Short Story

I Am a Prisoner
“I am a prisoner—not behind bars of iron, but within the fragile walls of flesh and earth. My soul, vast as eternity, is caged in this temporary world, longing for the freedom of the Divine.”
By Zakir Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lantern by the River
The Lantern by the River Every small town has that one person who collects what others leave behind. In Maplewood, it was Clara. Folks would find her poking through garage sales, creek beds, and the dusty shelves of the thrift store by the railroad tracks. To her, nothing was junk — every item was a fragment of someone’s story.
By Zidaneabout a year ago in Fiction
The Story I Was Afraid to Tell
I have carried this story for years, tucked away in the quietest corners of my memory, like a fragile photograph that could fall apart if touched too often. It is not a tale of great crime or remarkable heroism. It is, instead, the story of silence—how silence can be both protection and prison. It began on a damp evening in November, when the air smelled of rust and rain. I was thirteen, old enough to understand danger but too young to name it out loud. My best friend, Daniel, and I had gone exploring near the abandoned railway station on the edge of town. It was the kind of place our parents had forbidden us to go, which of course made it irresistible. The station was a skeleton of itself—wooden benches rotting, graffiti curling on the brick walls, and shards of glass glinting on the floor like broken promises. We were laughing about ghosts when we heard the sound: heavy footsteps, deliberate, echoing against the empty walls. A man emerged from the shadows. His coat was too large, his face half-hidden by the brim of his cap. He didn’t say much, only asked us what we were doing there. Something in his tone made my chest tighten. Daniel, always braver than me, shrugged and said we were just looking around. The man smiled, but it wasn’t kind. He reached for Daniel’s arm. I still don’t know how I found the courage, but I grabbed Daniel’s hand and pulled him toward the tracks. We ran, our shoes slipping on the wet gravel. The man shouted after us, his voice sharp as broken glass, but he didn’t follow far. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he simply enjoyed the fear. We didn’t stop running until we reached the streetlights of our neighborhood. We never told anyone. Not our parents, not our teachers, not even Daniel’s older brother who would have gone looking for the man with a baseball bat. At thirteen, silence felt safer than questions. If we told, someone might blame us for being there. Someone might say we invited trouble. But silence has weight. Over the years, Daniel and I grew apart, as childhood friends often do. He joined the soccer team, I joined the debate club. We still nodded at each other in the hallways, but the secret we shared became like a wall between us. Every time I saw him laugh with his new friends, I wanted to tell someone what had happened—to lighten the burden. But my tongue felt stitched shut. By the time I turned eighteen, the memory had warped. Sometimes I wondered if I had exaggerated it, if the man’s grip had really been as threatening as I remembered. Maybe he was just a lonely stranger. Maybe he meant no harm. The mind plays tricks when you feed it silence instead of truth. Years later, when I was in college, news spread about a man arrested near that same railway station. The article mentioned assaults, children, and years of suspicion finally proven. My hands trembled as I read. His face was older, but unmistakably the same. I realized then what haunted me wasn’t just the fear—it was the possibility that our silence had left others unprotected. If Daniel and I had spoken up, maybe something could have been done sooner. Or maybe not. That “maybe” has followed me like a shadow.
By Atiqbuddyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Most Popular Creatures of Slavic Folklore
Slavic folklore is one of the richest traditions of Europe, filled with witches, spirits, dragons, and magical beings. These creatures were more than stories told around the fire—they explained the mysteries of nature, taught moral lessons, and reflected the struggles of daily life in villages surrounded by forests, rivers, and endless fields.
By Ancient Spiritabout a year ago in Fiction
The River That Listens
Ghostlier than a shadow, she lingered on her shelves—Eleanor, locked up in her own silence. My mama once said Eleanor was cruel to Beau, but I never thought so. No, it wasn’t cruelty. It was a wall. A wall doesn’t choose to hurt—it simply exists. And that wall kept Beau from offering the one thing he had in him: kindness. When he finally claimed what was left of her—boxes, shelves, heaps of scraps—he told mama he almost threw it all away. After all, he’d lived a full life without them. But there was something etched into his brow, some tenderness too stubborn to ignore. So, he sifted through the rot and ruin, careful as though every scrap still breathed, as though he might miss the heartbeat hidden in the dust. Her will had said something strange: “He must put his ear to the ground.” Mama thought she was losing her mind when she wrote it. “A riddle,” she muttered, “meant to torment him.” But I think Eleanor meant every word. See, when Southern women get old, they turn ordinary things into relics. A broken shoelace? A folk tale. A pebble? A legacy. A dog’s water bowl? A shrine. And Eleanor, who trembled at deep water, hoarded other people’s castoffs until they became her gospel. She built a history of ghosts—and then locked herself inside it. Her archive wasn’t just objects. It was grief woven into curtains, laughter pressed into old napkins, sorrow folded into newspaper clippings. She believed stories clung to things, like perfume lingers on clothes, and she refused to let them go. The first time her spirit came to me, a year after she passed, I found her in the nursing home again, coffee in hand, light pooling through the blinds. She didn’t say much—just whispered: “How will I tell Beau that the river I feared to drink from has now come to drink from me?” Then she was gone. I think Beau did as she asked. He pressed his ear to the ground, and what he heard wasn’t silence—it was a flood of voices. The river carried lamentations, praise, warnings, forgotten prayers. It carried Eleanor’s trembling, her hoarding, her fear. And for once, he listened to her—really listened. The truth is, Eleanor knew nothing about antiques. That piece of a telephone she saved—chipped, black, wired—she thought it was a mouthpiece. But it wasn’t. She had filled it with a lifetime of restless talk, and when Beau held it to his ear, he heard exactly what she’d left for him: her unfinished words, her endless echo. He said later it was like holding a seashell, but instead of the ocean’s roar, it was her voice. Low, broken, muttering about lost dogs, forgotten prayers, and the names of people no one else remembered. A ghost archive in a chipped relic. Mama used to laugh at Eleanor’s contradictions. “She loved the thought of praying in water, floating to God, yet she was terrified of a river.” But that was Eleanor’s paradox: she collected history while fearing the greatest historian of all—running water. Beau, though, began to see it differently. He walked to the creek she had feared, the one that swallowed pieces of her past. He stood there, holding that broken mouthpiece, and listened to the water rush. “This is her,” he said, “and this is more than her. This is everyone who came before.” And maybe that’s why he didn’t throw the archive away. Maybe that’s why he boxed it neatly, labeling each scrap, each pebble, each useless thing. He understood, finally, that the real inheritance wasn’t the objects—it was the act of listening. They say that broken piece came from a demolished house, flung into the creek by a wrecking ball. The rest was carted off to the dump. And in its tumbling journey, the river turned it into something more—a final call, waiting for someone to answer. But Eleanor? She hung up before she realized it was for her. And still, when the river runs high after a storm, people swear they can hear a faint ringing. Not a bell, not a machine, but something softer—like a woman clearing her throat, preparing to speak. Maybe it’s the water. Maybe it’s Eleanor. Or maybe it’s the past, still waiting for someone patient enough to listen.
By Atiqbuddyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day I Decided Not to Give Up
The Day I Decided Not to Give Up A story of hitting rock bottom, finding hope in the darkest hour, and rising stronger than ever. --- Introduction There are moments in life when the weight of failure feels unbearable, when every door seems closed, and giving up appears to be the only way out. This is the story of the day I stood at the edge of surrender—and chose not to give up. That single decision changed everything. --- Rock Bottom The rain fell heavy that morning, matching the storm inside me. I had lost my job, my friends had drifted away, and my family’s words of concern felt more like disappointment. Rejection emails piled up, each one cutting deeper than the last. Standing on a bridge, looking down at the rushing water below, I asked myself: What if I just let go? --- The Spark of Hope At that moment, an old man walked by. He paused, looked me in the eyes, and smiled gently. “Don’t give up today,” he said. “Tomorrow may be the day everything changes.” Those words struck me like lightning. Simple, but powerful. I stepped back from the edge. --- Taking the First Step That evening, I wrote down a small plan: wake up early, exercise, apply for jobs, read, and write one page a day. Nothing extraordinary—but it was a start. The next morning, I followed it. For the first time in months, I felt proud of myself. --- The Struggle Continues Progress was slow. Rejections still came, loneliness still hurt, and many days I wanted to quit. But each time the darkness whispered, “Give up,” I answered, “Not today.” One day became two. Two became a week. A week became a month. --- The Breakthrough After two months, I got a call for an interview. My hands shook as I prepared, but I went anyway. Two days later, I heard the words I had been waiting for: “We’d like to offer you the position.” I cried, not just because I got a job, but because I had proven something to myself—that I was stronger than my failures. --- Beyond Survival Life didn’t magically become perfect, but step by step, it got better. My finances improved, I reconnected with family, and I even made new friends. More importantly, I discovered my own strength. --- Conclusion Looking back, I realize the power of that single decision—not to give up. Life still has challenges, but now I face them with courage. --- Moral of the Story The greatest victories are born from the moments we refuse to surrender. You don’t need to conquer everything today—you just need to decide not to give up today, because tomorrow may be the day everything changes.
By Noman Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Wetherby Close
She shrieked at me when I told her she had to leave. Hissed and spat like an angry little kitten. You can't do that! she said. Well, shouted, really. I'm an estate agent, you know! she added, as if she were telling me she were a big, hot shot lawyer, or something. (Ha. As if. I'm still on the look out for a decent lawyer.) I know you can't just evict me! she seethed. I have rights!
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Department of Lost Futures
Samuel stood at the intersection, hands deep in his jacket pockets. The early April wind stung his ears and sliced his neck, clinging to winter’s husk. The wind paused, then resumed with a serrated edge. The streetlamp above flickered like a cataracted eye.
By Fatal Serendipityabout a year ago in Fiction
The Third Man Factor
The sun bakes us, and we try not to moan. We try not to do anything, for even opening our mouths costs precious moisture. The dunes shimmer, there is no breeze.
By Sam Spinelliabout a year ago in Fiction
FROM LOST TO FOUND. AI-Generated.
There was a time when I thought I had everything figured out. Life felt like a road that only stretched forward neat, predictable, and safe. But it doesn’t take much for a road to bend. Sometimes all it takes is one choice, one disappointment, or one door closing to make you feel like you’ve lost your way.
By Yakubu Grace Oyizaabout a year ago in Fiction
What Is in a Name: The Hero, and The Lich. AI-Generated.
Chapter I – The Chosen The bards called him chosen by fate. The priests called him blessed by the gods. The people, desperate for hope, named him hero.
By Ai.Pendrakeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day Time Forgot My Name. AI-Generated.
I woke up yesterday, and the calendar betrayed me. The date was gone. My phone showed no numbers, only a blank void where time should have been. Even the clock on the wall stood still—its hands frozen between seconds like a heartbeat that refused to finish.
By Muhammed Ismailabout a year ago in Fiction