Short Story
The Last Rain in Bulawayo. AI-Generated.
Bulawayo, 1998 — a city of sunburned streets and restless winds, where the scent of dust and diesel hung heavy in the air. In the township of Mzilikazi, two brothers grew up chasing the same dream but running from different ghosts.
By shakir hamid12 months ago in Fiction
The Lantern Beyond the Dust
The old village slept beneath a veil of dust and silence. Houses made of clay stood shoulder to shoulder, breathing out the weight of years. The scent of earth and forgotten dreams floated in the still air. Every evening, as the sun sank behind the hills and shadows stretched across the narrow road, a single lantern came alive — hanging by the door of a small, crumbling house. That light belonged to Rahim, an old shoemaker who had long ago stopped fixing shoes and started fixing hearts. The villagers called him “Lantern Baba.” To the children, he was a mystery — a man who never let his lantern die, no matter how harsh the wind or how heavy the rain. Some said he was waiting for someone. Others believed he was just afraid of the dark. But Rahim knew why. That small flame was the last piece of promise he had left. One cold night, a stranger walked into the village. He was young but carried the posture of someone who had wrestled with life for far too long. Dust clung to his boots and sadness to his eyes. His name was Riaz Hamkar — a traveler who had not only lost his way but also the reason to keep walking. He had left the city behind, chasing silence. His dreams had been torn apart by disappointment, his ambitions drowned in the noise of survival. He had once believed he could light his own path — but life, with its cruel humor, had blown out every candle. When he saw the glow of Rahim’s lantern from a distance, something stirred inside him. It wasn’t hope, not yet — just curiosity. Why would someone keep a light burning in such emptiness? He knocked on the door. The old man opened it slowly, his face half-lit, half-shadowed. “Looking for a place to rest, son?” Rahim asked. Riaz nodded. Inside, the small room smelled of oil, leather, and quiet patience. Broken shoes were piled in one corner. On the wall, a faded photograph showed a young boy standing beside a proud father holding the same lantern that now burned on the table. “Your son?” Riaz asked softly. Rahim’s wrinkled lips curved into a painful smile. “Yes. He left for the city years ago. Said he wanted to become someone important. I told him I’d keep the light on, just in case he ever lost his way home.” The two men sat in silence. The wind whispered through the cracks in the walls, like the voice of memory itself. Rahim polished the lantern’s glass again and again, even though it was already clean. “Why do you keep it burning every night?” Riaz finally asked. Rahim looked up, his eyes glimmering like the flame itself. “Because sometimes, people need to see that even a small light can survive the storm.” Riaz didn’t reply. But that night, he couldn’t take his eyes off the lantern. The flame trembled, danced, and steadied again — like a heartbeat refusing to stop. When sleep finally came, Riaz dreamed of his father — of promises unkept and paths untaken. He dreamed of his younger self, still brave enough to believe in small lights. At dawn, when the first rays of sunlight slipped through the cracks, Rahim was gone. Only the lantern remained — burning, warm, alive. Riaz stood for a long time, staring at it. He thought of all the people who lose their light and never find it again. Then, without saying a word, he picked up the lantern, held it to his chest, and stepped out into the morning air. He walked for hours, following no road in particular, only the rhythm of his heartbeat and the whisper of the flame beside him. When he reached the next village, people saw a young man walking through the mist, carrying a glowing lantern. No one knew his story, but everyone felt something inside them — a quiet pull, a reason to look beyond their own darkness. That night, for the first time in years, laughter returned to one of the village homes. A mother hummed a lullaby to her child, and the old baker decided to reopen his shop early the next morning. All because a stranger had passed by with a light that refused to die. Years passed. The story of Lantern Baba spread like the wind — changing from whispers to legend. Some said the old man still lived inside that light, guiding those who had lost their way. Others said the traveler, Riaz Hamkar, had become the new keeper of the flame, carrying it from village to village. No one really knew the truth. But one evening, in another dusty town far away, as darkness fell and the wind howled, a soft light appeared again at the edge of the road. A small child tugged at his mother’s sleeve and pointed. “Look, Mama,” he whispered. “The Lantern Baba is here.” And somewhere, beyond the dust, the light flickered — steady and alive — just like the human heart.
By Riaz Hamkar12 months ago in Fiction
When Hearts Whisper
Rain tapped softly against the window, painting silver trails on the glass. Aaliya sat quietly, fingers curled around a warm cup of tea, her eyes drifting beyond the horizon. She had once believed love was only a myth—something poets wrote of but life rarely delivered. That belief held true until she met Arman, the silent artist who taught her how loudly a heart could speak without words.
By Yaseen khan12 months ago in Fiction
WHAT EMMA SAW
Those blasted kids from around the block had vandalised the shop window. Emma arrived, as she did every day, to open up. Sunday morning, the morning after a wild Saturday night by the looks of the cans of beer littered at the entrance. She’d have to clean it all up, not now though, Emma needed to wipe bloody, red, spray paint from the windows, before her manager saw anything.
By Elizabeth Butler12 months ago in Fiction
Not On the Menu
The buffet promised happiness, but even from the sidewalk, Quentin wasn’t sure if he was hungry or just tired of himself. He stood at the door and looked up at the sign that read All You Can Eat Fulfillment. It buzzed too loud for this hour, spilling a pale light that made everything look clean in a way that felt off. The glow stuck to the glass like static. He didn’t move. The words meant something, probably, but he couldn’t feel it.
By Fatal Serendipity12 months ago in Fiction
When Hearts Remember
A soft drizzle covered the small hill town of Marwah, filling the air with petrichor—the scent of wet earth, the smell of unspoken memories. Aaliya stood by the window of her late grandmother’s cottage, holding a faded letter tied with a red ribbon. She hadn’t opened it yet. She already knew whose handwriting it was.
By Yaseen khan12 months ago in Fiction
Moonlit Fate. AI-Generated.
The air crackled, not just with the lingering scent of scorched earth and desperate magic, but with a silent, potent truth that thrummed beneath Lilith's skin. Inside her, a universe was unfolding, a universe conceived in the forbidden embrace of Silver Moon's enchantress and the Shadowfell's formidable warlord. This wasn't just a secret; it was a rebellion.
By Carolyn Patton12 months ago in Fiction
