Short Story
The Dream Architect
Elara was a Dream Architect. In a world where reality was often gray and taxing, she was a goddess of the subconscious. Clients came to her with pieces of their lives—a scent of a childhood garden, the feeling of a first kiss, the sound of a forgotten melody—and she would weave them into bespoke dreams. She didn't just replay memories; she constructed experiences. A week-long vacation on a Martian sunset beach. A conversation with a historical idol. A flight on the back of a dragon.
By Habibullah12 months ago in Fiction
The Bath
The knock at the front door came when the bath was almost ready. The calming scents from the aromatherapy beads Jessica spent way too much money on had been filling the bathroom as they lazily drifted on the currents from the faucet, bobbing under the stream to pop back up and float away as they slowly dissolved. She had been sitting on the floor in her bathrobe, head leaning on her forearm, watching them in the water. The warmth and scents making the small room calm and peaceful. Until that knock broke her revery.
By Christine De Vuono12 months ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Hid Her Light
In a small Virginia town, nestled between chalkboards and playground swings, lived a fifth grader named Naomi. She was quiet, polite, and always sat in the third row. Her teachers knew she was bright—brilliant, even. But her test scores told a different story.
By Margaret Minnicks12 months ago in Fiction
When Stars Remembered Our Names. AI-Generated.
He first saw her under a flickering streetlight. Not at a party, not through mutual friends — just one of those moments that feel like an accident until you realize the universe probably planned it that way.
By Ahmet Kıvanç Demirkıran12 months ago in Fiction
The Boy They Called 'Odd'
Eighth grade was a minefield for Jeremy. He wore mismatched socks, hummed classical music in the hallway, and carried a butterfly notebook everywhere he went. The other kids called him “Odd.” Not cruelly—just consistently. It became his name.
By Margaret Minnicks12 months ago in Fiction
God Is Bored
God got up early one morning, and immediately regretted it. Gravity, it seemed, which he hadn’t really invented, was weighing him down a bit today. He thought he should do something about the affairs of the universe, then remembered he didn’t rule the whole universe: just this miserable corner of it. He sighed and sat back down on his bed, feeling heavy.
By robert fisherman12 months ago in Fiction
Unexpected knock at the Door
The first knock was so soft Alexander almost dismissed it as the cabin settling, or a pinecone dropping from the eaves. It was 3:07 AM. He was in his armchair, a biography of a forgotten president splayed open on his chest, the fire in the hearth reduced to a bed of pulsating coals. The silence up here on the mountain was absolute, a thick blanket he’d come to both cherish and fear.
By Muhammad Anas 12 months ago in Fiction
A Dreamy Reunion
It was 9:36 PM when I heard a knock at the door. I was lounging in bed in my comfy clothes, lights off, TV on, just goofing off on my phone to wind down for the night. It's not like I was busy, but I wasn't expecting anyone either. The TV had already been on low volume, but I muted it anyway. Then I waited a moment in the silence. Instinctively, I held my breath as if doing so would make the house seem more empty. Eight seconds passed without another sound. I let go of the breath I'd been holding.
By Rebekah Conard12 months ago in Fiction
To Sweeten a Sour Soul
All three women of the house kept peeking out the curtains as a group of British soldiers approached. Watching them march up the hill was painful; they were still too far away for Anna to see them clearly, but she saw a group of three men.
By Leigh Victoria Phan, MS, MFA12 months ago in Fiction
The Last Prayer of Rahim
There’s a small village at the edge of nowhere — the kind of place where time moves slowly, and people remember everything. That’s where Rahim lived. He wasn’t always sick. Once, he was the strongest man in the village — the kind who carried bricks all day and still helped his neighbors fix their roofs before sunset. People used to call him “Bhai Rahim — the man with a heart bigger than his hands.” But life has a strange way of testing the kindest souls. A few years ago, an illness crept into Rahim’s body. At first, it was just pain — something he could hide behind his smile. Then came the swelling, the weakness, the nights of burning fever. Doctors called it incurable. Rahim just called it “Allah’s test.” His house was small — two rooms and a wooden door that always creaked. Every morning, before the sun climbed over the rooftops, he would spread his prayer mat and whisper the same words: >Ya Allah… give me patience, not comfort. Give me strength, not ease.” The neighbors would hear his voice through the thin walls. Some pitied him. Others just shook their heads and said, “He won’t live long.” But Rahim always smiled when he heard that. “I’ve already lived longer than despair,” he’d say softly. -- One cloudy afternoon, a traveler named Saeed arrived in the village. He wasn’t looking for Rahim — he was just passing through, tired and lonely, searching for something he couldn’t name. Someone at the tea stall told him about “the sick man who prays for others.” Curious, Saeed went to find him. When he reached Rahim’s home, the sight stopped him cold. Rahim was sitting on a thin mattress by the door. His body looked fragile, but his eyes — those eyes had light. He wasn’t praying for healing; he was praying for gratitude. Saeed sat quietly beside him. Neither spoke for a while. The sound of their breathing filled the silence between prayers. Finally, Rahim opened his eyes and smiled. “Brother, you look troubled,” he said softly. Saeed’s eyes were wet. “I came to see you, but now I don’t know what to say. I feel helpless.” Rahim chuckled faintly — a dry, gentle sound. “Don’t be. Pain is not always a punishment. Sometimes it’s a reminder… that we still belong to Him.” -Saeed took out a bundle of money, hands trembling. “Please, take this,” he said. “Use it for medicine, for care… for anything.” Rahim looked at it for a moment, then closed Saeed’s hand around it again. “Brother, money can fix a body, but not a heart. And my heart is fine.” Saeed couldn’t hold back his tears anymore. “What can I do then?” he asked. “Pray with me,” Rahim whispered. “That’s all I ever need.” So they sat together — two strangers who suddenly felt like brothers. Their hands lifted, voices low but full of meaning. “Ya Allah, forgive us when we forget to be grateful. Forgive us when we fear pain more than we fear losing faith. And when we suffer, let us remember — You never test without purpose.” The air grew still. Even the birds seemed to listen. Saeed could feel the weight of those words settle deep inside his chest. Rahim’s hands slowly dropped to his lap. His eyes stayed open, but something changed — a softness came over him. He whispered one last time, barely audible: “Tell the world… I wasn’t waiting for death. I was waiting to meet the One who gave me life.” And then, silence. Complete, peaceful silence. The azaan began to echo from the nearby mosque. Saeed sat there, motionless, tears falling one by one. He wasn’t crying out of pity anymore — he was crying because he’d just seen what faith truly looked like. Before leaving, he looked around the little courtyard. There was no wealth, no comfort, no sign of healing. Yet somehow, Rahim had everything Saeed had been searching for — peace. When Saeed walked back to the main road, the evening light touched the village roofs. He whispered to himself: "He healed me, even as he was dying.” And from that day on, wherever Saeed went, he carried Rahim’s prayer in his heart — a prayer that wasn’t just about pain or faith, but about finding light in the darkest corners of life. Moral / Reflection: Some people leave this world without fame or fortune, but they leave behind something far greater — a lesson that faith can turn suffering into strength, and sorrow into peace.
By Vocal Member 12 months ago in Fiction
Behold, I Stand at the Door. Honorable Mention in A Knock at the Door Challenge.
There it is again, that distinct sound of a knock at the door. I would probably find that less disconcerting if I knew where the door is. Forget who’s standing on the other side of it. There’s not one anywhere I can see. And I can see a long way in every direction.
By Randy Wayne Jellison-Knock12 months ago in Fiction
