Short Story
Whispers of the Old Banyan
Whispers of the Old Banyan At the edge of our village, where the golden paddy fields melted into the shadows of a dense forest, stood an ancient banyan tree. Its gnarled roots sprawled like the arms of a wise old giant, and its canopy whispered secrets to anyone who dared to listen. Every full moon, my grandmother—whom we called Ma-Thakuma—would sit beneath it, her silver hair glowing under the lunar light, and weave stories that made the night come alive. I was Rimi, barely ten years old, with wide eyes and a heart hungry for wonder. Those nights were my sanctuary, where the world felt bigger, softer, and full of magic.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Weaver’s Secret
The Weaver’s Secret The air in our village always carried the faint hum of looms, a rhythm as steady as the river that curved through the valley. I was Anika, seventeen, with ink-stained fingers and a habit of daydreaming. My mother, Amma, was the village’s best weaver, her hands dancing over her loom like they were casting spells. Her tapestries hung in every home, their colors so vivid they seemed to breathe—scenes of festivals, forests, and skies that held stories no one could fully unravel.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Gift
The Clockmaker’s Gift The village of Elderglow was tucked in a valley where time seemed to move slower, as if the mountains themselves held it gently in place. I was Ezra, sixteen, with a knack for fixing things—bicycles, radios, anything with gears. But my favorite place was Papa’s workshop, a cramped room filled with the tick-tock of clocks. Papa was the village clockmaker, his hands steady as they coaxed life into brass and wood. His clocks weren’t just timekeepers; they were art, each one humming with a rhythm that felt alive.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Song of the Fireflies
The Song of the Fireflies The meadow at the edge of our village was a secret kept by summer nights, where fireflies danced like tiny lanterns under a velvet sky. I was Tara, fifteen, with a heart full of questions and a notebook full of half-written poems. My grandfather, Nana, called the meadow his “thinking place.” He’d take me there when the world felt too heavy, his old harmonica in his pocket, ready to play a tune that made the stars seem closer.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Blood Moon Rising
Blood Moon Rising A young woman is haunted by her past and her ghosts as she is traversing a portal world looking for someone she once loved. She is simultaneously haunting those outside of the portal world as she herself, has become a ghost.
By Jennidoll of (jennidoll.inc)about a year ago in Fiction
Pocahontas
She was running as fast as she could through the forest, the wind and branches catching the edges of her hair. The pulling didn’t bother her when a piece got snagged, she was used to that. It motivated her to run harder and faster. She ran until she broke through the tree line out into the field. In front of her by a few yards the river roared towards home. She was almost there now, could almost smell the smoke from cooked fish and squash. She ran toward the river and turned at the last second to follow the flow south. Up ahead there was a cliff, the river jumped over the edge in great gulps of waves, splashing into the water below. It was getting closer and she sped up, feeling her heartbeat quicken. Right before she reached the edge she leapt into the air, inspired by the deer she’d watched jumping over fallen trees or off of rocks as someone hunted them. She felt the wind hit her even harder as she floated for a moment, she was flying. Down she went, riding air just in front of the waterfall until she landed feet first into the water at the bottom. Going down several feet she felt her extended foot hit the sand for a split second and she pushed hard to bounce herself back up. It was around twenty feet or more to the surface and the bounce cut the effort she would need to break through the water in half. She could see a figure on the bank of the river as she reached the surface. She broke through and gasped hard, taking in as much air as she could as she brushed the hair and water off her face. She’d been turned around, so she spun the water to see her visitor.
By Raine Fielderabout a year ago in Fiction
The snake and the seeker. Top Story - June 2025.
“Coming! Ready or not!” Trouble is, I’m not ready. Not for this. When they drew the snake, I took too many guesses. My count was huge. And we always play hide-and-seek in the dark. That was what we called it, often hyphenated, sometimes even rushed into a single word: hidenseekinnadark.
By Andy Pottsabout a year ago in Fiction
What Losing My Best Friend Taught Me About Life
I never imagined I’d write about her in the past tense. Best friends, we believed, were forever. We were those people who finished each other’s sentences, laughed at jokes only we understood, and had matching playlists and friendship necklaces. Her name was Claire, and she was everything that word—best friend—was supposed to mean. We grew up on the same street, survived high school heartbreaks together, and believed adulthood would never break our bond. But life, as I’ve learned, doesn’t ask for your permission before it changes everything.
By Samar Omarabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Secret
The town of Haverford was the kind of place where secrets grew like moss—quietly, persistently, unnoticed until they covered everything. Tucked between rolling hills and a river that whispered more than it roared, it was a town that time seemed to have forgotten. And in the heart of Haverford, on a cobbled street lined with sagging storefronts, stood Elias Finch’s Clock Shop, its faded sign creaking in the wind.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
