Short Story
NOT ALL HOMES WELCOME YOU. Content Warning.
My friend Mr. Sinha had always believed in logic. A retired forest officer with a stern face and a steady voice, he laughed off the idea of ghosts and curses. When he bought a sprawling but decaying zamindar house in a remote Bengal village, he felt like he had found peace at last.
By Isabella Woodabout a year ago in Fiction
This Is What I Meant to Say
This Is What I Meant to Say A reflective monologue-style essay By [KINE WILLIMS] I didn’t say it then. I don’t know why. Maybe I was afraid of what it would mean, or maybe I thought the silence would protect me. But now, when it’s far too late for the words to matter, they won’t stop echoing in my head.
By Kine Willimesabout a year ago in Fiction
This Is What I Meant to Say
This Is What I Meant to Say; I rehearsed it a hundred times in my head. In the shower. On long walks. In the pauses between conversations. I even whispered it into my pillow some nights, just to see how the words felt in the air. But every time the moment came, I stayed silent. I smiled instead. I changed the subject. I told myself it wasn’t the right time — or worse, that you already knew.
By Kine Willimesabout a year ago in Fiction
Ronaldo and Kids. AI-Generated.
In a small village nestled between green hills and dusty roads, lived a ten-year-old boy named Hamid. He was tall for his age, with curious eyes and a constant smile that lit up the classroom. Like every other kid in his school, Hamid had one big dream — to meet Cristiano Ronaldo, the football legend he watched on his uncle’s old television.
By Bilal Mohammadiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror Between Worlds
Chapter One: The Forgotten Antique In the heart of an old European town nestled between misty hills, a young historian named Lena Ashford stumbled upon a crumbling shop labeled “Timeless Echoes.” The door creaked open with an eerie familiarity, as if it had been waiting.
By Echoes by Shafi--about a year ago in Fiction
Cat Nights Are Coming
Introduction Cat Nights begin on August 17. This term harks back to the days when people believed in witches. A rather obscure old Irish legend said that a witch could turn herself into a cat eight times, but on the ninth time (August 17), she couldn’t regain her human form. This bit of folklore also gives us the saying, “A cat has nine lives.” Because August is a yowly time for cats, this may have prompted the speculation about witches on the prowl in the first place. Also, nights continue to get longer. Cats, crepuscular creatures, are nocturnal hunters. Their superior night vision means that the nights belong to them.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Warsaw Echo
The Tape in the Tomb Rain slicked the cobblestones of Warsaw’s Old Town, tracing old wounds through centuries of stone. Lena Kovac, a historian with more ghosts than colleagues, pulled her coat tighter against the cold. Her footsteps echoed as she approached St. John’s Archcathedral, heart pounding with disbelief. The email had been brief. Anonymous. But it used her childhood nickname. And the sender’s name—Aleksy Kovac—was impossible. Her grandfather had died in 1989, shot during the chaos of the Polish uprisings. “Find Bishop Bogoria’s tomb. Play the tape. Save her.” The cathedral’s doors creaked like a warning. Inside, incense clung to ancient stone, mingling with the scent of mildew and dust. Light from stained glass fractured across marble saints, but the shadows felt heavier today. She descended into the crypt. Her fingers brushed across carved limestone, searching. Then—a click. A hidden crevice gave way, revealing a weathered cassette tape marked: Gdańsk, 1981 She hesitated. Then pressed play. A woman’s voice filled the crypt. Shaky but steady. Brave. “They silenced the shipyard whistle… Solidarity’s list is buried in the—” A gunshot cut her off. Before the silence settled, a shadow detached itself from the confessional. Someone had been listening. Watching. Lena didn’t wait. She ran, the tape clutched like a ticking bomb. The Ghosts of Gdańsk The voice belonged to Anya Petrov, a Solidarity activist who had vanished without a trace during martial law. To the world, she was just another casualty of the regime. But to Lena, she became something more. Research and fragments from family letters revealed the truth: Anya was her grandfather’s lover. A fighter. A ghost. And her death wasn’t an accident. It tied to something called Operation Krysztal—an unholy mission orchestrated by the secret police to silence dissenters through staged suicides and “incidents.” Lena followed the trail to Shipyard No. 10, now a rusted museum to forgotten bravery. Inside the old canteen, she located a crumbling wall where a brick jutted out. With trembling fingers, she pried it loose. Inside, wrapped in oilskin, was Anya’s journal. “Colonel Vladek ordered it. He always wears the wolf’s-head ring. If I die, find the list. It names every traitor within Solidarity.” It wasn’t just about the past anymore. It was about who had betrayed the dream. That night, back at her hotel, a photo awaited her—stabbed to her door with a switchblade. It was a photo of her grandfather’s grave. But it was freshly dug. And in red ink, scrawled across the photo: “Stop digging, or lie beside him.” The Wolf’s Ring In Berlin, Lena bribed a clerk in the Stasi Archives with a bottle of Polish vodka and a fake academic badge. One image sealed it all. Colonel Ivo Vladek, grinning at the Brandenburg Gate in 1989. On his hand gleamed a ring—a silver wolf devouring a star. The symbol chilled her more than the cold. “He’s not in hiding,” whispered an aging librarian who’d once catalogued surveillance footage. “He’s the brain behind the New Dawn Party. He’s back—wearing a suit instead of a uniform.” The far-right populist group had risen fast, feeding discontented citizens half-truths and entire lies. On the train back, Lena’s phone buzzed. A video: Vladek, pristine in a Brioni suit, addressing a massive rally. “Europe forgets its martyrs. But we remember. We cleanse. We restore.” Behind him, a banner unfurled: CLEAN HANDS. PURE NATION. A message followed seconds later: “Anya’s list exposes my allies. Bury it, and your grandfather’s ‘suicide’ stays buried too.” The Bloody Ballot In Prague, under the mist-veiled statues of Charles Bridge, Lena met a man named Tomas, an exiled data engineer who once worked for Poland’s state media. “They rigged the last election,” he whispered, eyes scanning the fog. “New Dawn switched thousands of votes in Podkarpacie. Anya’s list confirms who helped.” He handed her a USB drive. It was more than damning. It was a roadmap—from Kremlin accounts to Polish politicians. From Vladek to media heads. From Moscow, with love. “Vladek’s not just a fascist. He’s Putin’s puppet.” A sharp whistle. Then a crack. Tomas staggered, crimson blooming on his coat. He collapsed at her feet. Lena ran, barely hearing the screams of tourists. In her fist, the drive pulsed like a live wire. A tour guide’s headset crackled behind her as she vanished into the city’s maze: “History always eats its children, Lena,” Vladek’s voice taunted. The Broadcast Back in Warsaw, thunder rolled as Lena entered the Palace of Culture and Science—Stalin’s looming gift, now a monument to ghosts and power. It was election night. New Dawn’s landslide victory was being broadcast live from the tower’s spire. But Lena had a plan. Inside a forgotten broadcast control room, she plugged in the USB. Anya’s voice returned. Not a whisper, but a roar. “They silenced us. But we kept the list.” Then: data. Names. Account numbers. Surveillance footage. The truth stormed across every major screen in Europe. Vladek, mid-speech, faltered. His grin turned to steel. “This won’t matter,” he spat, drawing a pistol. “They’ll call it Russian disinformation. Fake news. No one cares.” The fire alarm howled. Lena stepped from the shadows. A fire extinguisher in hand. One swing. CRACK. The wolf’s-head ring shattered across the stage. “Anya sends her regards.” Outside, protesters filled the streets. Fists raised. Phones recording. A chant surged, thunderous and true: “WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING!” As police dragged Vladek into custody, rain began to fall again—washing Warsaw clean. Lena looked to the sky. Not all revolutions needed guns. Some needed a tape, a name, and someone willing to remember.
By Muhammad Abuzar Badshah about a year ago in Fiction
