Short Story

The Last Broadcast. AI-Generated.
The Last Broadcast The night shift was the loneliest shift in the city. By the time the clock struck midnight, the streets outside were empty, save for the hum of streetlamps and the distant moan of the wind. Inside Station WPRX, only one light burned: the studio booth of Midnight Letters, a radio show hosted by a man who called himself Solomon Grey.
By Rashid khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library That Eats Memories. AI-Generated.
The Library That Eats Memories The storm had driven her off course. Amelia was not supposed to be here—half-drenched, her umbrella useless, trudging through an alley that felt older than the city itself. She was searching for shelter when she noticed it: a crooked wooden door wedged between two forgotten brick buildings. Above it, the faded sign read: The Library of Echoes.
By Rashid khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Boons and Curses. AI-Generated.
The tale of Arin, who learned that blessings and burdens are two sides of the same coin. --- Long ago, in a quiet village nestled between green hills and a forest that seemed to whisper secrets, there lived a boy named Arin. Unlike the other children, he was not known for his strength, speed, or cleverness with tools. His gift was stranger, subtler, and far heavier than any child could understand.
By Abuzar about a year ago in Fiction
Beauty from A Distance
Catalina always thought the boutique window was a kind of stage. The mannequins stood stiff and lifeless, yet somehow alive under her careful hands. As a young single mother, she didn’t have the luxury of chasing dreams in Paris or New York. Her runway was Main Street, her stage lights the morning sun, and her models—well, they were silent figures dressed in the colors of her imagination.
By Rebecca Daughertyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Balcony That Watched Back
Liam had always loved mornings. The kind of mornings where the first sunlight crept lazily over the horizon, painting the city in pale gold, and the distant hum of traffic was gentle enough to be comforting rather than annoying. From his apartment on the 16th floor, the skyline looked like a painting, a perfect vista that made him feel both small and infinitely expansive at the same time.
By AngelFaceabout a year ago in Fiction
This Little Light of Mine
“Hon, you need to get home. She’s not doing well. It’s time.” I don’t remember how long I held onto the phone after hearing my mother’s somber words but it had long ago disconnected the call. I wanted to pull the old Grand Cherokee out of my assigned parking space and head north, but I couldn’t… not yet.
By Krysha Thorpabout a year ago in Fiction
Abyss Gaze
Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. – Friedrich Nietzsche
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Painfully Perfect. Content Warning.
"It's beautiful here... now I know why you spent so much time out here alone." She said as she stood on the bank of the serene, winding river and looked down at the valley below.
By Luna Verityabout a year ago in Fiction
Vanished
Allison stood at the railing that went around the look-out’s edge. The sunset was several hours away, and the sun blazed down from the afternoon sky above the awe-inspiring, rock formations. She gazed out passed the statues filling the valley and searched the distance for something ominous that was waiting and silently calling from just beyond her sight. Something waiting to add to her loss and grief.
By Annaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ladder to Nowhere
The Ladder to Nowhere My grandfather, Finnigan, was the town eccentric. And his masterpiece of oddity was the ladder. It stood in the middle of his back field, leaning against the one thing that broke the flat expanse of Iowa corn: a giant, ancient oak tree. The ladder was a beautiful, hand-crafted thing, made of oak to match the tree, with rungs worn smooth by time and weather. But it was utterly, bafflingly pointless. It went up twenty feet, and then it stopped. It didn’t reach the first branch. It just… ended. In mid-air.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Poverty Foster Crime
In the narrow alleys of Karachi's old town, poverty wasn’t just a condition — it was a shadow that lived on every wall, in every corner, following everyone like a curse too familiar to fear. Fifteen-year-old Bilal had learned two things growing up: first, that the world was unfair, and second, that fairness didn’t fill your stomach. He lived with his mother and two younger sisters in a one-room shack made of tin and tarpaulin, their roof leaking every monsoon, and the floor barely holding up during the dry spells. His father had died when Bilal was ten — a laborer crushed at a construction site. Since then, his mother stitched clothes day and night, her fingers raw, her eyes hollow, barely earning enough for stale naan and lentils. School had become a dream Bilal left behind in sixth grade. Hunger, after all, didn’t respect textbooks. It was in that hunger that crime first whispered to him. It started with stealing fruit from a vendor's cart. Then it was snatching a wallet from a distracted rickshaw passenger. Small things. Quick. Almost guiltless. Every rupee he brought home made his mother cry —ot out of shame, but because it meant her children wouldn't sleep with empty stomachs that night. But the streets were watching. So was Rehman Bhai. Rehman ran a small-time gang that dealt in stolen phones, black market fuel, and sometimes, weapons. He liked Bilal’s speed and silence. Soon, Bilal wasn’t just stealing — he was delivering things he didn’t dare ask about, receiving crisp notes in return. More money than he had ever seen. With every delivery, Bilal climbed a little higher in the gang. He started wearing clean clothes. His sisters went back to school. They had meat once a week. He even bought his mother a fan for the scorching summer nights. No one questioned the change. In their neighborhood, where nearly every young boy either begged or joined a gang, Bilal was just doing what many considered “necessary.” But then came the night that changed everything. Rehman called him in with a job that “required trust.” It was supposed to be a simple watch-and-wait. Instead, it turned into a confrontation — an armed robbery gone wrong. A shopkeeper resisted. One of the gang members fired. Blood. Screams. Sirens. Bilal ran. Heart racing. Clothes soaked in sweat and fear. He didn’t sleep that night. Not because of guilt — that would come later — but because he realized something deeper: He had crossed a line he didn’t know existed until he stepped over it. The next morning, his mother asked him where he had been. He didn’t answer. She didn’t push. But something in her eyes shifted. A silent knowing. A quiet heartbreak. Two days later, Rehman was arrested. Bilal wasn’t named — yet. But the fear of a knock on the door, the humiliation of a trial, the thought of prison, loomed large. He sat on the rooftop that night, the city buzzing below, and asked himself a question that would haunt him: Was it his fault? Or the world’s? If he hadn’t been poor… if he had been in school… if his father had lived… would he have ended up this way? He thought about the other boys in his neighborhood — boys who had stolen not because they were evil, but because they were desperate. Girls who sold their dignity because the government never gave them anything else. Men who became criminals not out of greed, but out of survival. The system didn’t just ignore them — it made criminals, and then punished them for it. The next morning, Bilal walked into a nearby charity-run school. He asked to study, to clean, to work, to do anything — just to stay away from the life he had known. It wasn’t a miracle ending. He still carried the weight of what he’d done. He still feared the police. But it was a start. Because he had realized something most politicians never did: Poverty doesn’t breed evil — it breeds desperation. And desperate people make desperate choices. --- Final Lines: Every time we judge a criminal from a distance, we forget the circumstances that built them. Not every thief is wicked. Sometimes, he’s just hungry. And in a world where bread is more expensive than morality, crime isn’t always a choice — sometimes, it's the only option left.
By Atiqbuddyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ghost Collector. Content Warning.
Your first date isn’t going well. The food is great but you can't enjoy it because this guy is just too much. His eyes make you feel uncomfortable, he’s not yelling or raising his voice but he just seems too intense.
By Sam Spinelliabout a year ago in Fiction