Short Story

After Hours
Mira had always loved Constellation Books. The cozy bookstore tucked between the pretzel stand and the phone repair kiosk was her sanctuary from the chaos of Westfield Mall. She could spend hours browsing the fantasy section, running her fingers along worn paperback spines, discovering new worlds while her mom finished shopping.
By Autumn about a year ago in Fiction
The Coffee Shop Where Time Stands Still
I don’t know if you’ve ever stumbled upon a place that feels like it was waiting for you, but that’s exactly how I felt the first time I walked into “Evelyn’s Corner Café.” It was tucked between a laundromat and an antique bookstore, a place so ordinary I’d passed by a hundred times without noticing it. But on that gray Thursday afternoon, when the rain chased me off the street, I ducked inside, and something quietly extraordinary began.
By Ian Muneneabout a year ago in Fiction
The Abyssal Caller. Content Warning.
The ocean is never truly silent. Even in its deepest trenches, there is the groan of shifting tectonic plates, the distant rumble of volcanoes, and the strange choruses of unseen creatures. But when the Calypso II descended into the uncharted stretch beyond the Mariana Trench, all sound vanished.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Angel of Death and the Fall of Seth Waqar
The Awakening of Seth Waqar BY:Khan “Razia Begum, what nonsense is this? I don’t believe in such things. These are nothing but tales and myths. How can I accept what my heart refuses to believe?” Seth Waqar snapped in a dismissive tone. Razia sighed deeply. “Astaghfirullah! Fear the wrath of Allah, Waqar. How many times have I told you not to utter such reckless words? You are playing with fire.” Waqar leaned back in his chair with arrogance. “Begum, my name is Seth Waqar. Look at me—what do I lack? I own luxurious bungalows, the finest cars, countless wealth, everything a man could desire. And do you know how I earned all this? Through hard work. Day and night I struggled, and today, I stand at the top. Nobody handed this to me from the heavens. I achieved it all myself. Don’t keep chanting about God. If there really is one, show Him to me. Where is He? I don’t see Him. I don’t believe in what is invisible. You expect me to believe that some unseen angel of death comes to snatch souls? I don’t believe such stories.” Razia shook her head in despair. “Please, eat your breakfast. Talking to you gives me a headache. You’re an educated man, Waqar, but blind in wisdom.” “Don’t argue with me,” Waqar retorted. “You know well who wins in arguments. I’m leaving for the office.” He wiped his mouth with a tissue, stood up, and walked out arrogantly. Razia whispered a prayer, her eyes moist. “Oh Allah, guide this foolish man. Soften his heart and show him the truth.” --- Later that day, Waqar drove his expensive car down the main road. He always drove himself, never allowing a driver near his precious vehicle. As he pressed the accelerator, suddenly an old man appeared in front of the car. Waqar slammed the brakes, narrowly avoiding a tragic accident. His face turned red with anger. He stormed out, his voice trembling with rage. “Are you out of your mind, old man? Do you want to die? I nearly crushed you!” The frail man folded his hands apologetically. “Forgive me, sahib. I stopped you because I needed help.” Without hesitation, Waqar slapped him across the face. “Shut up! If you had died under my car, do you know the trouble it would cause me? Get lost!” The old man pleaded, his voice trembling. “Sir, I even went to your house to meet you, but I wasn’t allowed inside.” Waqar roared louder. “Didn’t I tell you to meet me only at the factory? How dare you come to my home!” With tears in his eyes, the old man said, “My child is sick. I don’t have money to buy medicine. Please, sahib, give me some help.” Waqar grabbed him by the collar and shook him violently. “Why should I give you money? The last time you borrowed, did you ever return it? Get out of my sight!” The poor man fell to his knees. “For the sake of God, sahib, have mercy. I swear I will return everything. Please save my son.” But Waqar pushed him away with contempt. “God? Don’t lecture me about God! If your God exists, let Him come down and help you. From today, you are fired. Don’t ever show me your face at the factory again.” The old man wiped his tears, looked up at the sky, and whispered in a broken voice: “O Allah, You see everything. Take away this cruel man’s wealth. Send Your angel of death to him. Spare my son’s life and heal him, for I have nothing left.” With those words, he walked away. Waqar muttered angrily, “Foolish old man. If God exists, let Him answer your curses.” He returned to his car and sped off, unbothered. --- That night, around ten o’clock, Waqar slept soundly in his lavish bedroom. But his peace was short-lived. In his dream, a terrifying figure appeared—an angel, glowing yet dreadful. “I am the Angel of Death,” the figure declared. “The very one you denied. I have been sent by the Living God whom you mocked. Your time is over. Tonight, your soul will be taken. Your arrogance, your cruelty, your disbelief—your Creator is displeased.” Waqar’s entire body trembled. Fear gripped his heart. He wept like a child. “Forgive me, O Lord! I was blind. I mocked You, but now I know You exist. Please grant me another chance. I promise never again will I oppress the poor. Spare my life, just once.” The angel replied sternly, “You have been given one chance only because your Lord is Merciful. But remember, I shall return.” With that, the angel vanished. Waqar woke up in terror, drenched in sweat despite the air conditioner humming. His fine clothes clung to his body. His heart pounded as he realized—this was no ordinary dream. It was a warning from the Almighty. At that very moment, his arrogance shattered. He raised his hands in repentance. “Ya Allah, forgive me. You are real, the only Creator. You give life and You take it away. I will never defy You again.” --- Minutes later, Waqar picked up his phone and dialed his factory manager. The man was shocked to receive a call so late at night. “Sir? Is everything alright?” Waqar’s voice, once filled with pride, was now humble. “Mr. Sabir, do one thing for me. That old worker I fired today—rehire him immediately. And whatever money is needed for his child’s treatment, provide it at once. I want everything done before I arrive tomorrow morning.” The manager, astonished, could barely respond. “Yes… yes, sir. As you command.” Waqar ended the call and leaned back against his bed. For the first time in his life, he felt true peace—not from wealth, not from power, but from turning back to the God he once denied. --- Moral: No wealth, power, or arrogance can save a man from death. True peace lies only in faith, humility, and kindness toward the poor.
By Khan about a year ago in Fiction
In The Heat Of The Day
The sun beamed down as Robert drove his wagon through the valley. The heat was hotter than he had ever experienced. Each day, his water was drying, and the valleys never seemed to end. After the war, times were tough, but the heat was never-ending. As Robert investigated the valley, it seemed like a pool of water, and blinking only confirmed his first sighting. The tired horse still trudged along as Robert only hit him harder. His face red from the sun was now red in anger as he needed that water. Each step was shallow as the heat also had the poor horse trotting along to the middle of the desert. The sweat had been dripping for days, and the horse refused to move faster. Robert just wanted to pan for his gold, but he had to go through this desert. The many miles seemed to be avoiding all the snakes and scorpions, but Robert was going to make it. It was only a few miles away, as the only thing he needed was to get to water. As he inched forward to the bushes, the water disappeared. He stopped the wagon only for a break, and there was gold in California. Tears ran down his face as he needed to find a small body of water. He stopped the wagon and stood there as he wanted to breathe even in this intense heat. The cactus was all around with no water sources.
By Sarah Danaherabout a year ago in Fiction
The Biggest Lie Ever Told
His name doesn’t really matter, but every fictional character needs one, so, how about John? No, wait; that’s already a name in use by one of his cult followers. Actually, naming him is impossible. It’s incumbent to just make up his name since everything else is fictional, too. Lee is an appropriate name because it’s so close to Lie.
By Star Love Greyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Illusion of Impact
Work was done for the day. I hop in my truck; body covered in drywall dust. I am large, standing 6 feet and 6 inches tall. I am covered so much in this white dust that my daughter calls me the abominable snowman. I laugh when she says that. Roll my eyes in gesture. She’s only six and the way she pronounces such a big word makes me laugh even harder. Like when the person’s laugh is funnier than the joke that was just told.
By Amyabout a year ago in Fiction
Waiting for Next Time. Runner-Up in The Shape of the Thing Challenge. Content Warning.
The first time was during the massive oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, back in the spring of 2010. One of the largest environmental disasters in history, they said, the equivalent of about 4.9 million barrels spilled. The Deepwater Horizon spill broke records that had previously been set in 1979, with the Ixtoc I oil spill—didn’t just break them, but obliterated them.
By GLabout a year ago in Fiction
Allegation
"Are you serious? This has to be a joke!" "We aren't known for our sense of humour, sir." Ronnie gripped the door frame, half in anger and half to stop himself collapsing. He could have invited them in, he supposed, but screw that. The room was poly enough as it was. Let them stand out there in the corridor. The second officer spoke. “She’s made a formal statement." Ronnie snorted. "She's lying. Obviously." "She does have a pretty significant Injury." Ronnie peered at the officer, at that bland face. Is she... Judging me? Has she already made up her mind that I'm a liar and abuser? What, just because I'm a man? "I didn't... I would never... What kind of injury? Has she broken her leg or something? She could have fallen. You have no reason to believe it was me." The first officer hesitated, and glanced at his partner. "It's... not that type of injury," he said at last. His partner said, "Can you think of anyone else who might have harmed your wife? "No, but..." Ronnie tailed off, frowning. "I've got to do this, haven't I?" he said in a flat tone. "You say I'm being invited to interview like I have a choice. But if I say no, you'll just arrest me, right? In front of...." The girls hovered behind him, Fern drinking in the details, Aster wary. Tansy was watching the small, crackly television and eating handfuls of sugary cereal out of the box. Policemen turning up was normal now. Things got normal fast when you were six. "We would much rather it didn't come to that sir," said the second officer. Ronnie passed a hand through his hair, now thankfully clean of blood. "I've got to do this haven't I?" The officers waited patiently. Ronnie muttered, "damn, she's good at this." Louder, he said, "Look, I'm not refusing or anything, but I have no one to look after the girls." "Just do your best, sir, and if no arrangements can be made, there is a family room at the station. We'll be in touch with the details, and we strongly advise you to attend." The door clicked shut. Ronnie leaned on it, blood thundering in his temples. What the hell had she done now? The allegation seemed to lurk in the room with them, huge and slippery, but lurking just out of sight, as if in thick, silty water. Glistening and dangerous, and Ronnie knew if he wasn't careful (and maybe even if he was) it could drag him down. What was he going to have to do to escape her bloody clutches? How far was he going to have to go?
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Key To The Past. Winner in The Shape of the Thing Challenge. Top Story - September 2025.
When they arrived at 4416 Oak Lane, what they saw was a __shock⚡ to their system. The house... See? The rumors weren't true.Yay.
By Lightning Bolt ⚡about a year ago in Fiction
A Work Ant No More
Such a gorgeous day. Residents in this city, as always, wake up to the loud beats of an ever-changing work-life rhythm. A homeless man pulls himself up from a bench, raises his head to feel the brilliant sunlight shining through a thin layer of white clouds. He says a prayer of thanksgiving, seeing no rain is likely in the few hours ahead. A few hours, too humble a number, is the max of what most people can foresee and make accurate predictions of life in this uncertainty-infested city.
By Stella Yan PhDabout a year ago in Fiction
The Perfect Bride Who Was Too Bright for the House
The Perfect Bride BY:Khan Aisha Nasir Khala had spent years searching for the perfect bride for her only son, Nabeel. She had scanned every lane, every household, every family gathering. Her sandals had worn thin with the endless rounds of matchmaking. Her feet were swollen, her back stiff like a board, yet not a single girl pleased her critical eyes. One was too short, another too tall. One too plump, another frail as a dry twig. Some were too dark, others pale and lifeless like a turnip. From neighbors to distant cousins, she had examined them all—none matched the vision she had for her beloved son. And why would they? For Nabeel was one in a million—smart, handsome, and highly educated. The only flaw in him was his fickle nature. He would land one job, grow restless within months, quit, and chase another, only to abandon that too. Yet to Khala, he was a gem, a prince who deserved nothing less than a piece of the moon. That piece of moon finally appeared in the form of Anila. Anila was the granddaughter of Khala’s distant uncle, the only sister of two brothers. She stood out in the family for her beauty and education. On top of that, her trousseau arrived in truckloads, filling every corner of Khala’s modest flat. The wedding was celebrated with all the usual festivity: dinners, parties, outings. For the first few weeks, Anila woke every morning, dressing up to perfection, waiting eagerly for Nabeel. Once he returned, they would freshen up and head out again for drives, dinners, or late-night strolls. Khala’s snores would echo through the house by the time the couple returned at night. But soon, Khala began to notice Anila’s habits—and not with much delight. The new bride seemed to care little for household chores. If Khala asked her to do something, she would reluctantly oblige, but never on her own initiative. The housework bored her; her interest remained in clothes, makeup, and outings. One day, when Anila and Nabeel were leaving for yet another excursion, Khala couldn’t hold back. “Daughter-in-law,” she said sharply, “you must take some interest in household work too. Life isn’t all about dressing up and wandering about with your husband.” Nabeel stayed silent, eyes lowered. But Anila’s face tightened. Without a word, she stomped back to her room and slammed the door. That night, she boycotted dinner entirely. Yet hunger is stronger than pride. By morning, she appeared at the breakfast table, lips still pouted, but stomach unwilling to stay empty. After the meal, Khala firmly assigned her some chores. Anila dragged herself through them, completing them half-heartedly before collapsing into a deep afternoon nap. Khala knocked several times on her door, but Anila remained lost in sleep, opening only when Nabeel returned in the evening. For some days, Khala endured. But patience has its limits. Gradually, her words turned into sharp taunts: laziness, carelessness, idleness. Anila, who once bit her tongue, now snapped back. Soon, Khala’s tiny flat became a battleground. Their daily arguments echoed through the walls, and the neighbors no longer needed television dramas—real entertainment was happening next door. The woman living on the right, Shabnam, became the most curious spectator. She would listen keenly for the shouting matches, sometimes even pressing her ear against the wall. On days when no quarrel erupted, she peeked anxiously through her window, wondering if the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law had suddenly fallen ill. Caught in the middle was poor Nabeel. Like a puppet, his strings pulled sometimes by his mother, other times by his wife. His silence made matters worse, as neither side felt supported. The final explosion came one evening when tempers rose higher than ever before. Words sharper than knives flew between Khala and Anila. Even Shabnam, hardened by months of eavesdropping, felt her heart tremble at the intensity. This time, Anila didn’t just sulk. She stormed into her room, gathered her clothes and belongings into bags, and dragged them out. Without waiting for Nabeel, she hailed a rickshaw from the street and left for her parents’ home. The door slammed behind her, leaving Khala and Nabeel in stunned silence. For the first time, Khala wondered if perhaps the moon she had brought home was too bright to fit within her small flat. And Nabeel, once the carefree, indecisive young man, stood watching the empty doorway—finally realizing that silence too had its price.
By Khan about a year ago in Fiction