Short Story

When Sunset Falls Over the Ancient Town
People often say that unrequited love is the most beautiful yet saddest melody of life. It is like the sunset—radiant and breathtaking, yet fleeting, leaving only the vast darkness behind.
By Zidaneabout a year ago in Fiction
Don't argue with fools. Donkey, jackal and Lion's justice.
The Donkey, the Jackal, and the Lion’s Judgment Once upon a time, in a jungle where many animals lived, there was a donkey and a jackal.
By Muhammad Talhaabout a year ago in Fiction
What Little Girls Do
Sheila had lived all her life very much away from the rest of society. She liked to have at least one cow and usually five to eight chickens. All the animals were kept together in a large pen beside the small house that also included a chicken coop and a shed large enough for the cow. At one point, she even had a couple of horses. She grew her own herbs and crops and made most of her cooking from the fresh ingredients that were just a step away from the house.
By Gillian Corsiattoabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Willow
The willow tree had stood at the edge of the lake for as long as anyone could remember. Its branches swept the water like long fingers, whispering secrets to anyone who would listen. As a child, I played beneath it, imagining that the rustling leaves told stories of distant lands. Adults warned me not to linger, claiming it was “just a tree,” but I knew better. Years later, I returned. The town had changed, but the willow remained, resolute and almost alive. Its bark was rough under my hands, yet it seemed to pulse faintly, as though aware of my presence. I knelt beneath the canopy, letting the branches drape over me. The air smelled of damp earth and forgotten memories. A soft hum reached my ears. At first, I thought it was the wind, but it carried a rhythm, almost like a song. I leaned closer, listening, and the hum became words, whispers from the past. Stories of love, loss, and hope flowed from the tree’s shadow, each tale vivid in its own right. Some were joyful, others heavy with regret. Yet all were intertwined, forming a tapestry of life that stretched far beyond the boundaries of the town. I visited the willow every day, uncovering more secrets hidden in its branches. I realized it acted as a recorder, absorbing the emotions of everyone who had ever sought solace beneath it. Lovers whispered vows, children cried, and the sorrowful came to grieve. The willow held it all, patient and enduring, a guardian of memory. Through the stories, I learned about courage, resilience, and the complexity of human emotion. I began to write them down, crafting narratives that would otherwise be lost to time. Each tale I recorded strengthened my connection to the tree, and to the unseen lives that had shaped the land around me. One evening, as the sun set and painted the lake with gold, I noticed something unusual. A faint glow emanated from the roots of the willow. I approached cautiously, heart pounding. Beneath the surface, I found a small, ornate box, engraved with patterns I had never seen before. Inside were letters, journals, and trinkets, each belonging to someone who had confided their secrets to the willow over the decades. Holding the box, I felt a profound sense of responsibility. The tree had trusted me to carry its memories forward, to share the lives and lessons contained within. I realized that the willow’s gift was not just in remembering but in teaching those willing to listen. Over time, I became the storyteller of the willow, translating its whispers into words for the outside world. People came to me, seeking guidance or simply longing to hear forgotten tales. I shared carefully, respecting the privacy and emotion woven into each story, while ensuring that the lessons embedded in them reached those who needed them most. The willow taught me that every life, no matter how ordinary, leaves a mark. Even when humans forget, nature remembers. It preserves moments, feelings, and histories, waiting for someone attuned enough to hear. In this way, memory is eternal, and connection transcends time and mortality. Years passed, and I watched generations grow beneath the willow’s shade. Children laughed, lovers whispered, and the sorrowful found comfort. The tree never wavered, its branches swaying gently with each season, an ever-present guardian of the stories it held. I understood then that some things are meant to endure, and some memories are too precious to ever be lost. As I sit beneath the willow today, pen in hand, I feel its energy surrounding me. The stories of countless lives mingle with my own thoughts, guiding my hand, shaping my words. And in this sacred space, I have learned that the simplest acts of attention—listening, recording, remembering—can transform the world in ways no one ever imagined.
By syedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Forest of the Forgotten
"We need somewhere quiet," Ellie said, clutching her bag closer as they walked down the busy sidewalk. The Starbucks coffee still left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth, but the stolen money felt reassuring in her pocket. "Somewhere private where no one will see us disappear."
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Carnival
The air smelled of caramel, dust, and something older—something that belonged to a time forgotten. The carnival had been abandoned for decades, yet its presence was undeniable. Tattered banners fluttered in the wind, and rusted rides creaked like ghosts awakening from slumber. Lila discovered the entrance while chasing a stray cat, unaware that stepping inside would pull her into a realm where reality and memory intertwined. Her sneakers crunched on broken glass and fallen confetti as she crossed the threshold. Each step seemed to awaken something latent in the air. Faint music swirled through the empty lanes, distant laughter teased the edges of her hearing, and shadows of crowds long gone flickered at the corner of her vision. The Ferris wheel loomed above, frozen mid-spin, yet faint silhouettes traced its motion, as though reliving the lives of long-vanished riders. Nearby, a carousel waited. Its horses, chipped and cracked, had eyes that gleamed faintly as though aware of her presence. Lila reached out to touch one, and a sudden warmth coursed through her fingers. The carousel began to spin slowly, the painted horses moving in jerky, magical rhythms. Memories flooded into her mind—a boy’s gleeful giggle, the smell of freshly popped popcorn, a clown’s melancholy smile. Each sensation merged into a delicate stream, fragile yet vibrant, impossible to separate from her. The tents, though torn and sagging, vibrated with echoes of performances long past. Peeking into the magician’s tent, Lila glimpsed tricks that were never performed, illusions that existed only in dreams. Shadows of dancers floated above the faded canvas, frozen mid-step yet radiating deep emotion. The carnival was not merely abandoned; it was a living archive, a vessel holding remnants of joy, sorrow, and forgotten hopes. Hours passed unnoticed. Lila wandered through the alleyways and stalls, discovering story after story preserved in the air. A family ate cotton candy under lanterns that had long since gone out in the real world. A couple shared a stolen kiss under a tent whose fabric had rotted. Performers bowed gracefully to empty spaces, their gestures carrying the weight of memory. She realized the carnival existed outside time, a hidden sanctuary for fleeting human emotion, safeguarded by the spirits of those who once loved and played here. She came upon the old funhouse, its mirrors fractured and warped. As she stepped inside, her reflection multiplied, each image whispering a story. Some mirrors showed children laughing, some revealed elders weeping, and one even reflected moments she could not recall experiencing. Lila felt the weight of countless lives pressing in, yet strangely comforting. The funhouse was a repository of everything the carnival had ever held: joy, sorrow, hope, and despair intertwined. The scent of candy and smoke grew stronger as she wandered further. Stalls that once sold treats now shimmered with memories of the people who had visited them. She saw a little boy with a cone of ice cream, melting faster than he could eat, and an old woman tossing pennies into a wishing well, her eyes full of silent longing. Every detail was vivid; every sound, smell, and laugh persisted as if time itself had chosen to preserve them. Eventually, Lila found the center stage. The spotlight shone brightly despite the absence of performers. She felt the weight of all the memories pressing around her, delicate as glass but impossible to ignore. Whispering a quiet thank you to the invisible performers, she stepped back, feeling the delicate balance of joy and sorrow, laughter and regret, all interwoven into the carnival’s essence. The sun dipped low, casting a golden glow across the cracked grounds. Lila paused, taking in the haunting beauty of the scene. Though the carnival had disappeared from the world, it had left an indelible mark on her. Its magic had seeped into her very being, reshaping the way she perceived memory and the passage of time. That night, as she drifted into sleep, the laughter and spinning lights of the carnival danced in her dreams, vivid and alive, as if the carnival had followed her home. Somewhere, hidden from the ordinary eyes of the world, the carnival waited patiently for the next visitor. Its memories remained preserved, invisible to most, but vibrant for those willing to see. Lila knew she had witnessed something extraordinary, a reminder that even in abandonment, stories endure, laughter persists, and the echoes of human emotion never truly vanish.
By syedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day My Reflection Talked Back. AI-Generated.
The Day My Reflection Talked Back The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower, yet I lingered in front of it, tracing meaningless circles in the condensation. I wasn’t really looking at myself—just at the blurred outline of someone who looked like me, someone who had lately felt like a stranger.
By Rashid khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Lisa’s Birthday Wish
Lisa sat on the edge of the narrow twin bed, her children bundled beneath a single quilt. Ciara, five years old and already fiercely protective of her younger siblings, clung to Lisa’s arm even in sleep. Liam lay sprawled on his stomach, one chubby hand gripping the battered toy car he carried everywhere. Marie, the baby of the family, was curled against Lisa’s hip, her tiny fingers still sticky from the crackers they’d shared for dinner.
By Rebecca Daughertyabout a year ago in Fiction
Chaos Celebration Part Two
Reverse to Part One By the time Colin got to the hospital, Brooklyn had been taken back to a room. Fast service was an advantage to living in a small town. While the actual facility wasn’t huge, they were fully able to take care of an accident like Brooklyn’s in a timely manner. For anything more involved or critical, they were stabilized and transported to a larger hospital.
By Reb Kreylingabout a year ago in Fiction
Chaos Celebration Part One. Top Story - September 2025.
“So, what are you doing this weekend?” Colin asked as he watched Lincoln begin to gather his scattered belongings. The two men had been hanging out in Brewing Books all morning while Colin waited for his shift and Lincoln worked on plotting his book.
By Reb Kreylingabout a year ago in Fiction
The Secrets My Mother Kept
The Morning Light August 19, 2005 The beach stretched endlessly in both directions, a ribbon of silver sand unmarked by footprints or debris. It was that liminal hour just before dawn when the world held its breath, suspended between night and day. The lighthouse at the far end of the bay had already stopped its rotation, leaving only the faintest echo of its beam painting ghosts across the water.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
Final Delivery
The glow of the dashboard clock read 11:47 PM as Jason steered his beat-up sedan down a lonely, tree-lined road. He hated late-night shifts, especially in this part of town, where the houses were spaced far apart and the streetlights flickered ominously. Still, it was a job, and tonight’s order was his last delivery before clocking out.
By V-Ink Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction