Short Story

Elaine. Honorable Mention in Leave the Light On Challenge. Top Story - July 2025.
The kettle hissed long before she remembered to pour it. The sound had always comforted her. It was unconventional people used to say. Technology had moved on. But she had liked the ordinariness of the steam pouring upward into the air. It slowed down the process. Made tea a ritual. It had become part of their routine. But tonight, she barely registered the familiar noise. It just didn’t belong in the silence of the night. Felt out of place somehow. She set down the cups, placing them lightly on mismatched saucers. The clink of porcelain refocused her for a moment. Breathe.
By River and Celia in Underlandabout a year ago in Fiction
The Cup of Tea She Never Finished
"The Cup of Tea She Never Finished" By Niamat Ullah The last time I saw my mother, she was sitting on the veranda, holding her favorite cup of tea. It was a quiet afternoon, the kind where even the birds forget to chirp, and the sky looks too tired to shine.
By Niamat ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
His First Flight
The young seagull was alone on his ledge. His two brothers and his sister had already flown away the day before. He had been afraid to fly with them. Somehow when he had taken a little run forward to the brink of the ledge and attempted to flap his wings he became afraid. The great expanse of sea stretched down beneath, and it was such a long way down. miles down. He felt certain that his wings would never support him, so he bent his head and ran away back to the little hole under the ledge where he slept at night. Even when each of his brothers and his little sister, whose wings were far shorter than his own, ran to the brink, flapped their wings, and flew away, he failed to muster up courage to take that plunge which appeared to him so desperate. His father and mother had come around aplling to him shrilly, upbraiding him, threatening to let him starve on his ledge unless he flew away. But for the life of him he could not move. That was twenty-four hours ago. Since then nobody had come near him. The day before, all day long, he had watched his parents flying about with his brothers and sister, perfecting them in the art of flight, teaching them how to skim the waves and how to dive for fish. He had, in fact, seen his older brother catch his first herring and devour it, standing on a rock while his parents circled around raising a proud cackle. And all morning, the whole family had walked about on the big plateau midway down the opposite cliff, taunting him for his cowardice. The sun was now ascending the sky, blazing warmly on his ledge that faced the south. He felt the heat because he had not eaten since the previous nightfall. Then he had found a dried piece of mackerel's tail at the far end of his ledge. Now there was not a single scrap of food left. He had searched every inch, rooting among the rough, dirt-caked straw nest where he and his brothers and sister had been hatched. He even gnawed at the dried pieces of spottedeggshell. It was like eating part of himself. He had then trotted back and forth from one end of the ledge to the other, his grey body the colour of the cliff, his long grey legs stepping daintily, trying to find some means of reaching his parents without having to fly. But on each side of him the ledge ended in a sheer fall of precipice, with the sea beneath. And between him and his parents there was a deep, wide chasm ... And above him he could see nothing. The precipice was sheer, and the top of it was perhaps farther away than the sea beneath him. He stepped slowly out to the brink of the ledge, and, standing on one leg with the other leg hidden under his wing, he closed one eye, then the other, and pretended to be falling asleep. Still they took no notice of him. He saw his two brothers and his sister lying on the plateau dozing, with their heads sunk into their necks. His father was preening the feathers on his white back. Only his mother was looking at him. She was standing and again she tore at a piece of fish that lay at her feet, and then scraped on a little high hump on the plateau, her white breast thrust forward. Now each side of her beak on the rock. The sight of the food maddened him. How he loved to tear food that way, scraping his beak now and again to whet it! He uttered a low cackle. His mother cackled too, and looked over at him. "Ga, ga, ga," he cried, begging her to bring him over some food. "Gaw-ool-ah," she screamed back derisively. But he kept calling plaintively, and after a minute or so he uttered a joyful scream. His mother had picked up a piece of the fish, and was flying across to him with it. He leaned out eagerly, tapping the rock with his feet, trying to get nearer to her as she flew across. But when she was just opposite to him, abreast of the ledge, she halted, her legs hanging limp, her wings motionless, the piece of fish in her beak almost within reach of his beak. He waited a moment in surprise, wondering why she did not come nearer, and then, maddened by hunger, he dived at the fish. With a loud scream he fell outwards and downwards into space. His mother had swooped upwards. As he passed beneath her he heard the swish of her wings. Then a monstrous terror seized him and his heart stood still. He could hear nothing. But it onlylasted a moment. The next moment he felt his wings spread outwards. The wind rushed against his breast feathers, then under his stomach and against his wings. He could feel the tips of his wings cutting through the air. He was not falling headlong now. He was soaring gradually downwards and outwards. He was no longer afraid. He just felt a bit dizzy. Then he flapped his wings once and he soared upwards. He uttered a joyous scream and flapped them again. He soared higher. He raised his breast and banked against the wind. "Ga, ga, ga. Ga, ga, ga. Gaw-ool-ah." His mother swooped past him, her wings making a loud noise. He answered her with another scream. Then his father flew over him screaming. Then he saw his two brothers and his sister flying around him, curvetting and banking and soaring and diving.
By Taajabout a year ago in Fiction
"The House with the Golden Light"
"The House with the Golden Light" By Niamat Ullah They always said the house at the end of Sycamore Lane was haunted—not by ghosts, but by memories.
By Niamat ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lantern in the Storm. AI-Generated.
The wind howled like a wounded animal through the dense pines of Darwain Forest. The clouds above pressed down like a lid on a boiling pot, heavy and brimming with rain. Beneath this stormy sky walked a lone girl, perhaps no older than sixteen, clutching an old brass lantern to her chest. Her name was Elira, and she was searching for her brother, Kael, who had gone missing two nights ago while hunting in the forest. No one in the village dared venture into Darwain after dark—not since the disappearances began. They said the forest was cursed. Whispers spoke of spirits that lured people into the trees and never let them out again. But Elira didn't believe in curses—not until Kael vanished. The lantern she carried was not an ordinary one. It had belonged to her grandmother, a quiet woman known for strange herbs and quiet songs. Before she died, she had told Elira, "If you ever lose someone in the dark, light this lantern. It knows the path that words cannot find." Elira had never believed her—until now. The storm crashed overhead, and thunder shook the sky, but the lantern’s flame burned steadily, protected from wind and rain as if by magic. Every time she hesitated at a fork in the path or a place where the trail vanished, the flame flickered brighter in one direction. Hours passed. Her boots were soaked, her cloak heavy with rain, but she pressed on, led by the unwavering glow. Around her, the forest seemed alive, watching her. Branches swayed with no wind, whispers echoed with no source. And then she heard it. A voice—soft, trembling, calling her name. "Elira..." She turned sharply. "Kael?!" She ran toward the sound, stumbling over roots and stones, the lantern’s light illuminating the wild tangle of vines and thorns. And there, beneath an ancient yew tree twisted like a claw, lay her brother. His clothes were torn, his face pale, but his eyes opened when the light reached him. "You found me..." he whispered. Elira dropped to her knees beside him. "You're safe now. I'm taking you home." But as she helped him up, Kael's eyes widened. "Behind you!" he cried. She turned—and saw nothing. Just darkness. But the lantern’s flame surged, golden and fierce, casting long shadows behind the trees. And then Elira saw them. Figures. Shrouded in black mist, tall and featureless, drifting between the trees like smoke. But they couldn’t enter the lantern’s light. They hissed and recoiled as she stepped forward, holding the flame before her like a sword. Kael leaned heavily on her. "They wouldn’t let me go... until you came." Together, they made their way back. The flame guided them, pushing back the whispering dark. Hours passed, but at last, they reached the forest’s edge. As soon as they stepped beyond the last tree, the lantern dimmed. The wind died. The rain stopped. The forest behind them fell still, as if it had never moved. Back in the village, people wept and rejoiced at Kael’s return. Some knelt before Elira’s lantern, whispering prayers. Others just stared in awe. But Elira didn’t say much. She only cleaned the lantern, set it beside her bed, and whispered, “Thank you.” That night, as she drifted into sleep, she heard her grandmother’s voice, faint as a sigh on the wind: “The light is not in the lantern, child. It is in you.”
By Muhammad yaseenabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bench by the Lake
Every July 16th, at exactly 5 p.m., they met at the weathered wooden bench by the lake. She wore a yellow cardigan, even in the heat, and always carried a small notebook. He brought a thermos of tea and a pack of caramel biscuits he never offered but always ate slowly. They never exchanged names. That was the rule.
By Syed Haider Mehmoodabout a year ago in Fiction
Ad Umbras: Colloquy Over Coffee. Top Story - July 2025.
John sat in the diner booth sipping his coffee. The black brew tasted especially bitter on his tongue, likely after having been left on the range for too long. The flavor made no difference to him. What mattered in that moment was the world through the diner window under the hazy neon. Though the evening had only just fallen, the hustle and bustle of the city outside was starting to die as quickly as the sun on the horizon. Even in a city, there were places you dared not linger after a certain hour if you had a choice in the matter.
By Ian Readabout a year ago in Fiction
The Little Star That Could
High above the clouds, far beyond where birds fly and balloons float, there was a sky full of stars. Big stars, bright stars, twinkling stars—and one tiny little star named Twink.
By Jhonabout a year ago in Fiction
Pirate's Life
Pirates Life Stan Magillicuty was always in trouble. He had to swab the decks—again. Cap'n said he had to "toughen up". "Grow some balls". He kept his head down, hoping George-the-Hand wouldn't notice him. Maybe he would have some peace today.
By Tuesday Kuykendallabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Edition
In the heart of the small town of Westbrook, the sound of a typewriter echoed through the aging newsroom of The Gazette. For years, the newspaper had been the pulse of the community, delivering the latest news, gossip, and stories that defined their lives. But now, in a time when the internet had rendered print media all but obsolete, the newsroom was nearly silent. The staff was small—just a handful of reporters, a photographer, and the ever-dedicated editor, Harold Finch.
By HONESTLY ANFALabout a year ago in Fiction
The Agreement
Link to the original Challenge: The machine was humming under the dying fluorescent light. The cat was ready. “Hello.” The machine clicked and made noises as it focused on its visitor. The deal was that the cat would share what information it had from the neighbourhood and then it would get a treat. But tonight, Mr. Benjamin was waiting for its reward. The machine waited for a moment before it decided to break the silence.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
WHERE ROOTS REMEMBER YOUR NAME
The Premise: In a coastal town where gardens grow memories, 34-year-old floral genealogist Aris Thorne can touch plants and see their owners’ hidden traumas. Her gift thrives in the greenhouse of Saltwick House—a crumbling estate where flowers bloom from buried secrets. When widower Silas Vale hires her to revive his wife’s poison garden, Aris uncovers a root system preserving his late wife’s final words: “He didn’t mean to kill me.”
By Hamayoun Tareen about a year ago in Fiction