Short Story
Hoof Prints In The Snow!
Christmas always brings memories of my early childhood. The memories are filled with the expectations that if I am a “good little girl,” I will get that red bicycle on training wheels as well as the doll that I always wanted. I use to believed that when I awaken and dashed out of my bed they would be sitting under our cedar tree that was decorated with homemade ornaments. However, Christmas after Christmas left me disappointed again.
By Frankie Berry Wiseabout a year ago in Fiction
Were You Ever Really There?
You were not my friend. I was 12, you were 16. At that age, a four-year gap seems enormous. But I always looked up to you and longed to be your friend. It's just that you had so many other friends closer to your age that I felt shy around you all. Not sure half of them even liked me.
By Lana V Lynxabout a year ago in Fiction
“The Website That Only Appeared at Midnight”
The First Discovery It was a typical sleepless night. I had my phone in one hand, tea in the other, scrolling through articles for inspiration. Writing for digital platforms like Medium and Vocal had become a daily habit—sharing thoughts, tips, and motivational pieces that felt honest.
By Awais Qarni about a year ago in Fiction
Red Spindle, Burning Blue
The rebels moved like ghosts they were silent, pale shapes swallowed by the smoke-stained corridors of the Red Spindle. Their boots barely touched the scorched floor, gliding through flickering light and digital dust, remnants of a world that once pulsed with power. Faces masked, eyes sharp, they slipped between the skeletal remains of machines like whispers through a dying network. Fear kept them fluid. Training kept them quiet. But it was the hope, the fragile kind that clings to the edges of impossible missions that made them relentless. They had come for the myth at the core of the ruin. And every breath they took felt like it might be their last. Silent, fast, afraid. It was the year 2999 and they had survived. The Fold. The famine. The Kinetic Plague.
By Toni Du Plooyabout a year ago in Fiction
A Love Beyond Boundaries
In the bustling streets of a city that never slept, two souls collided in a chance encounter that would change their lives forever. Alex, a young artist with a heart full of dreams and pockets empty of wealth, lived for his passion, his art. He spent his days sketching the city's vibrancy on canvas, hoping to one day make a name for himself in the art world.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Whisper of the Willow
There was a willow tree standing at the edge of a quiet village, older than the oldest grandmother’s memory. Its wide canopy spread like a protective embrace, branches sweeping low to the earth as if to comfort every living soul that wandered close. The villagers believed it had been planted long before their ancestors built the first cottages, before the first laughter had echoed through their narrow streets.
By Terence Lisherabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Message in the Library Book
By Dawood Khan The dusty scent of aging paper clung to the air as Clara Morgan, head librarian at the Willow Creek Public Library, ran her fingers along the spine of an old leather-bound book. It was a first edition of *The Bell Jar* by Sylvia Plath, donated years ago but rarely checked out. As she flipped through its yellowed pages, a slip of paper fluttered to the floor. Clara bent to pick it up, unfolding it carefully. The handwriting was delicate, almost hurried, as if written in a moment of desperation: >"If you’re reading this, I’m already gone—but meet me at the café on 5th Street tomorrow at noon. Please. It’s about the letter. – E." Clara’s pulse quickened. The note was dated **October 17, 1987**—over thirty years ago. ---
By Dawood Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bench on Sixth Street
I saw her again today. Not her, exactly. Just someone who looked like her — same dark curls tied in a loose knot, same way she tucked her coat around herself like the world was colder than it actually was. She sat down on the bench across from the bookstore on Sixth Street.Our bench. I hadn’t walked this way in months. Not since last November, when I left her standing there with tears she wouldn’t let fall. She had that look — the one that screamed, “Don’t let me go,” even while she stayed silent. And I had that arrogance — the kind that thinks walking away is strength when it's actually fear. But today, I stopped. The woman who looked like her had a red scarf. Ella never wore red. Said it made her feel like she was shouting in a room full of whispers. She liked soft things. Lavender tea, poetry books with cracked spines, and music that sounded like rain. God, she loved the rain. Used to say it washed everything except memory. I watched from across the street. The fake-Ella checked her phone, sighed, and eventually walked off. I stood frozen, my hands deep in my coat pockets, heart punching through years of pride and regret. That bench was still hers. Still ours. I remember the first time we sat there. Summer, sticky heat, iced coffee in hand. She had just found out her mother was sick, and instead of crying, she talked about constellations and how stars die slowly, beautifully. I didn't understand it then — how people grieve sideways, avoiding the heart of the thing. But I understand now. We sat there on birthdays, after fights, between classes. Sometimes in silence, sometimes with laughter. Sometimes pretending we were fine when we were anything but. It became the only place where honesty didn’t feel dangerous. One evening, she asked, “If we ever lose this… promise me you’ll come back here someday.” “Why?” I laughed. “So I can haunt you, obviously,” she smirked, nudging my arm. “Also… so you’ll remember.” I didn’t ask what she meant. Maybe I didn’t want to know. It’s been 412 days. I counted. I’ve replayed that last conversation like a song with lyrics I keep trying to change. We both made mistakes — sharp ones, stupid ones. But mine was worse. Mine was final. She texted me once after. Just one line. “Do benches remember the people who break promises on them?” I never replied. Not because I didn’t care, but because I did. Too much. I didn’t know how to answer a question like that with a yes. But now, standing here, hands trembling slightly in the cold, I realize what she really meant. The bench isn’t wood and metal. It’s a museum of moments. A witness. A monument to what was — and maybe what could’ve been. And the truth is… I came back because part of me hoped she would too. I sit down slowly, like I’m afraid it might reject me. The air still smells like city dust and faint espresso. I close my eyes. For a second, I pretend she’s sitting beside me again. That her laugh still echoes here. That I can turn to her and say all the words I never found in time. I whisper them anyway, to no one. “I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve listened.” And then… I feel it. A tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes. She's standing there. Different scarf. Same eyes. "Hey," she says, softly. I don’t speak. I can’t. She sits down beside me. We don’t hug. We don’t cry. We just sit — like we used to. Like nothing’s broken, even though we both know it is. And maybe… that’s enough. Maybe some places don’t just remember us. Maybe they forgive us, too.
By Firdos Jamalabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room Upstairs
The real estate agent called it “cozy,” which I’d learned meant small, old, and likely full of ghosts — though she never used the word. She said it was ideal for a single writer, which was generous considering it had no working outlets in the kitchen, and the upstairs bathroom faucet ran backwards.
By Yasir Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
