Short Story
Beneath the Snow
The snow fell steadily that winter—soft, silent, and deceiving. It blanketed the small town of Halewick in a calm white coat, masking everything beneath with deceptive purity. Roads disappeared under inches of ice. Trees stood still like graveyard sentinels. But beneath the snow, something was hidden—something old, something no one talked about anymore. Or rather, something everyone had chosen to forget. It was the kind of winter mystery that wrapped itself around you, cold and patient, waiting for someone reckless or desperate enough to dig beneath the surface.
By Muhammad Asimabout a year ago in Fiction
In the shadow of a Tiger. AI-Generated.
In a quiet village nestled between the forest’s edge and the soft hills, there lived a small, gray cat named Luma. She was ordinary in every way—slim, silent, with pale fur that almost vanished against moonlight. She lived with an old woman who loved her dearly, feeding her warm milk and letting her nap on embroidered cushions. Luma had a simple life. She chased sunbeams, listened to birdsong, and curled herself into the smallest of spaces. But every night, when the village went still and the wind shifted from the forest, Luma would sit by the window and stare at the trees. Because deep in those woods, something stirred. Something big. Something wild. The villagers whispered of a tiger—a creature of muscle, myth, and majesty. They said it moved like thunder and vanished like smoke. No one had seen it clearly, but paw prints the size of soup bowls appeared near the river sometimes. To Luma, it sounded like a creature from another world. One evening, as mist curled through the grass, Luma wandered farther than usual. The wind carried strange scents, and her paws led her through a break in the trees. She moved quietly, as all cats do, but the deeper she went, the more her small heart pounded. That’s when she saw him. He stood by the stream, drinking—massive, striped, golden. A tiger. His eyes lifted to meet hers. Not in threat. Not in fear. Just curiosity. Luma froze. “You are small,” the tiger said, his voice deep and quiet, like wind in the bones of the earth. “And you are... not,” Luma replied, blinking slowly. He laughed, a low rumble that shook the leaves. “What are you doing here, little one?” “I don’t know,” she said. “I think I was looking for you.” “For me?” His brow furrowed. “You know what I am?” Luma nodded. “A tiger. The kind the wind talks about.” He stepped closer, his massive paws silent on the moss. Luma didn’t move. She should have run. She should have been terrified. But instead, she felt something strange. Familiarity. “You’re not afraid,” he said. “I should be,” she answered. “But I’m not.” The tiger sat beside her. They watched the water together. The moonlight painted silver on his fur, and in his reflection, Luma saw herself—tiny and pale beside him. A ghost of a creature in the shadow of a god. “I once had a sister,” he said after a while. “She was small, like you. Not by blood, but by bond. A kitten left in the forest. I protected her. She rode on my back and kept my ears warm when I slept.” “What happened to her?” “Time happened,” he said softly. “She grew old. I did not.” Luma looked at him. “Why did you protect her?” “Because she reminded me that the mighty are not always loud. And the small are not always weak.” They sat in silence again. Luma visited him often after that. She never told the villagers. She would slip away at dusk and find him near the river or stretched out under the canopy of stars. They didn’t speak much. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all. They just existed—together. She asked him once, “Do you think I’m nothing compared to you?” The tiger turned his golden eyes to her. “You walk through the world unseen, yet you carry a lion’s soul. That’s not nothing.” “But I don’t roar. I don’t fight. I don’t—” “You endure,” he said. “You listen. You wait. And sometimes, the quietest things cast the longest shadows.” --- One winter, Luma fell ill. Her body grew thin. Her eyes dulled. The old woman wrapped her in wool and sang her lullabies. But Luma felt her bones growing tired. She made her last journey to the forest, slow but determined. The tiger was waiting. “I think I’m fading,” she said. He bowed his great head. “Then I will carry you.” And so he did—through the forest, across the river, up the hill where the stars were closest. He laid her on a bed of leaves and curled his body around hers. “Will you forget me?” she whispered. “Never,” he said. Her eyes closed, her breath softened, and the world fell still. --- In the village, they say that on quiet nights, if you listen closely, you can hear two heartbeats in the forest—one deep and strong, the other soft and steady. They say the tiger was never seen again. But sometimes, a cat-shaped shadow appears beside the river, flickering just at the edge of sight, and it makes the ground feel just a little warmer. Not all legacies are loud. Some are left in paw prints beside giants. Some are written in silence. And some live forever… in the shadow of a tiger.
By Muhammad umairabout a year ago in Fiction
Rooms I Was Never Meant to Enter
I didn’t know the house was still standing. It was never truly ours, just an inheritance no one wanted, a crumbling Victorian tucked into a stretch of forgotten forest where the air smells like memory and something slightly sour.
By Javid khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Promise
The town of Merrow’s Hollow had only one clock tower. It stood like a quiet sentinel above the valley, its hands frozen at 7:18, unmoved for over fifty years. Children played beneath it, lovers kissed near it, but no one remembered when it last told the correct time—except for one man.
By Nauman Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Vacuous Silence
I still see you. In your space on our bed. Sprawled out in a way that makes it difficult for me to join you. But now I can’t anymore. You’re gone. It feels like a piece of me went along with you the day you went. Even though I shouldn’t be lingering on you for longer than I have. My mind won’t let you go. Despite what everyone is telling me; I can’t let you go. All I do is see you in more places.
By Raphael Fontenelleabout a year ago in Fiction
All I Could Give Her Was a Chill. Content Warning.
I don’t remember driving home, but here I am, taking a deep breath to prepare myself before I walk inside. I enter the house expecting another argument, or at the very least a seething glare, but she doesn’t even look up.
By Sandy Gillmanabout a year ago in Fiction
Shh!
We’ve been friends for a long time. A very long time. Ever since Billy Blockhead tried to initiate me on the first day of freshman year in high school. Remember? You beat him up—him and the other three boys that were with him. I can guarantee that was something they’ll never forget. I heard Billy still has nightmares about that day.
By David E. Perryabout a year ago in Fiction
