Short Story
The Clockmaker's Secret
In the quiet town of Elderglen, where cobblestone streets whispered stories of old and every shopfront seemed frozen in time, there lived an enigmatic man known only as The Clockmaker. His real name had long been forgotten — even by the town’s oldest residents. His shop, Timeless Ticks, stood at the edge of the town square, tucked between an abandoned library and a bakery that always smelled of cinnamon and secrets.
By NIAZ Muhammadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Fifth Bed. Content Warning.
There were four of us in Room 114, the last room at the end of the dim corridor in our college hostel. A long, tiled hallway led to a wooden door that always stuck in its frame, no matter how many times it was oiled. The windows faced the back garden, though calling it that was generous—more like a thicket of dense, unkempt shrubs and black-needled trees. Beyond them, nothing but shadows.
By Silas Graveabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes of a Forgotten Melody
The rain tapped gently against the café windows, painting the world outside in shades of grey and nostalgia. Inside, the warm scent of coffee mingled with the quiet hum of conversation and the soft notes of a piano playing in the corner. It was in this little corner café in Vienna, tucked between antique bookstores and flower shops, that Sophie Laurent found herself staring at a ghost from her past.
By NIAZ Muhammadabout a year ago in Fiction
Ghosting. Honorable Mention in You Were Never Really Here Challenge.
She thought he was dead. Clare saw his name on her recruitment search and she felt something plunge in her chest. Glancing around the office, she half-expected others to have stopped with the same shock, but the life of the office whirred around her. She took a breath and the slightest of hesitations before clicking on his profile.
By Rachel Robbinsabout a year ago in Fiction
The House With the Red Gate
It is a saying that an old woman lives in the house with the red gate on the edge of Buraq Street. No one remembers when she arrived, or if she ever did. The house smells of cinnamon and old pages, and the wind chimes only sound when no one’s looking.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
