Short Story

Reading While Lost
I slowly meander down the hall, the music trailing behind me, like my fingers along the wall. I round a corner, and the music becomes more distant. Along this hall is a double door, one of them slightly ajar. Curious, I look through the crack. I see a sliver of shelves of books. This must be the library. I gently push the door further open. Seeing the room empty, I step in, shutting the door behind me, practically muting the music.
By Katarzyna Crevanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mischievous Lesson of Mahnoor
The Mischievous Lesson of Mahnoor BY: Ubaid Rubina Naz’s daughter, Mahnoor, was a bright, hardworking, and much-loved little girl. She was in the fourth grade and the apple of her parents’ eyes. Her teachers admired her intelligence, and her parents always praised her for being sharp and active. But along with her intelligence, Mahnoor also had another trait: she was extremely mischievous. Playing tricks on her classmates and teasing her friends seemed to be her favorite pastime. One ordinary day at school, during the lunch break, Mahnoor thought of a new prank. Her classmate Sania had just placed her lunchbox on the desk and gone outside to wash her hands. Quickly, Mahnoor snatched the lunchbox and hid it behind a pile of books. When Sania returned, she looked around in confusion. She opened her bag, checked under the desk, and even asked her friends if they had seen her lunchbox. No one had any idea, and poor Sania grew restless. After several minutes of searching, Sania finally gave up and sat sadly on her chair. Meanwhile, Mahnoor sat in a corner giggling, enjoying Sania’s helplessness. For her, it was only harmless fun. Near the end of the school day, when Sania stepped out for a moment, Mahnoor quietly slipped the lunchbox back into her bag. Sania never knew what had actually happened, but Mahnoor had thoroughly enjoyed her little mischief. The next day was Sunday, a day children always look forward to. Like other kids in the neighborhood, Mahnoor spent the whole day playing outdoor games with her friends. She laughed, she joked, and yes—she continued her playful pranks. By evening, it was time for a different routine. Every evening, a group of girls from the neighborhood came to Mahnoor’s house for tuition. Her mother, a gentle and kind woman, helped them with their studies. Normally, the girls had a holiday on Sundays, but this particular week was different. Their class teacher, Miss Sadaf, had announced a calligraphy competition on Monday. The girls wanted to prepare well, so they gathered at Mahnoor’s home. Under her mother’s supervision, they practiced writing neatly in their notebooks. One by one, they completed their assignments. At the end, on Mahnoor’s mother’s request, one girl collected all the notebooks and placed them in front of her. She carefully checked the handwriting of each girl, praising their efforts. Soon after, she went into the kitchen for some work, leaving the pile of notebooks on the table. This was when Mahnoor’s mischief got the better of her. With everyone engaged in chatter, she quietly picked up one red-covered notebook and slipped it into the cupboard. She thought it belonged to her classmate Ghazala, and in her playful spirit, she wanted to tease her a little. Satisfied with her trick, she rejoined the others, laughing and playing as if nothing had happened. The next morning, Mahnoor hurried to school but didn’t bother to check her schoolbag properly. She assumed everything was in place. During the first period, Miss Sadaf asked all the students to present their notebooks for the calligraphy competition. Excited whispers filled the classroom as one by one the girls stepped forward. When Mahnoor’s turn came, she confidently opened her bag and began searching. To her horror, her notebook was missing. She searched frantically, turning her bag upside down, checking every pocket, but it was nowhere to be found. Miss Sadaf frowned. “Mahnoor, where is your work?” she asked sternly. Mahnoor stammered, unable to explain. The teacher scolded her in front of the class, reminding her that she had expected better from such a bright student. Embarrassed and ashamed, Mahnoor sat quietly in her seat. Then came Ghazala’s turn. She opened her bag and produced her notebook. Miss Sadaf’s eyes lit up as she examined the handwriting. “Excellent work, Ghazala!” she declared. “Your writing is neat, clear, and beautiful. You deserve the prize.” The class clapped for Ghazala, while Mahnoor sat in silence. Only then did she realize the terrible mistake she had made. The notebook she had hidden in the cupboard at home was not Ghazala’s at all—it was her own. Both she and Ghazala had red covers on their notebooks, and she had confused them. By trying to trick her friend, she had only harmed herself. For the first time, Mahnoor was left behind, missing out on recognition she could have easily earned. The weight of disappointment sat heavily on her heart. That afternoon, Mahnoor returned home feeling miserable. She refused to eat lunch, pushing her plate away. Concerned, her mother asked, “What is the matter, my dear? Why do you look so upset?” Tears welled up in Mahnoor’s eyes as she told her mother the entire story—how she had hidden what she thought was Ghazala’s notebook, how it turned out to be her own, and how she had lost the chance to win. Her mother listened patiently. Then she placed a gentle hand on Mahnoor’s head and said softly: “My child, do you see now why I always tell you not to play such tricks? Making others suffer may seem fun for a moment, but in the end, it only brings harm. Every mistake has its consequence. Allah does not like those who hurt others. We should never cause anyone pain, not even as a joke.” Hearing these words, Mahnoor broke into sobs. She felt ashamed of her actions. For the first time, she realized how her mischief could hurt not only her friends but also herself. With sincerity, she promised her mother that she would never again play tricks that caused anyone distress. From that day onward, Mahnoor changed. She still laughed, played, and enjoyed life, but she no longer tried to hurt others for fun. She had learned her lesson—the lesson that true joy comes not from troubling others, but from kindness, honesty, and compassion. And dear friends, let us also remember this: a joke that causes pain is never worth it. We must avoid any action that hurts others, for Allah loves those who spread happiness, not sorrow.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Fiction
The Sparrow Who Forgot Her Wings
The Little Sparrow and Her Forgotten Wings BY: Ubaid She had been flying for quite a while, fluttering endlessly across the open sky. Her wings were aching, heavy with exhaustion, and her stomach grumbled with hunger. The little sparrow longed for a safe haven where she could rest and find some food. At last, after circling for what felt like hours, she spotted a house with a spacious courtyard. Down below, a small girl was scattering grain, and tiny chicks were hopping about, pecking eagerly at the scattered kernels. The sight filled the sparrow with relief. She darted down swiftly, landing in the courtyard and joining the feast of grain. But the moment didn’t last long. Among the chicks, the mother hen suddenly noticed the unfamiliar visitor. Her sharp eyes narrowed, and her feathers bristled. She moved closer, staring at the sparrow with the kind of protective anger only a mother possesses. The sparrow could sense danger radiating from the hen’s gaze. Her tiny heart began to pound. Just as she prepared to leap away, another predator appeared—silently, slyly. A cat crept into the courtyard. Now both the hen and the cat had their eyes fixed on the sparrow, as though she were some rare prize to be claimed. Fear surged through her fragile body. She knew she was trapped. Before she could even react, yet another threat burst onto the scene. A dog, large and fierce, came bounding in, barking thunderously. His sharp growls seemed to declare to the hen and the cat: “This new guest belongs to me!” The sparrow froze. Her tiny wings trembled. She felt utterly defenseless against this brutal army of enemies. The dog lunged closer, eyes blazing. The sparrow had only seconds to save herself. With desperate energy, she flapped and hopped toward the only possible refuge—the broken window on the wall. She managed to perch on its edge just as the dog snapped at the empty air behind her. There, inside the cracked frame of the window, she found a narrow corner to hide. Her whole body quivered. Her face seemed drained of color, and fear gripped her like iron chains. She thought to herself, “If this window had not been here, I would already be in that monster’s stomach.” As the night fell, her fear only deepened. Darkness wrapped the courtyard, and the predators still lingered. The sparrow tucked herself into the corner, whispering prayers to her Creator, begging for protection. Her hunger gnawed at her insides, but greater than hunger was the crushing weight of despair. Her thoughts grew bitter. “Why was I born a sparrow? If only I had been created as a human being, no one would hunt me down. No one would try to swallow me whole. Humans live freely, without the constant fear of being someone’s meal. They enjoy peace and comfort. But I… I spend my days fleeing from claws and teeth.” The night dragged on, cruel and endless. The sparrow remained awake, trembling, thirsty, and weak, cursing her fate again and again. The courtyard echoed with silence, broken only by the faint growls of the dog waiting below. At long last, the dawn arrived. Pale sunlight crept into the sky. The sparrow cautiously peeked out from the window. To her relief, there were no predators left—no cat, no hen, no dog. She let out a shaky breath. For the first time since yesterday, her heart felt a glimmer of hope. But just then, the little girl appeared again. She came close to the window and noticed the sparrow crouched inside. To the child, the bird looked nearly lifeless—her wings drooping, her body fragile, her spirit drained. Curious, the girl reached out her finger and gently touched the bird. The sparrow’s heart sank in dread. “What will she do to me? Will she capture me, cage me, or hurt me?” She braced for the worst. Instead, the girl bent close and whispered softly, “Oh dear… it looks like this little sparrow doesn’t have any wings.” The words struck the sparrow like a thunderclap. One word echoed in her mind, louder than the rest: wings. She inhaled deeply, as if life itself had been poured back into her. Slowly, almost instinctively, she stretched her tiny wings. They quivered at first, then fluttered with growing strength. She had been so lost in fear and despair that she had forgotten the greatest gift God had given her—her ability to fly. With renewed energy, she spread her wings wide and soared upward. Within seconds, she left the courtyard behind, climbing higher and higher until she disappeared into the vast blue sky. The little sparrow had finally remembered what she already possessed: freedom. She realized then that every creature, every living soul, had been created complete by the Creator. No one is left without gifts. Some blessings may be hidden, but they are always there—waiting to be recognized, waiting to be used. That morning, as she soared joyfully across the endless heavens, the sparrow carried with her a truth many humans forget: that gratitude begins not with asking for more, but with discovering what we already have.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Fiction
Dust and Dreams
Zaryab had always felt a little different. Her mother used to say she was born with too much light in her eyes, as though her soul had stolen an extra spark from the stars before slipping into her body. At school, other children teased her for her strange habit of staring at the old tree outside their village—the great Dream Tree that bent its branches as if listening to the world. For generations, the villagers believed the Dream Tree held the weight of every person’s sleeping mind. Whenever someone died, a leaf curled in flame, turned to dust, and floated away on the wind.
By Shehzad Anjumabout a year ago in Fiction
You and that Rascally Rabbit. Runner-Up in The Forgotten Room Challenge.
You’re born in a rural hometown, in the backroom of a mom and pop hardware store because your mother’s water broke three weeks early while they were shopping for a new hammer because your dad needed, he just needed, that new hammer because he couldn’t get the baby room finished just right.
By Amos Gladeabout a year ago in Fiction
THE KNOCK
It was a Tuesday night, the kind that folds in on itself, hushed and unremarkable. Rain had stopped just after dusk, leaving the world slick and smelling faintly of wet earth. Inside her small house at the edge of the woods, Clara sat curled in her armchair with a blanket pulled around her shoulders, a book open but forgotten on her lap. The stillness was almost too complete; even the old radiator had gone quiet.
By Pamela Dirrabout a year ago in Fiction
Tales from the Loom. Content Warning.
When technology finally caught up to the desire to live beyond a single lifetime, The Loom was born. It offered a person a chance to step into their own reality. Any life they imagined, complete and convincing in every detail. Inside, a year of experience was merely a minute in the real world. Their new reality around them was filled with people who could love, struggle, and die, yet the one who entered was spared from chance or tragedy. A wound, a fall, or a bullet became a miracle of survival, and only old age could bring their story to an end.
By Michael Noonabout a year ago in Fiction
Perfectly Composed
It's a bit frustrating, to be frank with you. Getting my hands on any concrete info about where she went has been really tricky. We don't have the resources or the authority that the police have. I thought Sean would be able to get information from the police, given what he's been through. Nothing helpful though. Reassurance the case is open, that they're still looking into it. That's it. It's something, at least. No word on where she might be, or what the police are actually doing. That means: no leads. I suppose that's why they do it, isn't it? Can't have people going full vigilante. They can't give you nothing at all, so they give you a Liaison Officer, and some reassurance. I wouldn't say it's empty, but it is pretty broad. Enough for some, maybe. Not for us. I was pretty excited about our visit to Rita, thinking we'd surely get more out of her. Not a bit of it. For all she acted like she was so matey with Nona, she hardly knew anything about her. She certainly didn't seem to know anything substantial. They hadn't even known each other that long, and Rita could tell us nothing about Nona's earlier life before they became friends. Family or old friends she might turn to in a bind. Places she'd been to, languages she knew. What did she do when she was under stress at work? Rita looked at me like I'd grown an extra head. For one thing, she didn't even know what Nona did for work. She mentioned something about a cookie business Nona was running out of her own kitchen, but that sounded more like a hobby man anything else. It certainly didn't sound high pressure. For another, to hear Rita tell it, Nona was always perfectly composed. It sounded like crap to me. I think she had a vicious streak a mile wide. She wasn't close enough to Rita to let her see it. But it was there. Probably repressed it, wearing a calm mask... Until she couldn't hold it together anymore, and then unleashed it on the people closest to her. Her family. "We will have to talk to them," Sean told me one afternoon. "Jac, I mean. The daughters too, if we can." I pulled a face. That sounded distasteful. Plus, when he said, "we", he meant me. He still had a hard time talking to anyone at all, let alone someone who was there when he was vulnerable. This was difficult to see. He'd always been so gregarious, so extroverted. Never short on friends, always ready with a joke, an easy smile. To see what she done to him, beyond disfiguring his face, made my blood seethe. Beyond just helping Sean, this motivated me to find the sadistic psycho, make her answer for what she's done. Sean said, that day he knocked on my door, that he wasn't looking to get back together. Even so, he's made it pretty clear he wouldn't turn down that kind of reunion. "Nothing has changed for me, you know," he said one evening. "You haven't changed." But you have... I couldn't say it out loud, but I'm sure he felt the words anyway. They slotted into place between us like overlapping bricks. I'm sure he also noticed how I ducked this line of conversation and pivoted clumsily to something else. We've combed the internet for her, obviously. Social media. We've managed to find people who bought her cookies, and we've decided that will be next on our To Do list. Sean is collating all the names and contact details of anyone Nona was in touch with I think he's right, though. I think we are going to have to try to talk to Jac. +
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Zombies & Cake
Was any of it worth it? I tried not to think about the blood that was drying on my arm. It was starting to itch. There were three on my right and one on my tail as I rounded the corner and found my saving grace. It might as well be pure gold as far as I was concerned when I saw the old bug sitting inside Tim’s Auto Repair.
By Ashley Houstonabout a year ago in Fiction
Door Slam
“Tap, tap, tap.” “And so gently she came rapping,” I muttered to myself. This was the third time this week and I sighed. It was Sunday so at least I was prepared with coffee and cookies in the oven. And by ‘prepared’ I meant only technically, mentally I could never be prepared for this shit. I had come to dread the sound of those taps on my door. My cozy little apartment, my place of solitude and peace, so suddenly turning to a prison of torment by just two feet shuffling their way across the threshold of my door. It wasn’t the big things, there weren’t big things she did that I could point to and say ‘this is why’. No it was more insidious than that, it was a bunch of little things piling up, death by a thousand cuts.
By Raine Fielderabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ink of Destiny
The Ink of Destiny Clara stood in the dim light of the attic, dust motes swirling around her. The voices of her childhood echoed through her mind—laughter, warmth, but now, silence. Her grandmother had passed just weeks ago, leaving behind a legacy of love and unspoken regrets. The trunk in front of her was old, locked tight, its wooden surface engraved with faint floral patterns.
By Julie O'Hara - Author, Poet and Spiritual Warriorabout a year ago in Fiction
T-Force
THE KNOCK The first knock came at 3:33 a.m. I sat up in bed like a puppet jerked by invisible strings. The sound was soft but deliberate—three taps against the wood, like fingers that had memorized the shape of my front door.
By Tony Martelloabout a year ago in Fiction