Short Story

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A thousand ships in formation. Glittering brighter than stars against the purplish near-dusk. Pomp and ceremony to befit a royal marriage as her father used to say. And just as well, Empire loved its displays.
By Alexander McEvoyabout a year ago in Fiction
Hope in Darkness
The air in the basement shelter was thick—full of dust, fear, and memory. The stale smell of damp concrete mixed with the metallic tang of rusted pipes. Dust floated like ash in the air, suspended in shafts of moonlight that crept through the cracks above, faint and silver. The walls groaned now and then, as if struggling to hold the world together. Outside, the war raged on. The distant thuds of artillery came in uneven bursts—some soft, some sharp, all terrifying. They echoed like thunder but with less mercy. Each boom seemed to shake the ground a little more than the last. But inside, beneath layers of earth and silence, time stood still. Mira sat with her little brother huddled close to her chest. Her arms wrapped around him like a shield she wasn’t sure she could hold up much longer. Sami’s small fingers clung to the edge of her sweater, knuckles white. At just six years old, he hadn’t yet mastered the quiet fear that survival demanded. His soft whimpers pressed into Mira’s skin like invisible needles. It had been two days since their mother left. Two long, hollow days. She had gone out to find medicine for Sami’s cough, which had turned into something deeper—wet, rattling, cruel. She promised she’d come back before nightfall that same day. She hadn’t. Mira was only thirteen, but war had sculpted her into something older—something tougher, but fraying. She had learned to listen for drones like others once listened for rain, to boil water from the building’s broken radiator pipes, to ration half a loaf of stale bread over three silent days. That night, the darkness felt different. Heavier. It pressed against her thoughts, her ribs, her hope. There was no candle left to burn; the last had melted into a puddle of wax the night before. And the flashlight had blinked out that morning with a dying sputter. The dark wasn’t just around her—it was inside her. “Do you think Mama’s coming back?” Sami’s voice was a fragile thread, barely a breath in the gloom. Mira didn’t answer right away. Lying had never come naturally to her. But the truth felt sharp and cold, like glass in her mouth. “She promised,” she whispered finally, tightening her grip on him. Sami nodded. That was all he needed—someone to sound sure. Children didn’t require certainty. Just faith in the voice beside them. For a long while, the only sound was the rasp of Sami’s cough and the occasional shifting of rats in the walls. Mira's mind drifted—half memory, half dream. She thought of her mother brushing her hair gently on quiet mornings before school. Of music on the radio. Of apricots in a paper bag. Things that felt impossibly far now, as if they belonged to a different life. Then came a sound—a soft shuffle from the far side of the basement. Mira’s spine stiffened. She reached for the rusted pipe she kept nearby, her heart pounding louder than the shells outside. “Who’s there?” she called out, voice trembling, both terrified and trying not to be. Silence answered first. Then, a whisper. “It’s me.” Mira’s breath caught. She dropped the pipe and scrambled forward on hands and knees, guided more by instinct than sight. Her fingers reached into the dark—and closed around a trembling hand. “Mama?” she gasped. A choked sound—half sob, half laugh—escaped her lips as her mother’s form slumped into view. Her clothes were soaked from rain, her hair clung to her face in tangled strands, and her body shook with exhaustion. But she was alive. That alone was a miracle. In her hand, she clutched a small, battered bag. “Medicine,” she rasped. “For Sami.” Tears fell freely now, unashamed and unstoppable. Mira helped her mother lower herself onto the ground. She was cold, soaked to the bone, but there was relief in her eyes—a light that hadn’t been there when she left. Mira tore open the bag and pulled out a small bottle of syrup, wrapped in cloth, along with two stubby candles and a box of matches. Her hands shook as she measured a spoonful and gave it to Sami. He coughed once, then swallowed. His body relaxed ever so slightly. Then Mira struck a match. The flare of light was brief and brilliant—then caught the candle wick. A flicker of golden flame bloomed in the gloom, casting dancing shadows on the walls, across their faces, over the wounds and weariness they all carried. And just like that, the darkness blinked back. Sami laughed—a soft, rasping laugh, but real. “I knew you’d come back,” he murmured, curling up beside their mother. “I never stopped walking,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his forehead. “Even when I couldn’t see the road.” They sat like that for a while, no one saying much. Just breathing. Listening to the candle crackle. Eventually, Mira lit the second candle and placed it further across the basement. The twin flames pushed the darkness back, if only a little. But it was enough. She looked at her mother’s face—weathered, lined with dirt and sorrow—but strong. She had walked through a city that was no longer a city. Dodged patrols, climbed over rubble, faced rain and fear and time. And still, she came back. Mira realized something then—something quiet and soul-deep. The world could fall apart. The skies could shatter. Silence could scream louder than bombs. But as long as there was someone left to carry hope—even a single match’s worth of it—the light would never fully go out. Hope didn’t need to roar. It just needed to flicker. And flicker it did, against the cold basement walls, casting the shadow of a girl, her brother, and their mother—three flames in a world gone dark.
By Atiqbuddyabout a year ago in Fiction
🌅— Betrayal and Arrest. AI-Generated.
• The work opens with a double choir surrounding the listener, almost like the world witnessing a cosmic event. • The story begins with Jesus and his disciples at the Last Supper. Jesus predicts betrayal, and Judas slips away into the night.
By Mudasir Hakeemi about a year ago in Fiction
My Mother-in-Law’s Last Words Unlocked a Secret That Changed My Marriage Forever
I never thought her last words would haunt me — or save my marriage. My mother-in-law, Saeeda Begum, was the kind of woman who never said much but noticed everything. She had the ability to observe quietly and offer wisdom when least expected. I used to brush it off, calling it “old-school thinking,” but now I realize she had a deeper insight into our lives than either of us ever acknowledged. The day she passed, my husband was shattered. They were incredibly close — she had practically raised him alone. And though our relationship had its ups and downs, I respected her deeply. But what I didn’t expect was the note she left behind. Folded neatly into the last page of her prayer book, addressed to me. It read: "Ayesha beta, I know things aren’t right between you and Salman. But before I leave, you must know this — your husband is not hiding from you. He’s hiding from himself. Help him remember who he was before the world taught him to forget. You’ll find the answer in the green box under the bed." I read it three times before I could breathe again. Our marriage had been quietly crumbling for over a year. The love had become routine. Conversations were shallow. There were no arguments, no passion — just silence. Salman had become distant, always “busy,” always tired. I thought maybe he was having an affair, or regretted marrying me. I started questioning my own worth. The green box was covered in dust. It had been there for years, part of the things he never unpacked after we moved in. I hesitated, heart pounding, and then opened it. Inside were old notebooks, childhood sketches, faded photographs... and a leather-bound journal. I opened the first page: "Dreams of a young architect who wanted to build homes, not just houses." I froze. Salman had never told me he wanted to be an architect. He had studied accounting, worked in finance, and always said he “liked the stability.” But here, in this forgotten box, were pages filled with designs, dreams, and quotes about building places that felt like “shelter for the soul.” I spent the entire night going through the box, piecing together a version of the man I never knew — or perhaps the version he had buried. The next morning, I made him breakfast and laid the box on the table. He looked at it like it was a ghost. "Where did you find this?" he asked, voice shaking. "Your mother gave it to me," I said softly. "With her last words." He sat down slowly, opening one of the sketchbooks like it was a wound. For the first time in months, tears welled up in his eyes. Then the truth spilled out. How he had once dreamed of building schools in underprivileged areas, of creating places of dignity for those who had none. But after his father died, he was pressured into stability, into numbers, into a life that was never his own. "I buried it all," he said. "And with it, I buried myself." We talked for hours. For the first time in years, we truly talked. Not about bills or groceries, but about fears, sacrifices, and forgotten dreams. That night, we promised to find our way back — not just to each other, but to ourselves. Three months later, Salman enrolled in a part-time architecture course. He started sketching again, on weekends, after work, whenever he had time. And slowly, I saw the man I married come back to life. Her last words weren’t just a goodbye — they were a door. A quiet key to a truth that saved us. I’ll forever be grateful to the woman who saw the cracks before they became fractures. Who left behind a message not to expose a secret, but to heal one. Some secrets are meant to be kept. Others? Meant to be found at exactly the right time.
By Atiqbuddyabout a year ago in Fiction
I Tried Different Ways to See If Someone Is on Tinder Without Joining — Here’s What I Found
In the cozy, tree-lined streets of Willow Bend, USA, where neighbors swap pie recipes and the biggest scandal is a misplaced garden gnome, I never imagined I’d become a digital detective. I’m Julie Smith, a 29-year-old marketing coordinator crafting ad campaigns for local shops by day and dreaming of rom-com-worthy love by night. That dream felt real with my boyfriend, Alex, a software developer I met two years ago when he clumsily spilled his latte on my laptop at a Willow Bend coffee shop. Our first date—pasta and candlelight at the town’s Italian bistro—sparked a romance of shared laughs and starlit walks. But when his late-night texts grew cryptic and his “work trips” suspiciously frequent, I started wondering: is he on Tinder? I needed to know how to see if someone is on Tinder without joining, and how to find Tinder by image, all while staying anonymous. Tinder’s swipe-only setup has no search bar, so I tried every trick in the book—phone checks, social media sleuthing, bank statements, and more—before Social Catfish saved the day. Here’s my story, starting with the tool that cracked the case, followed by the free methods I tried, so you can decide what works for you.
By Julie Smithabout a year ago in Fiction
The World Forgets Devonne. Content Warning.
Devonne woke to silence. Not the ordinary silence of dawn, but a silence so heavy it pressed against his ribs. He rose from bed and stepped into the hallway of his apartment—only to stop short. The corridor wasn’t his. Instead of the narrow passage with peeling wallpaper and a single dangling bulb, the hallway stretched endlessly in both directions. And the doors—there were far too many. Identical brown doors lined each side, every one stamped with his apartment number: 24. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, but the numbers didn’t change. “Yvonne?” he called, his voice too loud in the stillness. His sister had been staying with him for weeks, hiding from something she never named. But the silence only gave his voice back to him in a warped echo: Yvonne? Yvonne? Yvo—nne—nne. The sound crawled along his skin. He tried the nearest door. Inside was his bedroom—perfectly replicated. Even the socks he had dropped last night lay on the floor. But when he opened the next door, the socks had shifted. Another door, and they had moved again. A fraction to the left. A fraction to the right. As if his life were being replayed, frame by frame, slightly altered each time. The hallway bent back on itself, looping into impossible curves. Scuff marks from an old accident appeared again and again, repeating like a scratched record. His phone was useless. The screen glitched, the numbers of the clock sliding downwards like melting wax. Then the humming began. At first faint, like a refrigerator buried in the walls. Then louder. Deeper. It vibrated in his chest, in his bones. It wasn’t mechanical. It was alive. Devonne swallowed. “What do you want?” The humming deepened—content, almost amused. He pressed forward, clinging to the thought of Yvonne: her sharp laugh, the way she drummed her fingers when impatient. He would not—could not—leave her here. But the hallway wasn’t empty anymore. People appeared. A woman in a yellow raincoat passed without looking at him. A man carried grocery bags filled not with food but with screws, feathers, teeth. They muttered to themselves in doubled voices, every word repeated a heartbeat later. Then came familiar faces. His old schoolteacher. A neighbor from childhood. Even his father, who had been dead for years. Devonne’s chest tightened. “Excuse me—have you seen Yvonne?” The neighbor smiled politely, but her words cracked and stuttered: “Yv—onne? No one by that—by that—by that…” The syllables fractured and dissolved. They didn’t see him. Their eyes slid over him, as if he were nothing but a smudge on glass. By the time he reached a town square—its fountain spilling black ink instead of water—he understood why. In the ink’s reflection, his face was fading. Not invisible—blurred. His features were dissolving, outlines smudged into suggestion. He raised a hand to his cheek and felt skin, but in the reflection, there was only a blank patch of air. The world itself was losing him. “Yvonne…” His voice was almost a prayer. The ink rippled. And there she was. Across the square, Yvonne stood with her hair plastered to her face, her dress dripping black liquid that stained the stones beneath her feet. Her eyes locked on him with recognition—and horror. “Devonne?” Her voice fractured into echoes. “You shouldn’t have followed. You’ll unravel.” He stumbled toward her, desperate. But the square stretched as he moved, the distance between them elongating like rubber. “Stay with me!” he shouted. “I’ll bring you back!” Yvonne shook her head slowly. “I’m not me anymore. I’m… scattered. Every time I remember you, I lose another piece of myself.” Her image flickered, twisting—child, woman, stranger, all superimposed at once. The humming swelled into laughter, vast and delighted. Devonne clutched his head. “Why us? Why here?” The presence didn’t answer in words. The buildings buckled. The sky cracked like porcelain. Something immense and unseen erased another piece of him. His memories stuttered. His name slipped from his own mind like water through a sieve. Yvonne stretched out her hand, trembling. But her fingers never reached him. “Go back. Forget me. If you stay, it’ll take all of you.” “No,” Devonne gasped. “I won’t leave you here.” Her broken smile cut him to the bone. “You already are leaving me.” He looked down. His hands were gone. Not invisible, not fading
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Secrets my Mother Kept
1:47 p.m. The Birthday lunch sat untouched on the dining room table. Mom's favorite plates - the blue and white ones with the waves around the edges - had been set out with careful precision. A weak attempt at normalcy.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
Halloween. Content Warning.
Paranoia had gripped Haddonfield. They thought they had killed Michael Myers. They were right. However, The Shape dwelled within Michael. It was the evil that had infected Michael in 1963 and corrupted his soul. The Shape was Michael once again. It had manifested itself as its favorite form. That is 1978’s Michael Myers, the twenty-one-year-old. He crept inside Laurie’s house and grabbed the mask. As soon as he put it on, he felt whole again.
By DJ Robbinsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Farmer, the world War2, and the Clever Plow
The world was at war. Borders were burning, cities were crumbling, and loyalties were being tested in the harshest of ways. In a quiet village, far removed from the battlefronts but not the consequences, lived a humble farmer. Like many others, his only concern had always been his land, his crops, and his family. But even remote lives get caught in the webs spun by great powers. It so happened that during the chaos of the war, suspicion fell upon this farmer. The army, acting on vague intelligence, suspected him of communicating with the enemy. Perhaps it was a false report, or maybe he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever the case, he was arrested and imprisoned. No trial. No explanation. Just bars and a cold floor. Weeks turned into months, and the farmer remained locked away from the life he had once known. Back home, his wife tried to carry on. But with the growing season arriving, she faced an overwhelming challenge—preparing the fields for planting, especially for potatoes, which had always been their staple crop. One day, the farmer received a letter from his wife. Written with worry and longing, it read: “You’re still locked up, and the potato season is slipping away. I can't plow the fields myself, and there's no one I can trust to help. If you were here, you would have had the land ready by now. What should I do?” The farmer read the letter with a heavy heart. He knew his wife was right. And he knew she couldn't manage the heavy work on her own. But then, inspiration struck. With a small smile curling his lips, he picked up a pen and replied: “Whatever you do, don’t dig in the fields. That’s where I’ve hidden the weapons.” He sent the letter, and then he waited. A few days later, a swarm of soldiers descended upon his small farm. Dozens of men, spades in hand, stormed the fields. Under strict orders, they dug every inch of the land from one corner to the other, searching for the rumored hidden weapons. They worked for hours, turning the soil upside down, not leaving a single stone unturned. But of course, there were no weapons. Only earth, roots, and the sweet smell of fertile land. The farmer’s wife watched them work in disbelief. She didn’t say a word. Days later, she wrote to her husband again: “Your letter worked. The army came and dug up the entire field. They didn't find anything, but now the soil is all turned over. What should I do now?” The farmer smiled as he penned his reply: “Now, my love, plant the potatoes.” This tale, while light-hearted on the surface, carries within it the essence of resilience, wit, and the quiet power of thinking one step ahead. The farmer, powerless in chains, found a way to help his wife not with tools, but with words. He outsmarted an entire army, not with deception for harm, but with a clever twist that solved a real problem without breaking any rules. It’s a lesson in how, even when life corners us, there’s room to maneuver—if only we keep our minds sharp and our hearts calm. In a time of war, where violence was currency and force was the norm, a simple farmer used strategy instead of strength. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t beg. He simply thought, acted, and won. And perhaps, that’s the most powerful kind of resistance there is. Moral: When you're buried by life’s problems, sometimes the solution isn’t to fight harder—but to think smarter. In the end, wisdom often plows the ground where strength would have faltered. Thans for reading and supporting,
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Princess Melayna
Page 1 Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. No one knew why it happened—only that it began on the day a very special girl was born.
By Marcus Hillabout a year ago in Fiction
The First Glance
It was a late afternoon in early autumn, the kind of day when the sun sinks slowly and turns everything golden, as if the whole town has been dipped in honey. The air was cool but not yet cold, carrying the faint scent of roasted chestnuts from a cart nearby. The narrow street was alive with people, footsteps echoing against the stone pavement, and yet for her, it felt as though the world had slowed.
By Saba Writesabout a year ago in Fiction
Flight of the Honeybee
Silvia Gardner walked down the long tunnel holding her father’s hand. She looked nervous. It was obvious that this was her first time on an airplane. She turned around, her eyes darting left and right as she searched for her mother. For a moment she almost cried out, “Mom!” But then she saw her—just a few people behind. Silvia reached out her hand, and the passengers between them allowed her mother to pass. No mother should be separated from her child, especially one so young.
By David E. Perryabout a year ago in Fiction