Short Story

Upper Paradise for the Dante
So, I was stuck in the boonies and the bus came and I thought of the Comedy. He had a poet - Virgil - to travel with him and I get techno without headphones and we are heading downtown so it is deeper into purgatory (honestly, it looks like the Bruce Trail to me). And we are supposed to think that the terminus is now heaven (oh my, it is completely in reverse and I want to stay back on)? Did I really forget this after all this time? Did I not learn a thing from the Italian master? Really?
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
UNSPOKEN
Morning light slices through the city skyline of Kathmandu. On the west side, Sujan ties his tie with practiced ease. On the east, Maya adjusts her simple kurta, sliding her bangles gently down her wrists.
By Roshan Chauhanabout a year ago in Fiction
Awakening Through Silence: A Journey into the Shurangama Sutra
🪷 Awakening Through Silence: A Journey into the Shurangama Sutra In a world constantly buzzing with distractions, the practice of turning inward often feels foreign. We scroll endlessly, multitask compulsively, and live externally. Yet for those who seek a deeper truth, there lies a voice—quiet, timeless, and fierce—calling from the heart of one of Buddhism’s most enigmatic texts: The Shurangama Sutra.
By Minh Do Huuabout a year ago in Fiction
The Wishing-Dream. Top Story - April 2025. Content Warning.
When I was a little girl, I lay in bed at night, trying not to listen to his fists landing. I tried not to hear the shouts and crying and sometimes the screaming.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
MIDNIGHT MAGIC - ch 23
MIDNIGHT MAGIC – ch 23 Julie (*)(*)(*) Everyone in the room was thoroughly disgusted by Tony and his attitude. Mia shot a glance at her friend and noticed that Julie no longer looked pale or sick. She now looked defiant.
By Margaret Brennanabout a year ago in Fiction
Outlander
Outlander is a fascinating mix of historical fiction, romance, adventure, and time travel, written by Diana Gabaldon. It begins in 1945, just after World War II, and takes the reader on a journey back in time to 18th-century Scotland, where danger, love, and mystery fill every page.
By Muhammad Hayatabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silence After Birds
I don’t remember the last time I heard a bird sing. Maybe no one does. Maybe that was the beginning of the end. They say it started with the sky dimming—not dark, not stormed—just dim. A low, pale bruising of blue that hung over the world like a dying breath. The birds were the first to know. They stopped migrating. Then stopped flying. Then, one morning, they were gone. We didn't understand it then. We do now. I live in Sector D-7, what used to be called “Virginia.” Now it’s a patch of grey rubble held together by fences and fear. The sky’s always heavy here. Not cloudy. Just… pressing. the atmosphere... that's what I mean. The Institute tells us not to ask questions. It broadcasts lullabies from rusted towers—soft, synthetic voices that remind us to drink our recycled water and take our pills. They say it's for balance. For peace. But peace has no sound here. I work in a memory reclamation unit. My job is to sift through salvaged neural drives and extract usable experiences. You’d be surprised how many people died with their thoughts still humming. They call them “ghost thoughts.” Most are useless. Some scream. Some cry. Some sing. Last week, I found one that changed me. It was an old drive—dusty, cracked, barely pulsing. I hooked it to the analysis rig, expecting more static. Instead, it bloomed into sound. Birdsong. Sharp, layered. Alive. An orchestra of warbles and chirps and rustling wind through trees that no longer stand. My breath caught in my throat. The machine even shuddered, as if startled. Then the voice came. A woman’s. "This is for you. For whoever finds this. If birdsong is playing, it means I failed. I tried to preserve them. To build a sanctuary above the storms. But it wasn’t enough. If you're hearing this—listen closely. Follow the silence." The recording ended. The silence that followed felt louder than the song. I didn’t tell the Institute. Instead, I followed the coordinates embedded in the audio metadata—an old habit from before the collapse. It took me two nights of sneaking past curfew, crawling through drain tunnels and quiet streets that smelled like copper and ash. I crossed beyond the electric fences into the “Dead Zone”—uncharted territory, supposedly haunted by residual radiation. But I found no death. Only quiet. And then… trees. Real ones. Thin, pale-limbed birches clawing at the sky. Grass grew around their roots in soft patches. A kind of moss pulsed faintly under my boots. And in the center: a tower. It was made of polished obsidian, cracked but upright. I stepped inside. The interior was hollow, and from the ceiling hung thousands of data cores—each suspended in threads of light. I picked one at random. Birdsong. Another. Birdsong again. Different species, different tones. Each one a different melody. The sanctuary she built wasn’t physical. It was auditory. She’d preserved them here, digitally, hoping to seed the sound back into the world. But something had gone wrong. At the heart of the chamber was a panel. Dust-covered but operational. On it, a blinking command: RELEASE. I hesitated. What if this was why the world fell? What if the birds weren’t killed, but taken—to protect them from what was coming? What if releasing them would undo that? And then I remembered the voice in the recording: “If birdsong is playing, it means I failed.” She meant to save the world with song. Maybe not the whole world. Maybe just our part of it. I pressed the command. The tower lit like a sunrise. A soft rumble vibrated through the ground as speakers hidden in the walls—maybe across hidden networks—awakened for the first time in decades. And then, like a resurrection… the birds sang. They didn’t return, not in feather or bone. But their voices swept across the land like a balm. Through broken cities and ashen forests. Through ruins and wastelands. People stepped out of shelters and husks, eyes wide, lips parted. Some dropped to their knees. Some laughed. Some cried. But all listened. In D-7, the Institute’s towers short-circuited. The lullabies stopped. The fences dimmed. And for the first time in decades, we weren’t ruled by silence. We were cradled by sound. I don’t know if I saved anything. I don’t know if this world can be saved. But I walk now through it with a new purpose: speaker by speaker, tower by tower, I release the archives. Not to bring back the birds. But to remind us what it felt like when they sang. Because hope… Hope begins in the silence after birds.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Exits. Content Warning.
Inspired by an elderly man I met while travelling through New Brunswick, Canada in 2015. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
By Elle Schillereffabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Letter
The door now unaccustomed to being touched creaked as I opened it. I couldn't exactly remember the last time I came to my son's room. The room wasn't covered in dust as one would have expected from one left alone for twenty years, pointing to the fact that his mother perhaps cleaned it regularly. Maybe she was stronger than me, maybe her hands didn't shake on the doorknob, maybe her eyes didn't blur as she entered the room. But the memories must surely be flooding her mind each time too, playing everything frame-by-frame, starting from his birth, going through the joy of his first shaky baby-step that he took. It wasn't like I was not proud of him, I was. I was as proud of him as a father can ever possibly be. But carrying one's son, so young and still just a beautiful kid on his shoulders is not a fate any father deserves and is also not something that heals with time.
By Kartikey Mishraabout a year ago in Fiction
The Perfect Family on Willow Lane
Willow Lane was the prettiest street in town 🌸. Every house had bright flowers, green lawns, and happy families. But the Carters, who moved into the big white house at the end of the lane, were… different 👨👩👧👦. They didn’t just move into their house—it was like they appeared one day, as if the house grew them itself!
By Kratika Saxenaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Psychology of Love
Despite being one of the most difficult psychological experiences a person can go through, love is a universal emotion. Love can take many forms, including romantic, platonic, and familial, but at its core, it is a deeply personal journey. It is a state of mind and heart that often defies reason and shapes our thoughts, actions, and even our identity. From a psychological point of view, we can better understand why love can be both the most uplifting and most challenging experience in a person's life. At the heart of love lies a deep need for connection.
By Dipak Chakrabortyabout a year ago in Fiction
Bad Dream
The rain tapped gently on the windowpane as lightning flashed across the sky, momentarily lighting up thirteen-year-old Ayaan’s room. He tossed and turned in bed, clutching his blanket like a shield. He had always hated storms. Not because of the thunder or the wind—but because they seemed to call forth the nightmares.
By MAROOF KHANabout a year ago in Fiction