Short Story
The Two Eids
The Two Eids of Muslims: A Journey Through Joy and Spiritual Triumph Across the Muslim world, two remarkable celebrations illuminate the hearts and homes of believers: Eid al-Fitr and Eid al-Adha. These aren’t just festivals—they are sacred milestones marking spiritual victory, community strength, and divine connection. Each Eid carries its own story, woven deeply into Islamic history, layered with tradition, and filled with emotion.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Dodge and the Tragedy of Tailoring: Measure twice, Cut Once. Replace weekly!
The bell above the door of Nimbleman’s Fine Clothiers jingled with practiced exasperation, more of a weary sigh than a welcoming chime, signaling the latest return of Dodge, serial destroyer of fine tailoring & a familiar figure of destruction and poor textile preservation.. He strode in, his satchel brimming with the unmistakable scent of charred leather and singed fabric. Wisps of smoke still curled lazily from his coat. His hat—poor, tragic thing—had several large, jagged holes burned straight through it, as though it had tried and failed to reason with a particularly aggressive bonfire and bore the unmistakable marks of a blade’s enthusiastic attempt to perforate it beyond recognition.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner vs Hostile Workplace Discrimination. (The Art of Dodge-ing Responsibility)
Dodge Tanner lounged in his favorite spot at the Barrow and Barrel tavern, a half-empty goblet of the local vintage swirling lazily in his hand. The dim tavern light cast lazy shadows over the parchment map, a document so thoroughly ignored it might as well have been a coaster sat beneath his elbow, forgotten in favor of the pressing matter of deciding whether the blackberry merlot or the apricot chardonnay deserved the title of the coveted Tanner Title 'Finest Wine of the Valley.' (Coveted by Dodge Tanner, at least, as his attempts to get the competition officialized has thus far gone unappreciated.)
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Static in the Signal
It started with a flicker. A blinking cursor. A screen that wouldn’t load. Jamie slammed his laptop shut like it had betrayed him — again. Third time this week. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face, feeling the texture of another sleepless night creeping into his skin.
By Ahmed Rayhanabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers Beneath the Surface
A Desert of Dust and Silence In a quiet desert village where the wind often carried more dust than sound, Lina lived with her grandmother in a small clay house. Life here was dry in more ways than one — the air, the soil, and often, the spirit. The days passed with chores, silence, and stories whispered under flickering lanterns. But nestled at the edge of the village stood an ancient, half-forgotten mosque, and beside it, a cracked stone well that hadn’t been used for years. The villagers said its water had vanished. Lina discovered otherwise.
By Hanifullah Hanifabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Black Hospitality Law: The Curse of the Adel Family"
Chapter 1: The Sinister Pact Cairo, 1995 On a dark winter night, four university students gathered in a crumbling apartment in Sayyida Zeinab. Between glasses of cold hibiscus tea and nervous laughter, they dared to challenge the forbidden: summoning a spirit using a Ouija board.
By Ahmed Abdeenabout a year ago in Fiction
From $1,000 to $100,000: A Lesson in Self-Worth
The Unexpected Graduation Gift When I (Alex) graduated college with honors, my dad didn't give me cash or a new car like my friends got. Instead, he led me to our dusty garage and pulled the cover off a battered 1963 Volkswagen Beetle. The paint was faded, the seats were torn, and it smelled like old gasoline.
By Hamayun Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
When Love Meets Time’s Cruel Joke
It was a rainy Tuesday when I met her. Not the kind of rain that ruins plans, but the kind that makes the world feel softer, slower. I was sitting in a half-empty café near campus, hiding from the drizzle and nursing a black coffee I didn’t really want. She walked in wearing a yellow coat—bright, like a sunflower lost in a storm—and for a moment, the gray around me faded. Her name was Lila. She ordered chamomile tea, smiled at the barista, and turned—eyes meeting mine like it was scripted. She asked if she could sit. I nodded. That was the start. We talked like old friends rediscovering each other. Music, books, how we both hated olives. She laughed at my sarcasm; I loved the way her voice caught between joy and hesitation. There was something raw about her—like she had loved and lost more than she let on. In a matter of weeks, she became my favorite part of everything. We’d walk around the city for hours, sometimes not saying much, just existing together. I memorized the freckles on her cheekbones, the curve of her smile when she spoke about her dreams. She wanted to travel, to teach, to write poetry no one would ever read. But behind her laughter, there was always a shadow. A clock ticking I couldn't see. One night, we sat on the roof of her building, city lights blinking like distant stars. She looked at me—really looked—and whispered, “I wish I’d met you another time.” I asked her what she meant. She hesitated, then said, “I’m leaving. In a month. For good. Grad school abroad. I applied before we met. I got the scholarship last week.” I tried to smile. I told her we’d figure it out. But I could feel the ache growing in my chest, slow and heavy. The next few weeks were a blur of almosts and what-ifs. Every kiss felt like goodbye. Every silence echoed with the things we were too scared to say. We didn’t fight. That was the worst part. There was no anger, no betrayal—just love, pure and untimely. The night before her flight, we stood in the same café where we met. Rain tapped gently on the windows, as if mourning with us. She held my hand, eyes glistening. “I don’t want to leave you,” she said. “Then stay,” I whispered. “I can’t.” I nodded. Because I knew. Because sometimes, love isn’t enough to bend time or rewrite choices. She kissed me one last time—soft, slow, memorized. Then she left. I stood there long after she was gone, watching the rain blur the world outside. It’s been a year now. She sends postcards sometimes—photographs of foreign streets and poems scribbled in the margins. I keep them all in a box under my bed. I’ve dated others. Smiled. Moved on, at least on the surface. But sometimes, when it rains, I sit by that café window, and I remember the girl in the yellow coat who made the world brighter for a little while. And I wonder what would’ve happened if the right time had found us, instead of just the right love. Some people are meant to cross your path, not stay in your life. And sometimes, the right person teaches you the most heartbreaking lesson: that love isn’t always enough when time is your enemy. Love, no matter how real, sometimes collides with time in the cruelest ways. Lila wasn’t just a chapter in my life—she was a reminder that not every great love story ends in forever. Some are meant to pass through, leaving behind echoes and lessons we carry in silence. I don’t regret meeting her. If anything, I’m grateful. Because in that fleeting season, I felt something rare—pure, unforced, unforgettable. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough. Not all love stays, but some love still saves a part of you.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
