Short Story
The Radio That Broadcasts the Dead
The first call came at 2:07 a.m. Mara Lane, the new host of “NightPulse 103.3”, had just settled into her third week behind the mic. It was the dead hour—midnight to 4 a.m.—the time when truckers, insomniacs, and the unhinged called in with conspiracy theories and lonely thoughts. She wasn’t expecting much. She never did.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror Knows What You Did
It started as a prank. When Ash found the old mirror at a yard sale tucked behind a stack of dusty books, she thought it would make a cool party centerpiece. Ornate. Baroque. Heavy as hell. And creepy enough to give her goth roommate Carter the chills.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
The King’s Garden of Shadows
Once upon a time, in a kingdom surrounded by seven rivers and veiled in the perfume of eternal jasmine, there reigned a King known by the title "Raheem the Wise." His rule was not forged in blood but in books, not sustained by swords but by silence and soul-searching. His palace had no iron gates, only whispering wind-chimes and vines of lilies climbing its golden pillars.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Slave Who Knew the Stars
Once upon a time, in the ancient kingdom of Zaheerabad, nestled between black mountains and golden deserts, lived a Prince named Kamraan, son of the mighty King Ubaid. The Prince was fair in face and feared in sword, taught in the philosophies of men but untouched by the lives of those beneath him. The palace was carved from marble, adorned with silk and mirrors, but behind its glistening curtains brewed storms invisible to the blind.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Garden of Mirrors: A Tale of Two Thrones
Part I: The Echoes of the Orchard In an ancient land where rivers whispered secrets and mountains bore silent witness to time, there existed two mighty kingdoms, separated by a sea of sand and centuries of silence. One was Zahran, a land veiled in mist, where the people believed that dreams were fragments of lost truths. The other was Elburz, whose people trusted only what the eye could see and the hand could hold.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Don't Look At My Face, I'm Hideous
If you suspect there's something hideously wrong with your face, it's tempting to look at your reflection to reassure yourself everything is fine. That you are actually no more ghastly than normal. The trick is to avoid doing that until you're somewhere that you can process the information. That's what I do. I turn and go back the way I came, back to the flat. It's not mine, exactly, but it's the closest thing I have to a home. It's private. Well, it's got a lock on the door, anyway, and there's nobody else there. There's that lady, again. The one from earlier, with the pack of Daschunds. Four of the little buggers, all stumpy little legs and smooth coats. Shiny, black and tan little creatures with amber eyes and wagging tails. See, they look normal. Filled in. Complete. But the woman walking them... Ugh. Shuddering, I look away. I hope I'm not too obvious about it. These people might be horrifying to look at, but I don't want them to think I'm rude. My gaze lands on a little blonde girl playing on the green, and then skitters away just as quickly. It's no good. Her face, or what she has instead of a face, lingers in my mind. A fuzzy, skin-coloured blob framed by pale yellow strands. Poor kid. Does she know she's a freak? I shouldn't think that. I might be like it as well. It doesn't take long to get back. There's my front door... I think. But it's red. Wasn't it blue before? I'm not sure. Not important. I head upstairs, fumble with the key and shut myself in. It feels like a big sigh of relief.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Virus
This presentation is finally starting to come together. I put my novice seal of approval on another slide with pride. It’s only taken four cups of coffee and a crash course on PowerPoint. It’s not exactly my forte so I’m really not looking forward to it, but I’ve got 3 days to muster up the courage. This is one of the new job requirements since I’ve been made the head of cyber security around here. The guy before me…well, let‘s not talk about that.
By Kenneth Boutteabout a year ago in Fiction
Crumbling Smiles of Drake
In the gray drizzle of Manchester, England, in 2024, the streets of Ancoats bore the weight of forgotten dreams and urban renewal. For Drake, a 34-year-old street artist known only by his tag, life was a canvas of fleeting moments—murals painted under cover of night, smiles offered to strangers, and a past he couldn’t outrun. His art was his voice, but beneath his vibrant colors lay a crumbling foundation of guilt and loss. This is the story of Drake’s journey to reclaim his smile, woven through the lives he touched and the walls he transformed.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Stamp of Memory
In the quiet town of Eldridge, England, in 2023, the scent of ink and old paper filled the cluttered shop of Mr. Hawthorne’s Philatelic Emporium. For 19-year-old Clara, this was more than a workplace—it was a sanctuary of stories, each stamp a fragment of history. As she sifted through her late grandfather’s collection, Clara uncovered a mystery tied to her family’s past, a tale of love, sacrifice, and the final stamp that would bind her to those she’d lost. This is the story of Clara’s quest to preserve the last stamp of memory.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
