Short Story

'Have you ever seen the rain?'
Running as the rain lashes with tiny horizontal hammer blows, feet sodden as pavement puddles unite to form a flowing stream.
By Tash Habout a year ago in Fiction
Pax vobiscum
The year is 2044. Simon has just turned 30 and is not at all happy about it. Thirty, to most 30-year-olds, is ancient, game over.
By Marie McGrathabout a year ago in Fiction
An Unlikely Friendship. Top Story - May 2025.
A high school jock comes to the aid of a classmate being bullied. When Alex Bigton walked into the school restroom between classes, he walked right into Boomer Watts, the class bully. Boomer had a kid named Jarrid pinned up against the wall. He was tormenting the kid and threatening to “kick his ass”.
By Scott A. Geseabout a year ago in Fiction
She Left Her Diary on My Coffin.
It was raining the day they buried me. Not that it mattered. I was dead—cold, breathless, and buried beneath six feet of regrets. The world moved on quickly. No one wept loudly. No one screamed.
By Syed Sarafatabout a year ago in Fiction
She Left Her Voice in the Cradle
The house was never silent, though no one had lived there in thirteen years. Wind passed through its broken panes like breathing through cracked lips, and on quiet nights, neighbors whispered that they could hear someone singing lullabies—faint, soft, and unbearably sad.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Velvet Sky. AI-Generated.
The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and anticipation, the kind that makes your skin hum before you even know why. In the quiet coastal town of Solara, where the ocean whispered secrets to the cliffs, Elena stood on her balcony, her silk robe slipping just enough to catch the moonlight. She wasn’t waiting for anyone—at least, that’s what she told herself. But when a stranger’s low, velvet voice called her name from the shadows below, her heart betrayed her with a reckless thump. Something dangerous and delicious was about to unravel, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to stop it.
By mobeen islamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Seeds of True Treasure
In a valley forgotten by time, cradled between ancient mountains and rivers that sang to the stars, there lived a young dragon named Liora. She was not like the others. While the older dragons hunted storms and hoarded gold in cavernous lairs, Liora spent her days among the fields and forests, watching how the world moved gently without fire or thunder. Liora loved small things — a dewdrop trembling on a leaf, the hush of wings in the tall grass, the soft pop of seeds breaking free from their pods. To her, these were treasures greater than anything hidden in dark caves. But not everyone agreed. “You’ll never be a true dragon if you don’t seek real treasure,” rumbled Elder Varkon, his golden horns glinting in the sunlight. “Gold. Gems. Power. That’s what makes a dragon strong.” Liora lowered her gaze, feeling the weight of his disappointment. Yet, when she looked at the mountains of treasure piled high in the dragon caves, she felt... nothing. No spark. No joy. One evening, as twilight painted the sky in shades of violet and gold, Liora sat by the Whispering River. In her claws, she cradled a tiny seed — no larger than a raindrop, but pulsing faintly with life. “What treasure could this little one hold?” she wondered aloud. A soft voice answered — or perhaps it was the wind itself — *"Plant it, and you shall see."* Heart pounding, Liora gently pressed the seed into the earth. She covered it with soil, whispered a promise to nurture it, and settled nearby to wait. Days turned to weeks. Other dragons laughed when they passed by, seeing her guarding an empty patch of dirt. “She’s lost her mind!” some said. “She’ll never find real treasure that way!” others sneered. But Liora stayed. She sheltered the patch during rainstorms, warmed it during cold nights with the gentle glow of her breath, and sang lullabies to the soil under the stars. And then, one morning, it happened. A tiny green shoot broke through the earth, reaching hungrily toward the sun. Liora’s heart swelled with a joy more brilliant than any gold. Each day, the little plant grew stronger. It stretched higher and wider, its leaves unfolding like emerald flags, shimmering with a strange, soft light. Flowers bloomed — not ordinary flowers, but ones that glowed like captured sunsets, their petals humming faint notes that filled the air with music. Soon, vines threaded across the once-barren land, weaving patterns of silver and gold through the valley. Wherever the plants touched, the ground healed: rivers ran clearer, trees grew taller, and creatures returned to the land in joyful herds and flocks. The other dragons noticed. They came down from their caves, at first in curiosity, then in awe. They watched as the valley transformed before their eyes — not through fire or force, but through patience, care, and a single planted seed. One evening, as the dragons gathered in the now-flourishing valley, Elder Varkon approached Liora. His voice, usually booming and proud, was quiet. “I see now,” he said, his golden eyes reflecting the blooming fields. “Real treasure is not in gold... but in the dreams we dare to plant.” Liora smiled, her heart full. She had not needed to conquer or collect. She had only needed to believe in something small, and to nurture it with love and hope. The valley became a sacred place, known far and wide as the Garden of Dreams. Dragons from distant lands traveled there not to seek riches, but to plant their own seeds — seeds of kindness, of courage, of hope. Each blossom was different, reflecting the dream of the one who planted it. Some grew into towering crystal trees; others into fields of flowers that sang songs no one had heard before. Liora remained its guardian, teaching those who came how to plant with care and patience, and how to listen to the whispers of the earth. And if you travel there, even now, you might find a small, glowing seed waiting for you — a chance to plant your own dream, and to discover a treasure greater than any ever locked away in stone. All it takes is a little faith, a little love, and the courage to believe that even the tiniest seed can change the world. # Key Quotes from the Story: - **"Patience is the water that helps dreams grow."** - **"A seed may be small, but inside it lies an entire future waiting to bloom."** - **"The truest treasures are not hoarded — they are shared, nurtured, and set free."**
By Little Dream Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
A scary ghost story P [1]
To get to my house, I have to cross this alley now. I can hear the sound of insects chirping. It's a creepy feeling. I've never been afraid of ghosts. Many times, I've come through this alley at around 2/3 in the morning and bought cigarettes from the street corner shop. That day, no such fear crossed my mind. I'm walking down the alley. A lit cigarette in my hand. I'm looking at the road from time to time in the light of my mobile phone and humming the song Just then, in the middle of the alley, I suddenly heard someone say, "Excuse me, brother." I turned the light of my mobile phone around. I looked around but there was no one there. I thought that someone might have said it in one of the houses on either side of the alley. I started walking again. After taking two steps, the call "Excuse me, brother" again, and a small voice rang out from my ear. This time I stood up. I felt a slight fear, but it was not of the ghost, but of the kidnapper. I thought again that if I ran from here now and it was someone I knew, they would tell everyone about the run and puncture my prestige. Didn't talk through the throat. Nevertheless, I brought artificial courage in Gambhir's voice "Who?". The answer came to the wreath of the scandal. I have woken up. The drawer of the drawer. This time I jiggled with some resentment in the voice, or are you talking like a ghost? Answer the scandal. What is the ghost of the scalp? I didn't understand what to say. Where are you thinking of giving me a shouting, while he is just thinking of giving me a scream, he again said that he would pull the sigh of walking in the wandering walk and burst into it. You can find the ghost of the jerk. You don't get to draw. He used to swallow the slope of the tip of the shore. Fear the hair is swept away? I have heard so long that the hair becomes erect. He said that the loot of the people of the painters was like a lid. The ghost of the ghosts of the ghosts of the tumor is swept away in the creek. I did not drop the cigarette and gave him a pull. The ghost said like a bit of akuti and said, "Do not dive it on the foot of the painter." Tima is drawing a shaft.
By Arfan Raihenabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Hour
It began, as most mysteries do, in silence. At exactly 3:17 AM on a rain-soaked Tuesday morning, every clock in the small English town of Alderbridge stopped ticking. Not a second more, not a tick less. The hands froze in synchrony, and the town slept on, unaware that time had taken its leave. By morning, the oddity was chalked up to a local power surge. Grandfather clocks, digital wristwatches, even battery-powered alarms—every timepiece had paused at 3:17. Only one man noticed what it truly meant. Detective Charles Leighton had been retired for eight years. Widowed, solitary, and living in the last house on Bramble Lane, he’d learned to appreciate the quiet, until that quiet started screaming. For Leighton, the stillness of 3:17 wasn’t a glitch. It was a sign. When the local historian, Margaret Hensley, failed to open the town’s museum that morning, concern spread quickly. Margaret was as punctual as the town bell. By noon, Constable Reeves was knocking at her door. No answer. Leighton, hearing the ruckus from his garden, wandered over. Reeves looked up. "She’s not answering, and the door’s locked from the inside." Leighton’s eyes scanned the perimeter. "Check the back." The rear window was slightly ajar. Inside, the house was dark, untouched. A teacup lay shattered on the floor beside an open book. Reeves radioed for backup, but Leighton stepped inside without waiting. Margaret Hensley was gone. --- The next clue came that evening. Leighton sat with a cup of strong tea, reviewing what he’d seen. The book beside the broken cup was a journal—old leather, weathered spine. Inside, a single page had been torn out. The rest was a meticulous account of Alderbridge’s past. Margaret had spent years documenting the town’s oddities: the church fire of 1901, the unsolved disappearance of a choirboy in 1922, the blackout of 1973. But one entry, written in faint pencil, stood out: "Clocks stopped before. 3:17 AM. August 14th, 1901. Edward Bell vanished. No explanation given. One survivor: Thomas Greaves, who later claimed he heard whispers when time froze." Leighton’s breath caught. August 14th. Today’s date. He rummaged through his attic and found what he hoped still remained—a dusty folder marked Greaves. He’d investigated Alderbridge’s cold cases in his younger days. Greaves had been dismissed as mad, committed to a sanitarium, and forgotten. Within the folder: a black-and-white photograph of Greaves, eyes wide in terror. A transcription of his ramblings: "They wait when time sleeps. They only speak in the silent hour." Leighton stared at his wristwatch, now working again. It read 10:06 PM. He had five hours until time stopped again. --- At 2:58 AM, Leighton stood outside Alderbridge Museum. The rain had returned, mist curling through the streets like breath from a hidden mouth. He carried Margaret’s journal and his revolver—a relic he hoped he wouldn’t need. Inside the museum, everything was as Margaret left it: old maps, Victorian gowns, a broken phonograph. But one exhibit stood out now. A tall grandfather clock in the corner. Its face read 3:17. Frozen. He opened its casing. Instead of gears, a hollow cavity. Inside—folded parchment. A letter. "To the next who hears the silence, They return every seventy years. They took Bell. They’ll take more. At 3:17, the veil lifts. Only those who listen can see. Only those who see can stop it. — M.H." The second hand on Leighton’s watch shuddered. 3:16. He felt it before he heard it: a pressure, as if the air itself had paused. The room chilled. The lights dimmed, then held. And then came the whisper. Not from outside. From within. "Charles..." He turned, revolver raised. Nothing. But the clock ticked once. Just once. "They wait... behind the hour..." The museum blurred. Walls twisted, shadows deepened. And then, in the center of the room, a figure. Margaret. But not as she was. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, her mouth moving in silent words. Behind her, four silhouettes in long coats, their faces obscured, circled like vultures. Leighton stepped forward. "Let her go." The room whispered: "Trade." He clenched the journal. "Why?" "Knowledge is the cost. Secrets must be kept. Time must be sealed." Margaret raised a hand, trembling. A flicker of recognition in her eyes. "Tell them... don't forget the silent hour." And then— The clocks restarted. 3:18 AM. The museum was empty. --- Morning came heavy with fog. Margaret was never found. Leighton told Reeves she’d vanished in the night. No one questioned it too much. The town had a way of smoothing over the strange. But Leighton knew the truth. He returned to his home, opened a new journal, and began to write. August 14th, 2025. The clocks stopped. Again. One taken. One warned. Next time—must be ready. He wound his wristwatch and stared at the second hand, ticking forward. Always watching. Waiting for the silent hour to return.
By Rohanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Head Bath Betrayal
Summer has a way of ruining things. Ice melts faster than your ambitions. Clothes stick to you like cling wrap. And worst of all? The infamous head bath betrayal.
By Subhasri Devarajabout a year ago in Fiction
My Reflection Spoke First — A Haunted Mirror Horror Story
I used to not believe in ghosts and gods, nor was I afraid of the dark. Until that night, my reflection opened its mouth, and I didn't move at all.
By Lucianabout a year ago in Fiction
🔪《She blinked in the mirror》
93 Windsor Road is an old apartment building with cheap rent, but it never lacks tenants. The new resident on the west side of the fourth floor is Lina, a young woman who works in the library. She is not talkative and often stays alone in the room. Neighbors only nod at the elevator occasionally, and no one really knows her.
By Lucianabout a year ago in Fiction