Short Story

The Whispering Tree of Dawn
In a valley untouched by time, where mist clung to the grass like a gentle veil and rivers sang lullabies to the stones, there stood an ancient tree known only as the Whispering Tree of Dawn. Its roots were older than memory, its branches taller than clouds, and its leaves shimmered like drops of gold whenever the first light of morning touched them.
By Hanifullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Cat Who Knew Too Much
By [] The reception hall glowed under strings of golden fairy lights, each shimmer reflected in tall crystal glasses filled with champagne. The air was heavy with the fragrance of roses, carefully arranged along every table, their petals softening the otherwise sharp brilliance of silverware and glass. Guests filled the space with laughter, clinking forks against plates, and the band in the corner strummed a cheerful tune that made the dance floor sway with life.
By جاوید علیabout a year ago in Fiction
I Used These 10 Free AI Tools for 1 Month – The Results Surprised Me. AI-Generated.
Introduction We live in a time where artificial intelligence is no longer a distant dream — it’s part of our daily routine. From writing to designing, from research to video editing, there seems to be an AI tool for almost everything.
By Muhammed Ismailabout a year ago in Fiction
Me, the Old Man, and the Mysterious Box
It's not like all the stories and dreams you usually have, and it's often paranormal, but this dream may have been a vision, not just a simple dream, despite its ambiguity. It could have been a prediction of the future, like what's happening now, which is just the beginning of all the phenomena occurring now, such as drought and war. It was a different night, and the dream was almost different. The feelings were also almost real because I was deeply affected, as if I were truly living in that dream. It's hard to imagine nightmares that feel so real. In the dream, I opened my eyes to smoke and barren land. There was no water or vegetation, just barren land cracked by drought and destruction.
By ABDOabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room with the Yellow Curtains
“Oh, you again,” Margaret whispered, not startled this time. The shadow lingered near the window, half-hidden by the yellow curtains that swayed even when there was no breeze. She always noticed him most when the nights grew longer, when her own thoughts refused to rest.
By Zidaneabout a year ago in Fiction
The Café Where Time Stood Still
The rain was relentless that afternoon, washing the streets in silvery streaks that reflected neon signs and hurried umbrellas. I ducked into a narrow alley, hoping for a shortcut, when I saw it: a small café tucked between two tall buildings, almost as if it had been hiding from the world. Its sign read simply “Café Temps.”
By arsalan ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Magic of Tea
Auther Name Hazratullah In a small valley surrounded by rolling green hills, where morning fog kissed the earth and soft breezes carried whispers of dew, there was a village known for one thing above all else—its tea. The people who lived there did not think of tea as just a drink; for them, it was a companion, a healer, and a silent storyteller.
By Asmatullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Coffee Cup Left Behind
It was a Tuesday afternoon when I noticed the cup. It sat on the windowsill of the little café I sometimes escaped to when I needed quiet. The cup wasn’t anything special — chipped white ceramic with a faint blue ring around the rim. It looked as though it had been forgotten, maybe set down by someone who had stepped out for a smoke and never returned. But there it was, catching the soft light that spilled through the glass, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, I couldn’t stop looking at it.
By arsalan ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Quiet Apartment. Content Warning.
The Quiet Apartment By Theodore Homuth Mara pressed her ear against the wall again. It was 2:14 a.m., and the sound had returned—a soft, rhythmic thud-thud-thud, like a heartbeat buried in concrete. She had first noticed it a week ago, faint and irregular, pulsing through the paper-thin wall that separated her studio apartment from the vacant unit next door.
By Theodore Homuthabout a year ago in Fiction
Shock on Wetherby Close
Ronnie had his faults, but he never hit me. I hadn't thought of him in months, and suddenly, there he was, in the front of my mind. Tomorrow, I'd make Jac sort the freezer out. The ice was hurting my hands, and I couldn't find anything. I was sure we'd got some ice packs in here. Ronnie had been withdrawn, addicted to his phone, and emotionally unavailable, but he was never abusive. He complained a lot, he could be rude, and he was often incompetent, but he wasn't a bad person. As such. A crappy husband maybe, but not a bad person. Not malicious. I pressed the pack of peas to the side of my face, letting it mould to my eye socket. Arsehole! How dare he! I stalked out of the kitchen and headed for the stairs, still holding my makeshift ice pack to my throbbing face. I didn't look in on Jac. In my minds eye I pictured him, a forlorn lump under a blanket. At least, I imagine him forlorn. Hard to think of anyone that still being happy. I went to bed - MY bed - leaving him to stew on the sofa. Would he though? Would he chew over bitter words, or regret hasty tempers? Could he, even now, feel anything at all? I softened my step on the landing, not wanting to wake Tansy. I stripped off, leaving my clothes for Jac to pick up in the morning. I splashed somewhat more than necessary, and didn't trouble to clean up the toothpaste smears from the en suite sink. The sheets were cool against my skin. I sighed into them, telling myself I loved having all this space to stretch out. The peas were already becoming softer and soggier, and losing some of that soothing chill. I reached for my phone: it would be so easy to text him, tell him to bring me a fresh ice pack. Would he interpret that as reconciliation though, instead of plain old laziness? How bad would the bruising and swelling be in the morning? How much make up would it take to cover it? What would I say to the girls? What would the neighbours think? It took a long time to fall asleep, but I did eventually, curled into a tight ball. The thawing peas made a rebellious puddle on the pillow Jac normally lay on. I slept poorly. I woke several times, dreaming Jac was stood over me, hand outstretched for my throat... Who knew what he might do if he was malfunctioning? When I woke in the morning, I could feel something was wrong. It was like those mornings when your alarm hasn't gone off, and the sunlight laughs at you through the gap in the curtains. I fumbled to check the time. Barely 6.30am. I could go back to sleep. I could... except... The girls! I fairly flew out of my wide, cold bed. What if he'd taken his anger out on them? I tugged my bathrobe on, and swore when the sleeve caught the door handle. How could I have been so stupid! I should have locked him in somewhere Restrained him somehow. Their beds were empty. I hurried downstairs, checking every room. As if any of them were still here. They weren't. of course they weren't. I knew it. I'd known it the moment I'd opened my eyes. I'd felt the emptiness of the house, the wrongness of it.... There, on the kitchen floor, was the neural chip Jac had clawed out of his own head, surrounded by spatters of dark, congealing blood. +
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Rain control
My Dream Story Perhaps my life isn't like other people's, and my dreams are very strange and sometimes difficult or impossible to interpret. That night, I watched episodes of TV series or movies. I don't remember much, but I always watch a movie or TV series before bed. The important thing is that on that night, which was also different from other nights, I fell asleep at some point during the night. In the dream, I looked up at the sky and saw how clear it was. There were no clouds or rain. The drought was terrifying, and people's faces looked like they were in a war movie due to the scarcity of water. People were only given one amount of water per person per day.
By ABDOabout a year ago in Fiction
Goodbye, Forever Home. Top Story - September 2025.
“Oh, it’s you,” Joanne said, recognizing the small face. Her mind was a snake’s nest, preventing her from achieving sleep, which, now analyzing the atmosphere and present mood, was often when he appeared.
By Matthew Agnewabout a year ago in Fiction