Short Story

The Memory of First Light
In the dim, rust-colored city of Vestra, people no longer trusted their own emotions. Memories—real ones—had become luxury items, stored, sold, and recycled like digital files.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
Me, My Life & Why Part 6
Part 6 Here’s the thing no one tells you about quitting everything: Nothing happens. Not-a-thing. No one shows up with pitchforks.
By Laura about a year ago in Fiction
Me, My Life & Why Part 5
Part 5 At 9:41am on a random Tuesday, I decided to quit my entire life. Not in the dramatic, “move to a cabin and start an organic candle brand” kind of way.
By Laura about a year ago in Fiction
Me, My Life & Why Part 4
Part 4 You can tell how your life is going by checking the group chat. Not the big one, the real one. The old one. The group that used to buzz constantly with unhinged memes and “who’s bringing wine?” energy.
By Laura about a year ago in Fiction
The Taxi Only Comes at Midnight
I first noticed it two weeks after moving into Apartment 7B. Every night at exactly 12:00 a.m., a black taxi pulls up to the curb outside my building. Its headlights cut through the mist like twin blades. The engine hums low, steady, as if it’s been waiting for centuries to be heard. Then it just... waits. I assumed it was someone’s late-night ride at first. Maybe a neighbor working a graveyard shift. But no one ever comes out to greet it. No driver steps out. No door opens. And at exactly 12:10 a.m., it drives away, vanishing into the empty street like smoke. It happened again. And again. Always the same. So last night, I did something I wasn’t sure I had the nerve for. I got in. --- It was cold inside the taxi. Colder than it should’ve been. The kind of cold that creeps beneath your skin and makes your bones remember sadness. The driver didn’t speak. I couldn’t even see his face, just the faint outline of a cap and gloved hands on the wheel. A quiet, vintage jazz tune played on the radio — something from another era, soft and warped like an old memory. I cleared my throat. “Where are we going?” He didn’t answer. The city outside the windows looked… off. Familiar buildings in the wrong places. Streetlights blinking in patterns that didn’t feel random. The people we passed—if they were people—moved like they were stuck between frames of film, stuttering through time. I pressed my hand against the window, and it felt like glass and something else — something humming and alive. After what felt like hours but could’ve been minutes, the taxi stopped. --- We were in front of a small diner with no name, glowing faintly under a flickering neon sign that just said: OPEN. I stepped out. The door creaked behind me as I entered. The air inside was warm, filled with the scent of coffee and pie and something softer — like nostalgia. There were people in the booths, talking in hushed tones, none of them making eye contact. The waitress behind the counter looked up and smiled like she’d been expecting me. “You’re late,” she said. “I wasn’t told where I was going.” “Doesn’t mean you didn’t need to be here.” She poured me a cup of coffee without asking. I took a sip. It was perfect. Not just good—perfect. Like every warm drink you’ve ever needed during your coldest hour. Then a voice behind me whispered my name. I turned. It was my mother. But she had died five years ago. She looked the same. Younger, maybe. Healthier. Her eyes held no pain. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said, reaching out like we’d just seen each other yesterday. I couldn’t speak. “I only have a few minutes,” she said. “The taxi waits for no one.” We talked. I don’t know how long. She didn’t explain how or why. Just smiled. Told me she was proud of me. Told me to let go of the guilt. That her leaving wasn’t my fault. That I could stop punishing myself now. I cried. When I turned to wipe my tears, she was gone. And the waitress was at my side again. “Time to go.” --- The taxi was waiting where I’d left it. This time, as we drove, the streets felt calmer. The glitching figures were gone. The lights seemed to flicker more warmly. When we pulled up to my building again, the driver finally spoke. “Next time, bring someone who needs to say goodbye.” I blinked. “There’ll be a next time?” He didn’t answer. But as I stepped out and turned around, the taxi was already gone — dissolved into the misty night like it had never existed. --- It’s been five nights since. The taxi still comes at midnight. And now, I wait too. Just in case someone else needs that ride.
By Firdos Jamalabout a year ago in Fiction
🔥 The Dragon Baby 🔥
High above the Snowfang Mountains, where the air is thin and the clouds kiss the frozen peaks, a secret older than time itself stirred beneath a shroud of ice.
By Ghaniabout a year ago in Fiction
Talia and the Sea
Talia preferred documentaries to fiction. Once she’d been alerted to the idea that there are only two types of stories, “a person goes on a journey” and “a stranger comes to town,” she couldn’t help but distill every narrative she encountered down to its most fundamental interpretation. The caveat was that while imagined tales tended to have neatly wrapped up conclusions, true stories rarely offered such satisfaction. Arriving back in East Haven after three decades away, having had no contact with anyone from the town she had fled, she wondered what form her story would take. She knew the locals were angry with her, and had been since the day she’d fled down the coast in a stolen skiff with her diaphanous white gown billowing out behind her.
By J. Otis Haasabout a year ago in Fiction
Joyful Splashes: A Child’s Delight in the Pool. AI-Generated.
The sun was high in the sky, shining brightly over the small village. It was summer vacation, and the air was hot and dry. Birds chirped lazily on the trees, and even the leaves seemed tired in the heat. But inside the little garden behind the Malik family’s house, laughter filled the air.
By Bilal Mohammadiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Message From Earth: A Time Capsule in the Stars
The Last Message From Earth The stars no longer blinked. From the observation dome of the Hera II, Captain Nara Myles stared into the dark ocean of space, where Earth once shimmered like a blue jewel. That jewel was now dust—swallowed by its own ignorance and fury.
By Waqar Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Room 313
“Room 313 is cursed.” That’s what they whispered at Everlight Grand Hotel, where chandeliers sparkled and secrets clung to the walls like dust.
By Echoes by Shafi--about a year ago in Fiction
The Crow and the Candle
In a land where shadows ruled the sky, and the wind whispered secrets through the trees, lived a crow named Kael. Unlike other crows who flew in flocks and chased shiny things, Kael was a loner. He had glossy black feathers and eyes like midnight, always watching, always wondering. Kael made his home in the tallest tree near the edge of a forgotten village. The village had been cursed with darkness for many years—no stars, no moonlight, and no fire would last through the night. Candles melted too fast. Lanterns flickered and died. Even the bravest villagers feared the endless night. One cold evening, as Kael searched for food near an abandoned cottage, he spotted something strange: a small, flickering light. It was not a fire, nor the usual false glows that haunted the woods. It was a candle. A real one. Kael flew closer. The candle sat in a glass lantern on the cottage windowsill, its flame steady despite the wind. Beneath it, an old woman sat, her eyes closed in deep thought. She looked tired but peaceful. The candle cast a warm glow on her wrinkled face. For reasons he could not explain, Kael stayed. He perched on the windowsill and watched. The old woman opened her eyes and smiled gently. “You came,” she whispered. “I was waiting.” Kael tilted his head, confused. “You are not like the others,” she continued. “You see more than darkness. You feel the silence. And you, like me, remember the light.” Kael didn’t understand everything she said, but her voice was like a soft wind—comforting and kind. The candle burned through the night. The next morning, it was still lit. For the first time in years, the sun peeked through the clouds. Just a little, just enough. Kael felt warmth on his feathers that he had almost forgotten. Every night after that, Kael returned to the cottage. The old woman would light the candle, sit in silence, and wait. Slowly, other animals joined—an old fox, a sleepy owl, even a shy deer. None of them spoke, but all came for the same reason: the light. The villagers began to notice. Some whispered, “The curse is lifting.” Others were too afraid to believe. But one by one, they crept out of their homes and walked to the edge of the forest. There, in the darkest part of the night, they saw it—a warm, glowing candle surrounded by creatures great and small. One child stepped forward. Then another. Then an elder. Together, they sat in silence, eyes wide with wonder. One night, as Kael arrived at the window, he found the candle burning—but the old woman was gone. In her place lay a note, written on soft bark with glowing ink: > “The flame belongs to you now. Keep it burning. Let it guide the lost. Let it warm the forgotten.” Kael stood silently beside the flame. He felt sadness, but not despair. He understood. She had passed on the light—not just the candle, but the duty. Kael took the candle in his claws and flew to the center of the village. He placed it on a stone pedestal in the square. The people gathered around, watching as the flame did not flicker, did not die. From that day forward, the village changed. Each home lit a small candle from the one Kael had carried. Light returned to windows, to hearts, to the paths between homes. Fear faded like mist in the morning sun. Kael still flew alone, but now he watched over a village no longer afraid of the dark. And every night, before resting in his tree, he circled the pedestal where the candle burned on—a symbol of hope, of memory, and of the power one small light can carry through the night. --- Moral of the Story: Even in the darkest times, a single light can guide many. Courage is not always loud—it sometimes flickers quietly and waits to be seen.
By Moto Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Squirrel and the Stone
In the heart of a deep and peaceful forest, where golden sunlight slipped through tall green trees and birds sang soft lullabies, lived a small squirrel named Elwin. He was not like the other squirrels who only cared about nuts, nests, and hiding from the rain. Elwin was a thinker. He often paused and looked at the stars, wondered why leaves changed color, and dreamed of things no squirrel had ever seen. One crisp morning, as Elwin was hopping over a fallen log near the edge of the forest, something caught his eye. It was a stone—perfectly round, smooth like river glass, and glowing ever so slightly with a gentle blue light. It sat quietly under a bed of leaves, as if it had been waiting to be found. Curious, Elwin nudged the stone with his paw. It was warm. Not hot like the sun or cold like the wind—just warm, like a kind touch. He picked it up and held it close. For a moment, the world around him became silent. The wind stopped, the birds paused, and even the leaves seemed to still. Elwin blinked. Had he imagined it? He took the stone back to his tree and placed it beside his favorite branch. Every day after that, he would visit it. Sometimes he talked to it, other times he just sat quietly next to it. The stone seemed to glow brighter when he was near. But not everyone in the forest was pleased. “The forest is changing,” croaked an old toad who lived by the stream. “There’s something unnatural about that thing,” whispered the sparrows. “Stones don’t glow unless they’re cursed,” warned the owl who had seen a hundred seasons. Elwin didn’t listen. He felt safe with the stone. In fact, he began to feel stronger, smarter, and more alive. He could leap farther, remember more, and sense things before they happened. It was as if the stone was giving him something—something no one else could see. Then came the storm. It began with a strange silence. The forest air grew heavy, and the clouds turned black. Wind howled through the trees like wolves, and lightning split the sky. Rain fell in thick sheets, flooding the forest floor. Elwin rushed to protect the stone. But when he arrived at his tree, it was gone. Panic gripped his tiny heart. He searched everywhere—under rocks, inside logs, beneath leaves. The forest looked different now. Angry. Wet. Cold. And empty. The stone, his friend, had vanished. For three days, Elwin searched. He forgot to eat. He forgot to sleep. His paws were sore, and his heart was heavy. On the fourth day, with no strength left, he returned home. And there it was. The stone sat quietly on his branch, dry and glowing softly. But something had changed. There was a small leaf resting next to it. On the leaf were strange markings—lines and curves, not like any letters Elwin had seen. Yet somehow, he could read them. > “Kindness is never lost. The forest sees. The forest gives back.” Elwin stared at the message. He didn’t understand everything, but he felt the truth in the words. That night, he curled up next to the stone and slept peacefully. From that day on, Elwin changed. He didn’t keep the stone hidden anymore. He placed it in the middle of the forest where all creatures could come and feel its warmth. The angry owl softened. The toad stopped croaking warnings. Even the nervous sparrows stopped whispering. The forest began to glow—not like the stone, but in spirit. Animals helped one another. They shared food. They protected the young and respected the old. Something about the stone had healed them all. Elwin became a quiet leader. Not through power or fear, but through kindness. He taught others that strength comes not from what you have, but from what you give. And every time someone gave with a true heart, the stone glowed just a little brighter. Years passed. Elwin grew old, but the stone remained the same. Glowing. Watching. Remembering. And some say, even now, if you walk through that forest with kindness in your heart, the stone will find you. It will warm your paws, calm your spirit, and remind you that no act of love is ever forgotten. --- Moral of the Story: True kindness, no matter how small, can transform the world around you. What you give with love comes back in ways you may never expect.
By Moto Khanabout a year ago in Fiction