Short Story
The Day We Forgot Forever.
The Day We Forgot Forever A love lost to memory—and a past worth fighting for. It started with the silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the eerie stillness that makes you feel like the world’s holding its breath. That morning, I woke up to birds that weren’t singing, a phone with no messages, and a strange absence pressing against the edges of my thoughts—like I was supposed to remember something, but couldn’t.
By FAIZAN AFRIDIabout a year ago in Fiction
Jungle Companions: Horse Meets Camel
“The Path of Two Strangers” In a land where the sun kissed the earth through a canopy of emerald leaves, and the air was thick with the scent of wild blossoms, a jungle thrived untouched by time. Here, in this haven of endless green, lived creatures who had never known the touch of reins or the clang of human footsteps. It was a place where time walked slowly, and silence had a melody.
By Mukhtiar Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Wallet in the Park
It was the kind of morning that whispered secrets to the trees. Golden sunlight filtered through the canopy of Everbrook Park, and the air smelled like fresh-cut grass. Thirteen-year-old Ravi wandered down the path, dragging his feet, a little bored and a lot curious. School was closed for the day. His friends were out of town, his parents were working, and worst of all—his phone was dead.
By Ahmad Malikabout a year ago in Fiction
The Honest Woodcutter — A Moral Story About Integrity
In a quiet village nestled at the edge of a vast forest, lived a poor woodcutter named Harun. Each day before sunrise, he ventured into the forest, his worn axe resting on his shoulder and hope in his heart. Life wasn’t easy—his hands were blistered, his clothes faded, and his earnings barely enough to care for his ailing mother. But Harun had something rare: he was honest to the core.
By Ahmad Malikabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lover Who Lived in My Dreams
She wasn’t a supermodel. She didn’t have the kind of face that stopped time or made men trip over their own tongues. But to me, she was unforgettable. Skin like warm earth after rain, eyes deep and dark like unanswered prayers, and a laugh that made the silence afterward feel too loud. She first appeared in a dream when I was seventeen, and somehow, she kept coming back. At first, I thought it was random. A trick of the mind. One of those subconscious mash-ups of faces you’ve seen in passing—a stranger at a bus stop, someone’s cousin at a wedding, an image from a music video. But then she came again. And again. Same full lips, same quiet confidence, same calm presence that made my chest settle. She was never loud, never flashy. But she always felt… necessary. I used to tell my friends about her. They laughed, joked about me watching too many romantic movies, said I needed to get out more. I stopped talking about her after a while. Not because I stopped dreaming about her, but because it felt too personal—like sharing her would somehow make her less mine. In the real world, I dated other women. There were connections, sure. Some good moments, even real feelings. But none of them felt like her. I’d lie in bed after dates, staring at the ceiling, wondering why I missed someone I’d never really met. Some nights, I’d close my eyes just to see if she’d come back. She always did. Not every night, but often enough to feel real. In my dreams, we talked about life. She asked me why I was always running—from love, from failure, from myself. We sat in kitchens with flickering bulbs, walked dusty roads holding hands, shared music and memories that weren’t mine but felt like they could be. She told me she was proud of me once, and I woke up with tears on my pillow. I never even got her name. One night, she didn’t show. Then a week passed. A month. My dreams were filled with randomness—noisy, forgettable scraps. Her absence was a dull ache I couldn’t explain. I missed her in a way I couldn’t talk about without sounding crazy. I felt like someone who’d lost a country he’d never visited, but knew was home. I was 26 when I saw her in real life. Not in a dream. Not in passing. Real, breathing, alive. She walked into the small bookstore downtown where I’d been helping out on weekends. Wore a simple burgundy dress, hair tied in a loose bun. No makeup. Just her. She wasn’t exactly the same—her nose was a bit narrower, her smile a little crooked—but everything else… the feel of her? That was unchanged. She looked at me. Paused. “Do I know you?” she asked. I wanted to say, I’ve known you my whole life. But I just smiled and said, “Not yet.” Her name was Ujunwa. She was studying social work, loved old books and hated sweet coffee. We sat and talked for an hour that first day. I didn’t tell her about the dreams. Not then. But I knew it in my bones—this wasn’t coincidence. This was convergence. Falling for her in real life was different. Messier. No dream sequences. No perfect timing. She had doubts, moods, and a stubborn streak that could stretch for miles. But God, she was real. And with her, so was I. Maybe the woman in my dreams was never meant to be a fantasy. Maybe she was a guide—an echo of what was waiting if I stayed open long enough, patient enough, alive enough to notice. The lover who lived in my dreams taught me how to hope. The woman who walked into that bookstore? She’s teaching me how to stay.
By Chinonso Kingsleyabout a year ago in Fiction
Billionaires Playboy
"The world mistook him for a man chasing pleasure. In truth, he was chasing a ghost." Every tabloid from Los Angeles to London knew his name — Chase Riker. Billionaire heir. Yacht collector. Fashion week regular. A man who once accidentally bought an island during a poker game in Monaco. Women adored him, the media worshipped him, and competitors feared him. But none of them really knew him.
By USAMA KHANabout a year ago in Fiction
From the Viewpoint of Mike Dotson
Well, Mrs. Bronson, I don’t pretend to know about all of this stuff. My head is full of sports trivia. For example, did you know that Michael Morgan of the Sox went to this school The only reason that I was able to get a passing grade in this class is because I was allowed to color a picture of a banana for extra credit. I thank God that a D- is still considered passing. But a guess that all I need to do is tell you what I saw.
By David E. Perryabout a year ago in Fiction
Petals of the Storm. AI-Generated.
Petals of the Storm Rain lashed against the windowpane of the tiny apartment as Mira sat curled up on the edge of her couch, the mug of untouched tea cooling in her hands. Outside, the world blurred with grey; inside, her mind echoed with silence—dense, aching, and raw.
By The Last Loveabout a year ago in Fiction
Personal Stories That Feel Like Secrets . AI-Generated.
Personal Stories That Feel Like Secrets I still remember the night I hid in my bedroom closet, heart pounding, tears soaking my pillow. I wasn’t running from a storm or a monster under the bed. I was hiding from myself—the part of me I was too afraid to face. This wasn’t a story I shared with friends or family. It was my secret, locked away behind whispered apologies and forced smiles. But that night, in the quiet darkness, I realized something important: secrets don’t protect us. They hold us captive.
By The Last Loveabout a year ago in Fiction
The Dragon’s Oath: A Tale of Ashes and Roses
Chapter 1: The Bargain The village of Blackthorn was dying. For months, the great black dragon Ignarion had circled their skies, his shadow darkening the fields, his fiery breath withering their crops. The elders had tried offerings—gold, livestock, even their finest wines—but nothing satisfied the beast. Then, one fateful evening, the dragon spoke.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Fiction
