Short Story

The Mirror That Refused Lies
In a quiet street of the city, tucked between two tall, abandoned buildings, there was a shop that sold mirrors. Not ordinary mirrors. These were rare, handcrafted, with frames carved from dark wood and glass that shimmered even in dim light. The shopkeeper, a thin man with pale eyes and a crooked smile, welcomed no casual visitors. Only those seeking the truth, he said, could enter. Elena had heard whispers of the shop from her grandmother. “Some mirrors show who you really are,” she had warned. “Be careful what you see, or it may follow you home.” Curiosity carried Elena down the narrow street. The bell above the shop door rang softly as she entered, and the air smelled faintly of candle smoke and rain. Mirrors of all shapes and sizes reflected the room: round, square, oval, some leaning against walls, others hanging as if floating. Each surface shimmered strangely, like water stirred by wind. The shopkeeper appeared from the shadows. “You are looking for a reflection, yes?” he asked. His voice was soft, but heavy with meaning. Elena nodded. “I… I want to see the truth.” He led her to a tall mirror framed in black wood, carved with twisting shapes that seemed almost alive. “This one refuses lies,” he said. “It will show only what exists, not what you wish to see.” Elena swallowed. She had expected a literal reflection, perhaps showing her flaws, her fears. But when she looked into the glass, the room behind her disappeared. She saw herself standing in a field of fog, surrounded by figures she could not recognize. Each face seemed familiar, yet not quite hers. One figure stepped forward. It was Elena, but older, worn and hollow-eyed. Her lips moved, but no sound came. She raised a hand and pointed. Elena felt a cold tremor run down her spine. The mirror rippled. Shadows of her memories flickered across the surface: moments she had forgotten, choices she had made, mistakes she had ignored. A voice seemed to echo from within the glass: This is who you are, not who you wish to be. Elena’s knees shook. She wanted to look away, but the glass held her gaze. The figures shifted, showing moments she could never undo—words spoken in anger, doors she had closed, smiles she had refused. Each reflection struck her like a sudden chill. Then another figure appeared. A younger version of herself, laughing freely, untouched by regret or fear. It reached out toward the older version, and the glass seemed to quiver, trembling with a strange energy. Elena realized the mirror did not just reflect reality—it tested it. She raised her hand, trembling, and touched the glass. Warmth surged through her fingers, spreading into her chest. The mirror’s ripples calmed. The older Elena softened, the shadow of regret fading slightly. The younger version smiled, and Elena felt a strange peace. “You see now?” whispered the shopkeeper. He had appeared at her side, though she had not noticed. “Truth is not only what we hide or fear. It is also what we can accept and change. The mirror shows, but it does not judge.” Elena nodded, breathless. She stepped back, her eyes still on the glass. The figures blurred and faded. The field of fog dissolved. She saw only herself again, standing in the quiet shop. She felt different—heavier with awareness, lighter with understanding. The shopkeeper smiled. “Keep this lesson with you. Mirrors come and go, but truth remains.” Elena left the shop, stepping into the afternoon sunlight. She glanced at her reflection in a puddle. For the first time, she smiled fully, knowing that while mirrors can show the truth, it is we who choose how to live with it.
By syedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Painter of Forgotten Faces
In a crooked alley of the old city, there was a studio most people walked past without seeing. Its windows were fogged, its sign faded, its door almost always closed. Yet those who stumbled inside swore they never left the same. The man who worked there called himself Arin. No one knew if that was his real name. He was tall but frail, his hands covered in flecks of dried color, his eyes distant as though always looking at something others could not see. He painted only portraits. Nothing else. But these portraits had a reputation. They were too alive. Not alive in skill alone, though his brushwork was flawless. Alive in essence. His canvases seemed to breathe. A tilt of the head revealed a glimmer in the eye. A whisper of movement hovered around the lips. Those who commissioned a painting found themselves unsettled, as if the canvas had taken more than their likeness. One evening, a woman named Elira entered his studio. She was older, her hair silver, her posture weary. She asked for a portrait, though not of herself. She handed him a faded photograph of a child. “My son,” she whispered. “He died when he was ten. I want to see his face again.” Arin studied the photo without speaking. Then, quietly, he agreed. The work began at once. He painted with intensity, each stroke deliberate, his eyes narrowing as though the boy’s spirit hovered near. The studio filled with the smell of turpentine and candle smoke. Hours slipped unnoticed. Elira sat watching, her heart caught between grief and hope. Finally, Arin turned the canvas. The boy smiled from the painting. Not as he had in the photograph, stiff and faded, but as if he stood before them in flesh, about to laugh. Elira gasped. Tears spilled freely as she reached out, trembling. And then the boy’s painted eyes blinked. Elira cried out. Arin did not flinch. He only said, “The forgotten return when I paint them. But they do not stay long.” The boy’s hand lifted faintly within the canvas, pressing against the painted surface as though he longed to cross over. His lips moved. Elira swore she heard her name carried faintly on the air. Moments later, the color of the painting dulled, the eyes dimmed, the portrait became still once more. Elira sobbed with gratitude and sorrow, clutching Arin’s hands. “How?” she asked. He shook his head. “Do not ask. I only give faces back to memory. But every time I paint, I forget something of my own.” She frowned. “Forget?” Arin’s gaze grew distant. “I no longer remember my sister’s laugh. My father’s hands. Even my own reflection feels foreign. I trade memory for theirs. That is the price.” Elira left with the portrait, clutching it as if it were her son returned. The alley swallowed her silhouette. But word spread. Soon others came—widows, mothers, lovers—each begging for faces lost. Arin painted tirelessly, portraits glowing with impossible life, each one stirring joy and despair. And with every portrait, he grew more hollow. His voice weakened. His eyes dulled. He forgot names, then days, then his own. Until one night, no one came. The studio was quiet. Arin sat before a blank canvas. His hands trembled. For the first time, he painted not another’s face, but his own. Stroke by stroke, he shaped his hollow cheeks, his tired eyes, the shadow of a man almost erased. When he finished, he stared at the painting. Slowly, the portrait blinked. The mouth curved in a faint smile. The painted Arin whispered, “Now I will remember you.” And the real Arin closed his eyes, sinking into silence. By morning, the studio was empty. Only the portrait remained, watching quietly, as though guarding a memory the world would otherwise forget. The sign above the door faded further until no one saw it at all. The alley seemed emptier. People who once visited could no longer recall his name. But every so often, someone finds the portrait. They swear its eyes follow them home. The Painter of Forgotten Faces lives on, not in flesh, but in canvas.
By syedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Last Hour
--- The town of Norswick had always trusted its time to one man. Master Horlin, the clockmaker. For forty years, he shaped hours with his tools, polishing gears, oiling springs, balancing pendulums with the care of a father tending children. He was not rich, nor famous. Yet everyone depended on him, because the great clocktower at the center of town never failed. Its bells rang with perfect precision. Its hands never faltered. Trains ran on time. Shops opened and closed to its rhythm. Marriages, funerals, births—all marked by its unerring chime. But Horlin carried a secret heavier than brass. The clock did not simply measure time. It held it. He had discovered the truth in his youth, long before Norswick relied on him. When he built his first mechanism, he noticed that if a gear was misaligned, the day itself stretched strangely. Hours slowed. Shadows lingered. If he corrected the gear, the world resumed its pace. Fascinated, terrified, he continued experimenting. Until finally, he built the tower—a machine vast enough to contain the whole town’s hours. He never told anyone. To them, it was only a marvel of engineering. To him, it was a bargain with time itself. And time was not patient. One winter evening, Horlin sat beneath the clocktower with trembling hands. He could feel something inside the gears resisting. A hesitation between ticks. A breath before the tock. He leaned close, listening to the rhythm that had guided his life, and for the first time it whispered back. Your hour is nearly done. Horlin dropped his tools. His heart raced. He whispered, “Not yet. There’s still work—still people who need—” The pendulum swung heavier, as though mocking him. Everyone needs, Horlin. But no one escapes. He staggered back, sweat cold on his brow. For years, he had poured his life into the machine, feeding it his strength, his skill, his devotion. Perhaps that was the price—it had measured not only the town’s time, but his own. And now, the last hour approached. That night, the bells rang wrong. Twelve strokes at midnight, then a thirteenth that echoed too long, rattling windows, waking the town in fright. People peered out, whispering of bad omens. But Horlin knew the truth. The thirteenth strike was his summons. At dawn, he climbed the tower. Every step groaned beneath his weight. Dust lay thick where no one else had ever walked. He reached the top chamber where the gears turned endlessly, larger than houses, glinting like golden bones. He placed his hand on the main spring. It pulsed like a heartbeat, steady but strained. “Please,” he whispered. “One more year. One more day.” The gears shuddered. Sparks leapt. And the voice of the clock filled the chamber. You traded time for perfection. You wound hours into iron. You gave minutes form. What did you expect, clockmaker? That you would not be counted? Horlin fell to his knees. “Then let me fix it! Let me repair the balance!” The pendulum slowed. The whole town below felt it—children paused mid-laugh, milk froze in pitchers, smoke froze in the air. Time itself stilled. The voice said: You may fix one thing. Only one. Choose carefully. Horlin’s hands shook. He thought of the tower, of the town, of his own fading breath. His eyes burned with regret. And then, slowly, he whispered, “The children. Let them never lose their hours too soon.” The gears turned. The pendulum surged forward. The world resumed. And Horlin collapsed, his chest still, his last second spent. At that very moment, every child in Norswick awoke from sleep, filled with a strange warmth, their lifespans stretched just slightly longer, their years protected. None knew why. None guessed what had been given. The town buried Master Horlin with solemn bells. The clocktower still stands, still perfect, still faithful. But sometimes, at midnight, when the thirteenth strike echoes faintly, villagers bow their heads. They remember the man who gave them time by giving away his own. The clockmaker’s last hour never truly ended. It lives in theirs.
By syedabout a year ago in Fiction
Alcoholistic
The bottle rolled back and forth. The amber colored liquid leveling out glistened under the lights. Each seat seemed positioned for the last drop of the whiskey. With a spin, the bottle pointed towards a haggard man. He was about fifty with gray locks and beard. He wore a gray hoodie and black jeans and sneakers. His dark skin contrasted with the shirt and almost blended with his trousers. His name was Trawell Warrington. A thirty-five-year-old woman named Latricia Chansing missed a front tooth. She shifted her weight and her t-shirt slightly showed her bra under her white t-shirt and blue jeans and black flats. Her hair had been tied in a pony tail. Her skin looked light-skinned and made her hazel eyes pop out with intensity.
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Planted Rain
One morning, under a sky bleached white by heat, an old man knelt in the dust at the edge of a forgotten village. His name was Noor—everyone called him Baba Noor—and he was planting seeds again.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
A Dreamer's Journey
The neural crown fitted snugly around Pudding's head, its crystalline sensors pulsing with ethereal light as they delved deep into her unconscious mind. She had been asleep for nine months now, her frail body suspended in the gossamer threads of the Dream Weaver—a chair that seemed more grown than built, its organic curves shifting subtly with each of her breaths. Above her, translucent screens bloomed like jellyfish in the sterile air, displaying the vast archipelagos of her sleeping thoughts.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
"Here and Now"
“Gus?... Gus!” I heard a snapping noise as soon as I recognized my name. I didn’t jump or flinch to attention, like you’re used to seeing in the movies. Instead, I just raised my head and turned my gaze slowly to discover the deep green eyes burrowing deep into my own.
By Taylor Rigsbyabout a year ago in Fiction
Beyond
I woke with a start - my mother's screams still ringing in my ears - and reached over tentatively with eyes still closed tight. I felt Hannah's small, warm body, firmly snuggled against her ratty, pink bunny. She breathed slowly and deeply, her sleep thankfully uninterrupted by my nightmares. The screaming instantly stopped, and the whole world was quiet once more.
By Taylor Rigsbyabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes of Mokgoro Hill
In the shadow of Mokgoro Hill, the land baked under an unrelenting sun, and the wind whispered as though it had secrets it would never tell. The village of Serowe was a place where time walked slowly, and nothing ever happened. Until something did.
By Louise Noel about a year ago in Fiction
The Eagle’s Twenty-Year Odyssey: A Journey of Wisdom over Water
For two decades, a magnificent bird soared above continents, crossing mountains, deserts, and borders — but never once did it dare fly across the sea. This was no ordinary bird. It was a Steppe Eagle (Aquila nipalensis), a creature of vast open lands and high skies, equipped not just with keen eyesight and strong wings but with a deep, evolutionary instinct that helped it survive the test of time — and the trial of travel. This eagle was one of several fitted with a GPS tracker by ornithologists hoping to study its long migratory patterns. Its journey began in the steppes of Russia and ended in the arid expanse of Wadi Al-Nino, deep in the heart of Saudi Arabia. Over the course of twenty years, the eagle flew thousands of miles across harsh terrain. But what truly captivated scientists wasn’t just the scale of the journey — it was the choices the eagle made along the way. Time and again, the eagle was presented with seemingly shorter routes — straight paths across open sea. A swift arc over water would have cut hours, perhaps days, off its flight. But the eagle, without fail, always avoided the sea. Instead, it stuck to the long, winding path over land. What seemed inefficient to the human eye turned out to be a masterpiece of evolutionary decision-making. Unlike seabirds such as the Albatross, which can effortlessly glide for hours over the ocean, the Steppe Eagle is a terrestrial raptor. Its entire flight technique is based on thermals — columns of warm air that rise from the sun-heated ground. These thermals allow the eagle to glide long distances with minimal energy, conserving strength for the journey ahead. Over the ocean, however, these warm air currents are almost non-existent. The eagle would be forced to flap continuously, draining its energy reserves and risking exhaustion or death. This was not mere instinct — it was survival wisdom, carved by millennia of evolution. The eagle, shaped by nature and tested by geography, had learned through its lineage what paths to follow and which to avoid. Even with no map in its talons, the eagle navigated with a strategy that rivaled that of the most seasoned human travelers. Scientists from organizations like BirdLife International and the Global Raptor Information Network (GRIN) tracked this eagle and others like it to better understand how environmental factors influence migration. Their findings were as poetic as they were scientific: the bird chose not the fastest route, but the smartest one — a route of endurance, not haste; of instinct, not impulse. In today’s world, we often equate survival with power — the fastest, the strongest, the boldest. But nature tells a different story. The Steppe Eagle's journey reminds us that survival is as much about strategy as it is about strength. Sometimes, the path to success is not the one that looks most direct on the map, but the one that aligns best with your nature — your strengths, your limitations, and the invisible currents that guide your journey. This majestic bird’s odyssey isn’t just a tale for scientists or bird enthusiasts. It’s a metaphor — a story of resilience, wisdom, and the silent intelligence embedded in every living being. As climate change reshapes the landscapes these eagles travel, understanding their behavior becomes not only fascinating but essential. Their migration paths tell us about changing wind patterns, disappearing habitats, and the quiet shifts in the natural world that often go unnoticed. In the end, this story is more than a scientific case study. It’s a reminder that every creature — from the smallest ant to the soaring eagle — is part of a delicate system of survival honed over thousands of years. We often think of nature as chaotic and random, but the Steppe Eagle’s twenty-year journey tells a different tale: one of precision, patience, and profound intelligence. And perhaps, in watching how an eagle avoids the sea, we too can learn something about the routes we choose — in life, in work, in struggle. Maybe the smarter path isn’t always the shorter one. Maybe survival isn’t just about pressing forward, but about knowing when to take the longer road — the one that lets you glide, not grind. Sources: BirdLife International, Steppe Eagle Migration Studies Global Raptor Information Network (GRIN) – Aquila nipalensis Profile National Geographic, Tracking Eagle Migration with GPS
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Train In Brooklyn
Chapter One – The Missed Train The subway doors slammed shut in Maya’s face with a cruel hiss. She cursed under her breath, hugging her coat tighter against the February chill that swept through the underground station.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Key that Called
In the old white house with the chipped into walls that smelled of dust and mold peered a hallway darkened by time. Down the hallway and to the left sat a junky old drawer and in that junky old drawer sat a cold and tired key.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction