Short Story

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
The Silence That's Too Loud
It starts like it always does. With a low hum in their chest. Something that itches under the skin, spreading through their veins until it feels like their whole body is vibrating.
By MSŁabout a year ago in Fiction
Where Words Drown
"I can't fucking deal with you!" The brunette's voice cracks through the tense air, sharp and unrelenting. "Everything you do, everything you say; it's always so damn negative! Just stop!"
By MSŁabout a year ago in Fiction
She Is Woman
She always wondered why the Bible said God was a Man. The Creator.God The Father, God The Son, A Holy Ghost but no women.Until Eve, and they blamed her for all that was wrong in the world.She knew that she was the real CreatorShe was always the one who would bring life into this world.God was never a manShe Is Woman
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred - EBAabout a year ago in Fiction
The smile that never died
The Smile That Never Died A Brother’s Sacrifice, A Nation’s Pride, A Family’s Eternal Memory I still remember that morning like it was yesterday. The sun had just begun to rise, casting a golden hue across the rooftops of our small village. My brother, Asim, stood at the door in his army uniform, smiling like he always did before leaving for duty. There was something about that smile—warm, fearless, and oddly comforting. I didn’t know then that it would be the last time I’d see it in person. Asim was the heartbeat of our family. The eldest of four siblings, he carried responsibilities beyond his years. After our father’s passing, he became our protector, guide, and inspiration. Even when life was tough, his optimism never wavered. That smile—it had the power to ease any pain, lighten any burden. He joined the Pakistan Army right after college. Some in the village said it was too risky, but Asim would laugh and say, “If not me, then who?” His sense of duty was rooted not only in patriotism but in faith. He often quoted, “Jo Allah ke raaste mein shaheed hota hai, woh zinda hota hai, magar tum samajhte nahi.” (Those who are martyred in the path of Allah are alive, though you do not perceive it.) It was in the Waziristan region where Asim was posted during his final mission. We knew little about the details, only that the situation was tense and dangerous. Yet, every phone call from him was filled with love, strength, and—yes—that ever-present smile, even through his voice. Then came the phone call. It was a rainy evening. Amma was in the kitchen, humming an old naat, and I was helping my younger sister with her homework. The landline rang. I picked up. It was his commanding officer. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. “Asim fought bravely,” he said. “He laid down his life protecting his unit during an ambush. He saved several of his fellow soldiers... but he couldn’t save himself.” I froze. The room went silent. Amma turned around slowly. She looked at me—one look—and she knew. The days that followed were a blur of grief, visitors, and condolence messages. But amidst the tears and the aching emptiness, there was something unexplainable in the air—a presence, a peace. When his coffin arrived draped in the green and white flag, hundreds from our village and beyond came to pay their respects. Soldiers stood in salute. Flags flew at half-mast. And there, placed gently on the coffin lid, was a photo of Asim smiling. That same smile—untouched by fear, full of life. People often say that time heals all wounds. I don’t fully agree. Some wounds remain, but they become part of who you are. What helps is memory—beautiful, sacred memory. Every Eid, we leave a seat for Asim at the table. My mother lights a candle beside his photo. My younger brother, now training to be a soldier himself, places his hand over the picture and whispers, “I’ll make you proud, bhai.” And that photo—his smiling face—has become more than just an image. It’s a symbol. In our home, it reminds us of courage. In our village, it inspires young boys to dream beyond fear. At the local school, where a classroom has been named “Shaheed Asim Hall,” his story is told to every new batch of students. One day, a little boy from the neighborhood came to me and said, “Baji, Asim bhai’s smile gives me strength when I feel scared.” I didn’t know what to say. I just hugged him and cried. It’s been five years now. Seasons have changed. The world has moved on. But Asim’s smile hasn’t faded. It lives in our hearts, our memories, and in every act of kindness we do in his name. I often look up at the sky and wonder what it’s like where he is. Maybe there are fields of light, angels standing in rows, and the martyrs seated among them, their faces glowing with peace. I imagine Asim there—still smiling. They say martyrdom is a gift only the chosen receive. Asim was one of those chosen souls. And though he left us in body, his spirit walks among us. His sacrifice was not just for the land he loved, but for every life that breathes under its sky. Today, whenever someone asks me about my brother, I don’t speak of his death. I speak of his life—of how he lived with honor, loved with all his heart, and smiled through every storm. Because in our family, we don’t say, “Asim was a hero.” We say, “Asim is a hero.” And his smile? It never died.
By Esa khan about a year ago in Fiction
He loved me in pieces . Content Warning.
They say love can heal. But his love? It was a wrecking ball—ripping through me until I was nothing but shards scattered across the cold floor. He loved me in pieces. Not whole. Not fragile. Shattered. And I let him. I met him on a rainy Tuesday, the kind of day when the world is soaked in gray and silence. The café smelled like burnt coffee and broken dreams. He sat alone, eyes dark as storm clouds, carrying a secret that could swallow me whole. I thought I could save him. I was wrong. At first, his love was intoxicating—like fire on skin, hot and alive. He whispered poetry in a voice thick with danger, his fingers tracing lines down my spine that made my heart tremble and my blood run wild. His touch was both gentle and fierce, like a blade wrapped in velvet. I thought I was lucky, the one who saw past his brokenness. But I was just another shard he could bend and break. The cracks in him soon became cracks in me. The first time he slammed a door in my face, I blamed the rain, the day, anything but him. When his fist crushed my wrist, I told myself I’d deserved it—some invisible crime I’d committed. When the knife appeared—cold, silver, pressed to my throat—I realized love could be a weapon. But I stayed. Because he loved me. Or so I told myself. His love was a twisted maze of violence and passion, a dangerous dance where every step was a gamble. One moment, he held me like I was the only thing in the world; the next, he tore at the edges of my soul, pushing me to my limits. I learned to love the silence after the storm—the brief peace between his outbursts. It was like holding my breath underwater, waiting for air, waiting for the end. “I’m sorry,” he whispered after the worst nights, voice cracked and trembling like a man drowning in his own guilt. I believed him. I wanted to believe him. Belief became a double-edged sword, cutting deeper than his fists ever could. He didn’t want me whole. He wanted the broken parts—the pieces no one else could see, the ones he could own, control, fracture again and again. One night, the violence spilled over completely. The city was asleep, humming softly under a blanket of darkness. I thought I was safe. But he exploded like a thunderclap, rage consuming him whole. Glass shattered. Walls shook. And I was caught in the crossfire of a love that had become a battlefield. He grabbed me by the hair, dragging me across cold tiles like I was nothing but a rag doll. His breath was ragged, eyes wild and hungry. “You’re mine,” he growled, a promise and a threat twisted into one. I fought with everything I had—punching, kicking, screaming—but his grip was iron. The pieces of me shattered under his hands like broken glass, each fragment sharp and bleeding. Then something inside me snapped—not the part he loved, but the part he never wanted me to see: the part that refused to break any further. With strength I didn’t know I possessed, I twisted free, grabbing the knife from the counter. It caught the kitchen light, glinting like cold justice. I pressed the blade against his wrist. His eyes widened—not with fear, but with a twisted admiration, as if he’d never imagined I could fight back. “You love me,” I whispered. “But I love myself more.” The silence was thick, suffocating. He backed away, bleeding but alive. I stood there, trembling, pieces still sharp but holding together for the first time. I saw him then—the man behind the violence—fragile, broken, lost. I didn’t call the police. I didn’t run. I walked out into the rain, leaving behind the fragments of a love that had never existed. --- Days passed. I pieced myself together slowly, stitching the edges of my shattered soul with every breath. The bruises faded, but the scars stayed—reminders of a love that almost destroyed me. I learned that loving yourself after being broken by someone else was the hardest thing to do. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t easy. But it was necessary. His love was a nightmare disguised as a dream. He loved me in pieces because that’s all he was capable of loving—brokenness. But I wasn’t broken anymore. I was whole. --- Sometimes, when the rain falls hard and the night feels too quiet, I remember the shards—the knife, the glass, his voice whispering promises that were threats in disguise. But I no longer fear them. I survived. I loved myself in pieces—and in the spaces between, I found strength. ---
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
1. Introduction: Huck's Life in St. Petersburg Set in the 1840s in the fictional town of St. Petersburg, Missouri, the novel follows Huckleberry "Huck" Finn, a young boy recently adopted by the Widow Douglas and her sister, Miss Watson. They aim to “sivilize” him—teaching manners, religion, and schooling. However, Huck struggles under their rules. He prefers a simple, free-spirited life outdoors, fishing, and playing. His discomfort deepens with the return of his father, Pap Finn, a violent drunkard who only wants Huck's money, which he had found in a previous adventure.
By khanabout a year ago in Fiction
When the world feels silent
The silence in Noah's apartment wasn’t peaceful. It hummed like a refrigerator left open, constant and low, reminding him of all the voices that had gone missing.
By Nomiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Room
A woman named Meera lived in a peaceful area of Lucknow, surrounded by courtyards fragrant with jasmine and winding lanes. She was now 35 years old, a teacher by trade, and well-known for her kind smile, modest sarees, and the way kids confided in her. The past she had buried deep, like an old diary hidden in the darkest corner of a locked closet, was hidden behind those kind eyes.
By Abdul Qayyumabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Stood in Silence
The Man Who Stood in Silence By the old pond behind our house, a man stood like a statue, day after day. His name was Kishor, but no one ever heard him say it. He wore a frayed brown hat, its edges curled by years of sun and rain, and a sweater that had long lost its color to dust. His glasses, smudged and scratched, hid eyes that seemed to stare at something far beyond the murky water.
By MD Hamim Islamabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Healer’s Burden: Faith, Legacy, and the Weight of Divine Gifts"
The Healer understood her gift far better than the Apprentice ever could. To be *Blessed* was not about skill or effort—it was simply *being*, carrying a selfless faith so profound that it shaped the world without intent. Though she healed with her hands, sometimes the Divine intervened, mending what mortal ability could not. "It’s not a choice," the Healer murmured. "What happens through me defies understanding. If I tried to dissect it, I might destroy it." The Apprentice bit back her frustration. "Then what *can* you teach me?" "Everything I know," the Healer replied. "The wisdom from my first master, the lessons of High Valley. You could even go there—I’d give you a letter. But don’t chase a Blessing. That path will poison your joy and corrupt your craft. Some things *are*. Some *aren’t*. And some *never will be*." With a tired sigh, the Healer shifted, rubbing her lower back. The Apprentice immediately kneaded the stiff muscles, wondering what toll the Blessing truly took. She’d never know—but while her master remained, she would learn. To be Blessed seemed miraculous. Yet, watching the Healer’s weariness as she guided the Apprentice’s hands, it was clearly a burden too. The magic came unpredictably. Rarely did the Healer *know* it would work—except with the boy, when green light had flared beneath her fingers. Even then, she couldn’t claim it as her own, couldn’t replicate it, couldn’t pass it on. As she worked the knots from her master’s shoulders, the Apprentice wondered how much time they had left. The Blessed were wanderers at heart; this village might not hold her forever. Then she caught herself—*scheming again*. Trying to manipulate, to *force* understanding. The Healer was right. If the rules were as she said, the Apprentice could never be Blessed. But there’d been a hint in her words: *faith alone moves magic*. Perhaps, if she planted the seeds now, generations later, a new Blessed might rise in this village. Another farm boy might cheat death because of her unseen hand. That future healer would eclipse her own legacy. Her name would fade, remembered only as a woman who’d once mended wounds. She was content with that. Healing was enough. Unseen, a wisp of green light seeped through the Healer’s dress, settling into the Apprentice’s fingers. "Never to be Blessed" didn’t mean the gods would refuse her all grace. As her master said, even mortals could heal—*with their own hands*. --- **The Weight of Blessings** The Healer knew her gift in ways the Apprentice could scarcely fathom. To be *Blessed* was not a matter of study or will—it was a state of being, a surrender to a faith so profound it moved through the world like wind through grass, unseen but undeniable. She healed with her hands, yes, but sometimes—only sometimes—something greater stirred within her, mending what should have been beyond repair. "It isn’t something I *do*," the Healer said, her voice quiet but firm. "It passes through me. If I tried to hold it, to dissect it, I fear I would lose it entirely." The Apprentice clenched her fists, frustration simmering beneath her skin. She had so many questions, so many *whys* and *hows*, but the answers slipped like water through her fingers. Swallowing her impatience, she asked instead, "Then what *can* you teach me?" The Healer’s expression softened. "I can teach you all I know—the remedies passed down from my first master, the secrets whispered in High Valley. If you wish, I will send you there with my blessing. But listen well: Do not seek the Blessing itself. That path leads only to disappointment. Some things cannot be claimed. They can only be *received*—or not." With a weary sigh, the Healer set aside her cloth and shifted, wincing as she pressed a hand to the small of her back. The Apprentice moved without thinking, her fingers finding the familiar tension in her master’s muscles. She had seen this weariness before, the way the Healer’s body bore the cost of her gift. *What does it feel like?* the Apprentice wondered. To be a vessel for something so vast, so beyond comprehension? To never know when—or if—the magic would answer? The Healer had spoken of faith, but faith was a slippery thing. The Apprentice had seen miracles—like the boy and the scythe, the way emerald light had knit his flesh back together as if the wound had never been. Yet the Healer refused to take credit, refused to call it her own. *That* was the hardest part to understand. How could she not want to *own* such power? To wield it with certainty? As she worked the stiffness from her master’s shoulders, the Apprentice’s thoughts wandered. The Blessed were said to be wanderers, never staying long in one place. Would her master leave someday? Would she wake to find her gone, with only memories and half-learned lessons left behind? The thought sent a pang through her chest. There was still so much to learn. Then she caught herself—*scheming again*. Always trying to shape the future, to control what could not be controlled. The Healer was right: If the Blessing demanded surrender, then the Apprentice’s very nature worked against her. She was a creature of plans and puzzles, of *making* things happen. But perhaps… perhaps there was another way. The Healer had spoken of faith moving through generations, of seeds planted long before they bloomed. If the Apprentice could not be Blessed herself, maybe she could prepare the ground for someone who *could*. A descendant, a student yet unborn—someone who might one day stand in this very house and mend wounds with hands that glowed like spring leaves. The thought should have saddened her. To be forgotten, her name lost to time while another’s shone bright… and yet, it didn’t. The work would remain. That was enough. Unnoticed by either of them, a single spark of green light drifted through the fabric of the Healer’s sleeve, settling into the Apprentice’s palm. "Never to be Blessed," the Healer had said. But the gods, it seemed, had their own ideas.
By Nasir Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Wolf Roams Through Lush Fields
The Last Meadow The morning mist curled low over the valley, whispering through the tall grass like a secret kept too long. Dew clung to every blade, sparkling in the rising sun’s golden light. In the middle of the meadow, a gray wolf stood still, his breath slow and steady, ears perked to the sound of the waking earth.
By Mukhtiar Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction