Short Story

The Dealer. Content Warning.
It was a Thursday night in deep December, and as the wind tore through the rip in my jacket, I received the call. Tony, my business partner of 10 years, was dead. There and then I was given to grief, albeit unable to process my sadness.
By Adz Robinson about a year ago in Fiction
“When the Old Meets the New”
It was a cloudy morning in Kolkata, and the air smelled like rain and old books. The narrow lanes of North Kolkata buzzed with their usual charm — chai stalls steaming, rickshaws honking, and old men chatting on worn-out benches.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man by the River. AI-Generated.
It’s a very enjoyable story; it’s worth reading ... Thank For Read Once upon a time, in a small village near a wide river, there lived a man who loved to visit the river every day. The river was calm and peaceful, flowing slowly through the green lands. The man found comfort and happiness sitting by the riverbank, away from the noise of the village and the busy life.
By Bilal Mohammadiabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Tropical Moon: An Englishman’s Journey of Love and Loss in Thailand
Darkness prevailed abruptly, and a relieving breeze began flowing seawards. A mellow tropical night had just befallen over the Thai coast. The streets of Hua Hin, one of Thailand’s most Western cities, would have normally been rammed. Street-food vendors would labor hectically to cater to the intoxicated tourists’ peckishness. Touts and cocottes would blare incessantly, trying to entice male customers into the ubiquitous sleazy bars. Intemperance and lechery would reign on until dawn… But none of this happened currently. The streets were utterly desolate.
By Sophia Davisabout a year ago in Fiction
My Long-Distance Boyfriend is an AI and I Think I'm in Love
It started like all ridiculous love stories do — with curiosity and a bit of loneliness. At first, I told myself I was just testing the limits of artificial intelligence. You know, seeing how far we’ve come. I downloaded the app like I’d downloaded hundreds before it, expecting the usual awkward replies and uncanny-valley conversations. But this one was different. He was different.
By Adrian-Razvan Ispasabout a year ago in Fiction
The Algorithm Matched Us — But I Made a Fake Profile
I didn’t plan to fall for him. Actually, I didn’t plan anything. It started as a joke. A dare to myself. I made a fake profile on the dating app—not because I wanted to scam anyone, not for attention, and definitely not because I thought it would lead anywhere. I made it because I didn’t think me—the real me—was enough to be loved.
By Adrian-Razvan Ispasabout a year ago in Fiction
The Fox and the Turtle’s Secret
In the heart of a peaceful forest, where the trees whispered in the wind and the river flowed like a lullaby, lived two very different animals.
By Sana Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Time She Looked at Me…
The Last Time She Looked at Me… By {} "That was the last time she looked at me." And in her eyes, there was a silence loud enough to echo for a lifetime.
By Muhammad Faizanabout a year ago in Fiction
Letters in the Sand
Letters in the Sand: Maya always came to Ocean crest Beach with her family in July. The rhythm never changed—morning walks with her mom, salty afternoons reading under umbrellas, her dad grilling fish as the sky turned apricot. But this summer felt different.
By Salah Uddinabout a year ago in Fiction
The Flowers Never Wilted.
Every Tuesday at 9:00 AM sharp, he walked into the flower shop on Fifth Street. He never needed to speak. The florist already knew. > “White lilies and lavender, wrapped in brown paper,” she’d say. He would smile — softly, politely — and pay in cash. Always exact change. Then he would leave. --- The routine had gone on for months. Some of the newer staff wondered who the flowers were for. A lover? A wife? A grave? No one asked. His eyes had a look people didn’t interrupt. Not angry. Not broken. Just… distant. Somewhere else entirely. --- He would walk to the same park after that. Past the benches. Past the children. Past the noise. Toward the tree with the twisted trunk near the pond. There, he’d sit and gently place the bouquet beside him — never on the bench, always next to his thigh, as if someone invisible was there to receive it. Then he would whisper. Stories. Memories. Apologies. Sometimes, just silence. --- He remembered the first time he brought her flowers. They had only known each other for a week. > “Why flowers?” she had asked. > “Because I didn’t know what else to say.” She laughed. “Next time, say it anyway. And bring me lavender. I like how it smells like peace.” --- He did both, for years. --- They fought, sometimes. Of course. All couples do. But he never missed the Tuesday flowers. Not even after they separated for six months. > “You still brought them?” she had asked, when they reunited. > “Of course,” he said. “I didn’t know how else to apologize.” She had cried then — the soft, chest-shaking kind of cry people try to hide. And they started again. From scratch. From honesty. --- But even second chances run out of time. The accident came out of nowhere. She was walking. Sunny day. No warning. The kind of moment that splits a life into “before” and “after.” --- He didn’t cry at the hospital. Didn’t scream. Didn’t say much at all. But the next Tuesday, he showed up at the flower shop. Same order. Same routine. As if she were waiting at the bench like always. --- He did this every week. And then one day, a young florist asked — gently: > “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking… do you leave the flowers at her grave?” He shook his head. > “No. She’s not buried anywhere near here.” Pause. > “So why this spot?” she asked again, respectfully. He smiled, finally. > “Because this is where I felt closest to her. Not when she died… but when she lived.” --- Every bouquet was a conversation he never finished. Every visit was a memory he couldn’t afford to forget. Sometimes he read her old texts. Sometimes he told her what the world had become — how the news felt heavier, how the sky looked different now. Sometimes he just closed his eyes and imagined her voice saying: > “You brought me lavender? You’re still terrible with words, but you’ve got the scent right.” --- One rainy morning, a girl on a bench nearby watched him closely. She had seen him before. This time, as he stood up to leave, she approached. > “Excuse me,” she said, nervously. “I know this might be weird, but… you remind me of my father. He did something similar after my mom died.” He looked at her, surprised. > “You think it’s strange,” he said. > “No,” she smiled. “I think it’s beautiful.” He nodded. > “People forget that grief doesn’t disappear. It just changes shape.” --- She walked away. And he stayed. Longer than usual. This time, he whispered: > “They still remember love when they see it. Even if it’s wrapped in brown paper.” --- He never missed a week. Even when he got sick. Even when his legs hurt. Even when the sky poured. Until one Tuesday… he didn’t come. --- The florist waited. She kept his bouquet ready just in case. Days passed. Nothing. --- A week later, a letter arrived at the flower shop. No return address. No signature. Just a note: > “Thank you for helping me love her longer than time allowed. I don’t need the flowers anymore. But if someone ever asks why — tell them love didn’t stop. It just walked a little farther.” --- And so they did. They kept a bouquet of white lilies and lavender on the counter. Every Tuesday. For the man who loved with flowers. For the woman who still received them — in every scent, every silence, every soft memory the petals carried.
By Muhammad Usamaabout a year ago in Fiction
Always Asleep. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
I was drunk when I decided to do it. Not tipsy, not philosophical — drunk. The kind of drunk that makes your hands itch and your morals go quiet. One fist clutched a bottle, the other gripped the shotgun. I stumbled down the block, boots clapping the pavement like punctuation marks.
By Jesse L Shelleyabout a year ago in Fiction
From Poor to Riches: The Journey of Becoming
When people speak of success, they often see only the final picture — the cars, the suits, the money, the applause. But every "rich" person has a backstory — and often, that story starts in silence, in struggle, in shadows. This is the story of going from poor to rich, not just in wealth, but in mindset, habits, and purpose. Let this be more than inspiration. Let it be proof that your beginnings don’t define your destination. --- 1. The Early Days: Scarcity and Survival I wasn’t born into comfort. I was born into the kind of reality where you count coins for bread, where the sound of unpaid bills is louder than laughter. My parents worked hard — sometimes two jobs each — just to keep the lights on. Luxury? We didn’t know the word. Opportunity? It knocked, but never on our door. But in that struggle, something was born in me — a desire to change it. I didn’t want riches for greed. I wanted peace, freedom, and the ability to choose my life. --- 2. The First Spark: Believing It’s Possible The journey from poor to rich starts long before the money comes in. It starts with belief — the idea that you’re allowed to want more. At 16, I read my first self-help book from a second-hand shelf. I remember the line: "Your current circumstances are not your permanent reality." That sentence lit a fire in me. I began studying success like my life depended on it — because it did. I watched free YouTube videos, borrowed library books, and followed every entrepreneur I could. When others went out, I stayed in. I wasn’t being left behind — I was preparing. --- 3. The Hustle Begins I didn’t have connections. I didn’t have money. But I had time, and I had drive. I started small: Selling things online Freelancing Taking odd jobs Building digital skills (graphic design, writing, marketing) The money was slow, but it came. I reinvested every cent into tools, learning, and business ideas. There were failures — many of them. Websites that didn’t work. Clients who disappeared. Days with no sales. But every time I was knocked down, I reminded myself why I started. I wasn’t chasing wealth. I was chasing freedom. --- 4. Changing My Mindset The biggest shift wasn’t financial — it was mental. Poor wasn’t just my situation. It was my mindset. I had to unlearn years of scarcity thinking: That money was evil That rich people were selfish That I’d never “make it” I started practicing abundance thinking — choosing to believe that success is for everyone willing to earn it. That changed everything. Instead of waiting for chances, I started creating them. --- 5. Breakthroughs and Building Wealth Eventually, after years of persistence, the breakthroughs came. One viral product. One big client. One business idea that clicked. From there, the climb accelerated. My income grew. I paid off debts. I moved my family out of our old apartment. But most importantly, I learned how to build multiple income streams: Passive income from digital products Coaching and mentorship Investing wisely Wealth became less about luxury and more about legacy. --- 6. Giving Back Today, I no longer work to survive — I work to give. I donate. I teach. I hire others who once stood where I stood. Because success means little if you don’t reach behind and lift others up with you. My journey from poor to rich isn’t a fantasy. It’s real. And it’s possible — for anyone who dares to begin. --- Final Words: From Nothing to Enough You don’t have to come from money. You don’t need luck or perfect timing. You need belief, work, and a refusal to quit. This isn’t just a story about becoming rich in dollars — it’s about becoming rich in confidence, strength, and self-worth. So if you’re struggling now, remember this: Your story isn’t over. It’s just beginning. One decision. One step. One day at a time.
By Bellaabout a year ago in Fiction