cellar Of Dreams" came on, and I knew it was a perfect accompaniment for my story.
By Mike Singleton đź’ś Mikeydred 11 months ago in Fiction
The Last Catalog
The Lennox Mansion Library was a mausoleum for books, and Elara was its reluctant caretaker. She was the last archivist before the wrecking ball turned two centuries of knowledge into dust. The city council had sold the land, deeming the building a rotting hazard. To Elara, each crumbling leather spine was a tragedy.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
The Last Guardian of Lumaria: A Tale of Magic, Shadows, and Destiny
In a land where twin suns bathed the sky in gold and silver, and rivers whispered secrets of ancient times, Lumaria stood as the last kingdom untouched by darkness. Legends spoke of a Guardian, chosen once every century, who could control the threads of fate itself. Few believed the tales, until shadows began creeping across the land, swallowing villages and silencing rivers.
By Zeenat Chauhan11 months ago in Fiction
Purple Gaze
I'm slipping into this void and I can't seem to hold myself up. There is slow music playing and white clouds swirling around me. My mouth feels itself forming the words as I speak, and for once, I'm starting to understand. As my lungs pierce through the layers of sheets, I let out a breath.
By Ofentse🌸11 months ago in Fiction
The Boy Who Collected Sunsets
Ayan was a twelve-year-old boy who lived in a small seaside town. His home was a tiny house on top of a hill, painted light blue by his father many years ago. From his bedroom window, Ayan could see the ocean stretching far and wide, the waves rolling in like whispers from another world. Ayan had a strange habit, one that made the grown-ups smile and the children laugh. He collected sunsets. Of course, no one could actually collect a sunset. You couldn’t put it in a box or keep it in your pocket. But that didn’t stop Ayan. Every evening, he would run to the top of the hill with a small glass jar, hold it high in the air, and wait for the sun to touch the ocean. When the sky filled with colors—orange, gold, pink, sometimes purple—he would shut the lid of the jar with a loud click. “I caught today’s sunset!” he would say proudly. His father would laugh. “And what will you do with all these sunsets, my boy?” “I will save them,” Ayan answered. “One day I’ll need them.” Ayan didn’t know why he felt this way, but he believed it with all his heart. He kept the jars on a wooden shelf in his room. Each jar had a small label with a date written in his neat handwriting. The jars looked normal—just ordinary empty jars—but Ayan knew they were filled with something magical. When he held one in his hands, he felt warm, like the sun was smiling at him from inside the glass. Life was simple until the winter his father lost his job at the harbor. The fishing boats stopped coming because the waters had become too dangerous. Storms were stronger now, winds colder, waves taller. Many families left the town, searching for work in faraway cities. Ayan could see worry growing in his father’s eyes, like dark clouds waiting to rain. Their home started feeling colder, even when the heater was on. Their fridge was often half-empty. Ayan’s father tried to stay strong, but some nights Ayan could hear him sigh heavily. One evening, after a long day of searching for work, his father sat at the table staring at a stack of unpaid bills. His hands were shaking. Ayan quietly walked to his room and took one of the jars from the shelf. It was labeled “June 18: The Warm Sunset”. He remembered that day clearly—the sky had been bright like a glowing fire. He walked back to his father and placed the jar gently on the table. “This is for you,” Ayan whispered. His father looked confused. “Ayan… it’s just a jar.” “No,” the boy said softly. “It’s a good day. You can open it.” His father wanted to smile, but he was too tired. Still, he opened the jar. Nothing came out. No burst of light. No warm breeze. Just silence. But Ayan’s father suddenly felt something strange—something soft inside his chest. It wasn’t warmth exactly, but the memory of warmth. He could almost see the bright orange sky from that summer day. For a moment, he remembered what hope felt like. He touched Ayan’s hair gently. “Thank you,” he said in a voice that sounded a little stronger. From that day, whenever the worry became too much, Ayan gave his father another jar. Each one reminded him of a day when things were better. Slowly, his father began to stand straighter, walk with more confidence, and search for work with real determination. But the storms kept growing worse. One night a giant wave hit the shore and destroyed several fishing buildings. The town felt broken, and the people feared the sea. Ayan kept collecting sunsets anyway. One evening, while Ayan was running toward the hill, he saw a group of townspeople watching the sky with sad faces. The sunset was especially beautiful that day—the clouds glowing gold like they were dipped in honey. But no one seemed to notice. Ayan lifted his jar toward the sky, and one of the old fishermen laughed bitterly. “What’s the point, boy? The world is changing. Sunsets won’t help us.” Ayan didn’t reply. He just looked at his jar, then at the people, then at the glowing horizon. He took a deep breath and walked toward them. “You can have this one,” he said softly. The old fisherman frowned. “Why give it to me?” “Because sometimes we forget that beautiful things still happen. Maybe this will help you remember.” The old man hesitated, then opened the jar. Nothing happened—yet something changed. The old fisherman’s face softened. His shoulders relaxed. His eyes brightened just a little, as if the colors of the sunset had settled into his heart. The other townspeople stared. Then one by one, they asked Ayan for a jar. In the weeks that followed, the townspeople felt hopeful again. They began rebuilding the broken harbor. They helped each other repair houses, plant small gardens, and clean the beach. Ayan’s father found work helping fishermen restore their boats. The town slowly came back to life. On a cool spring evening, Ayan stood on top of the hill with his last empty jar. The sky was glowing in shades of gold and soft purple. He smiled, lifted the jar, and whispered: “This one… is for me.” He clicked the lid shut—catching not the sunset itself, but the memory of a world where hope can return from even the smallest glass jar. And sometimes, that is enough.
By Hazrat Bilal11 months ago in Fiction
The Uppermost Chamber. Runner-Up in The Forgotten Room Challenge.
The house on Ashford Lane had belonged to my uncle for thirty-seven years before his death, and in all that time so the servants say he had never once ascended to the uppermost chamber. Not once in all those long decades had he permitted his foot to fall upon the narrow staircase that wound its serpentine way to that sealed door. When I inherited the estate in the autumn of 1847, I thought little of this peculiarity. My uncle had been an eccentric man, prone to strange habits and stranger silences. That he should choose to abandon an entire room of his own house seemed merely another manifestation of his melancholic temperament.
By Tim Carmichael11 months ago in Fiction
THE COMMUNITY
“I said I didn’t break the TV, Awura did!” I screamed, tears streaming down my cheeks. “You are the eldest! You will take responsibility for any wrongdoing in this household,” he retorted angrily. He ordered me to go to my room and think about what I had done wrong – not preventing my brother from destroying the brand-new TV he had bought last month.
By Michelle Ewenam Akakpo11 months ago in Fiction
The Status Quo
Jason picked up his phone and sighed when he saw Mom on the front. His mother had been calling for the last couple of days and he’d dodged her calls, not wanting to talk to her about quitting his job. Knowing that she’d keep calling if he didn’t answer, he finally picked up as she started to leave a message. “Hey, Mom.”
By Reb Kreyling11 months ago in Fiction
The Maple Key
It began with a perfect day. The kind of autumn day that exists mostly in memory: the air was crisp, the sun was a gentle gold, and the maple trees in the park were a blazing cathedral of scarlet and orange. For Leo, a man whose life had become a grey blur of commutes and deadlines, it was a glimpse of heaven. As he sat on his favorite bench, a single, perfect, crimson maple key spiraled down and landed in his palm. He felt a jolt, a strange, static charge, and then… the world dissolved.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
The Postcard Man
The Postcard Man When a lonely postman receives a letter no living soul should have written… Harold Linton had spent thirty-four years delivering other people’s words birthday wishes, overdue bills, postcards from places he had never seen. But since his wife, Eleanor, passed away two winters ago, the world had grown unbearably silent. His small cottage felt like a hallway that no longer led anywhere. Even the radio, once Eleanor’s constant companion, crackled now with an emptiness he couldn’t stand.
By Farooq Hashmi11 months ago in Fiction
