Short Story
Hunter Gene
“Hunter Gene” A young woman struggles with the choices that have led her to take up her destined calling: Hunting. Part witch and part werewolf, she preferred to portray herself as a normal human. As fate would have it, she would activate her hunter’s genes.
By Jennidoll of (jennidoll.inc)5 months ago in Fiction
The Well of Secrets
I. The Village of Mirabad The village of Mirabad had no secrets — or so the elders claimed. Nestled between two hills like a sleeping child between its parents' arms, it was the kind of place where the smell of bread from one household drifted to another, where every birth was celebrated by the whole street, and every death was mourned by every soul who could walk to the graveyard. People believed that here, under the open sky, nothing could stay tv hidden for long. But there was the well. It stood at the very center of the village square, older than anyone could remember. The stone walls were dark with age, the rope that hung over it had been replaced a hundred times, and the water that rose from its depths was the coldest, clearest water in the entire valley. Children drank from it. Women washed vegetables beside it. Old men sat on its edge and told stories that had no endings. Everyone used the well. But no one — not even the oldest elder — knew how deep it truly went. It was beside this well that the trouble began, on the last Tuesday of October, when the body of Tariq the miller was found. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ II. The Morning After Rukhsana was the one who found him. She had come before dawn, as she always did, to draw water before her mother-in-law woke and demanded tea. The lantern in her hand threw a pale circle of light onto the cobblestones — and there he was, Tariq, slumped against the base of the well, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing. She did not scream. Rukhsana had grown up in this village and she had seen death before — her father, a drought that killed their crops and then their animals, two children buried before they could learn to speak. She set down her lantern. She pressed two fingers to Tariq's neck. Cold. Long gone. Then she noticed something. His right hand was clenched tight around a piece of cloth — torn, dark blue, the kind of fabric the wealthy men of the village wore. Rukhsana stared at it for a long moment. Then she looked up, into the dark mouths of the houses surrounding the square, the shuttered windows, the closed doors. She felt the village watching her, even in its sleep. She left the cloth where it was and went to wake the headman. "In a village this small, a secret is not something you keep. It is something you bury — and pray the rains do not come." III. The Questions Begin By midmorning, the square was full. The headman, old Bismillah Khan, sat on a wooden chair that had been brought out from his house, and one by one the men of the village came to stand before him. The women watched from a distance, gathered in tight clusters, their voices low. The constable from the district town had been sent for, but the road was muddy from the night's rain and it would be hours before he arrived. In the meantime, Bismillah Khan asked the questions himself. Who had seen Tariq last? His wife, Zainab, said he had left after the evening prayer, saying he needed to check on his mill wheel. He had not returned. She had assumed he stayed there, as he sometimes did when the work ran long. She had gone to sleep. Who had been in the square after dark? No one admitted to it. And the cloth in Tariq's hand? Bismillah Khan held it up. The crowd went very quiet. It was good fabric, fine weave, the colour of deep water. Several eyes shifted — briefly, involuntarily — toward the house of Saleem the merchant, the richest man in Mirabad, whose long coat was made of exactly that kind of cloth. Saleem stood at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, his face as smooth and unreadable as river stone. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ IV. What Rukhsana Knew It was Rukhsana who held the real secret, though she had not yet decided what to do with it. Three weeks ago, she had been drawing water late at night — her mother-in-law had been feverish, and she needed water for the medicine. The square had been empty, the village asleep. But as she pulled up the bucket, she had heard voices from the alley beside the merchant's storehouse. Tariq's voice and another — hushed, urgent, arguing. She had caught only fragments. "You promised. The land was to be mine—" "Keep your voice down. Things have changed." "I have the papers. I have proof of what you did." Then silence, and footsteps fading, and she had gone home and told herself it was none of her business. Village men argued about land constantly. It meant nothing. Now Tariq was dead and Rukhsana stood in the crowd with the weight of those words pressing against her ribs like a stone. She looked at Saleem. He was already looking at her. Their eyes met for just a second — and in that second, something passed between them. An acknowledgment. A warning. Rukhsana looked away first. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ V. The Well Gives Nothing Back That afternoon, one of the boys threw a stone into the well to measure its depth. They waited for the sound. And waited. And waited. There was no splash. The boys went pale and ran home and told their mothers, who told their husbands, and by evening everyone in Mirabad was talking about the well — about how deep it truly was, what was really at the bottom, whether it had always been so silent or whether something had changed. The constable arrived at dusk, a tired young man with mud on his boots and no patience for village superstitions. He examined Tariq's body, took the cloth as evidence, wrote in his notebook, and told Bismillah Khan that the cause of death appeared to be a blow to the back of the head. Murder. He would return in three days with an investigator from the city. Three days. The village settled into an uneasy silence. That night, Rukhsana lay awake listening to her mother-in-law snore. She thought about Tariq's wife, Zainab, who had wept all afternoon with a grief that looked genuine. She thought about the papers Tariq had mentioned — proof of what Saleem had done. Where were those papers now? Had Saleem found them? Had he been searching Tariq's mill, even now, in the dark? She rose before her husband could stir, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and slipped out into the night. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ VI. The Mill The mill sat at the edge of the village where the stream ran fast over smooth rocks. The door was ajar. Rukhsana pushed it open and stepped inside. A figure was already there, crouched by the far wall, holding a lantern. He stood when he heard her — and the light fell on his face. It was not Saleem. It was Zainab. Tariq's wife looked at Rukhsana with red, swollen eyes and clutched something to her chest — a folded bundle of papers, tied with string. "I knew he kept them here," Zainab said. Her voice was very calm, in the way that voices go calm when all the fear has already passed through them. "He told me once, when he was drunk. He said: if anything ever happens to me, go to the loose stone behind the millstone. He knew this day might come." Rukhsana stepped forward. "Are those—" "Land records. Forged signatures. Saleem has been stealing land from the families of this village for fifteen years. Tariq found out six months ago. He was going to give these to the investigator from the city." Zainab's jaw tightened. "He waited too long." Outside, the stream rushed over its stones. Somewhere in the village, a dog barked twice and went quiet. "What will you do?" Rukhsana asked. Zainab looked down at the papers. Then she looked up, and in her eyes was something that Rukhsana recognized — the look of a woman who has nothing left to lose and has therefore become the most dangerous kind of person in the world. "I will not wait," Zainab said. ⸻ ✦ ⸻ Epilogue When the investigator arrived from the city three days later, Zainab was waiting for him at the entrance to Mirabad, the papers in her hands. Saleem the merchant was arrested before the afternoon prayer. The stolen land was the subject of a case that would take two years to resolve but would, in the end, return what had been taken. No one ever determined exactly how deep the old well was. But the morning after Saleem was taken away, the boys threw another stone into it — and this time, faint and far below, there was a sound. Small. Distant. Real. A splash. The village of Mirabad breathed again. — The End —
By Ikram Ullah5 months ago in Fiction
I Smiled in Front of Everyone… But I Was Breaking Inside.
Write by Matiullah If you had seen me back then, you would’ve thought I was fine. I smiled in conversations. I laughed at jokes. I showed up where I was supposed to be. On the outside, I looked like someone who had things under control. And maybe that’s why no one noticed. Because the truth is, the better you become at hiding your pain… the less people see it. The Silence Behind the Noise There were moments when I was surrounded by people, yet felt completely alone. Voices filled the room. Laughter echoed around me. But inside my mind, there was only silence—heavy, suffocating silence. I wasn’t physically alone. But emotionally… I was somewhere far away. And I didn’t know how to explain that to anyone. When Pretending Became a Habit At first, the smile was a choice. I didn’t want to worry anyone. I didn’t want to seem weak. So I told myself, “Just act normal. It will pass.” But days turned into weeks. And weeks turned into something deeper. Smiling stopped being a choice—it became a habit. A mask I wore without thinking. Even on days when I felt completely drained, I still smiled. Not because I was okay… But because I didn’t know how to be anything else. The Weight No One Could See Pain isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet. Invisible. Hidden behind small, ordinary moments. It’s in the way you lose interest in things you once enjoyed. It’s in the way your energy disappears without reason. It’s in the constant feeling that something is wrong—but you can’t explain what. I carried that weight every day. And the hardest part? No one could see it. The Fear of Being Understood There were times I wanted to talk. Moments when I felt like I couldn’t hold it in anymore. But every time I thought about opening up, something stopped me. “What if they don’t understand?” “What if they think I’m overreacting?” “What if I become a burden?” So I stayed quiet. Because silence felt safer than being misunderstood. Breaking Without Falling Apart The strange thing about breaking inside is… you don’t always fall apart on the outside. Life continues. You still wake up. You still go through your routine. You still respond when someone talks to you. But inside, something is slowly collapsing. Piece by piece. And no one notices—because you’re still functioning. The Moment I Faced the Truth One night, everything felt heavier than usual. There was no distraction, no noise—just me and my thoughts. And for the first time, I stopped running from them. I asked myself a simple question: “Why am I pretending I’m okay?” That question hit harder than anything else. Because I didn’t have an answer. Letting the Mask Slip I didn’t suddenly fix everything that night. But something changed. I stopped forcing myself to act okay all the time. I allowed myself to feel what I had been ignoring. I admitted—to myself—that I wasn’t fine. And strangely, that honesty felt like relief. Not happiness. But relief. Learning to Be Real Again Healing didn’t happen overnight. There were still difficult days. Moments of doubt. Times when I slipped back into old habits. But I started doing things differently. I stopped trying to impress everyone. I stopped pretending to be strong all the time. I stopped comparing my life to others. And slowly, I started feeling… lighter. Not perfect. Not completely healed. But real. What I Realized Too Late Looking back, I understand something I didn’t before: Smiling doesn’t always mean someone is okay. Sometimes, it’s the opposite. Sometimes, the people who look the happiest… are the ones hiding the most. And sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is not to hide—but to admit the truth. If You Feel This Way Too If you’re reading this and it feels familiar… If you’re smiling in front of people while struggling inside… I want you to know this: You don’t have to keep pretending. You don’t have to carry everything alone. It’s okay to not be okay. Final Thoughts I still smile. But now, it’s different. Now, it’s not a mask. It’s real. Because I’m no longer hiding from what I feel. And that changed everything. Did you like this feature?
By Matiullah k5 months ago in Fiction
I Was Doing Everything Right—So Why Was My Life Still Falling Apart?
Write by (Matiullah) I was doing what I was supposed to do. I was following the “right” path—studying, trying to stay disciplined, avoiding distractions, thinking about my future. I wasn’t wasting time. I wasn’t being careless. If someone had asked me, “Are you doing your best?” I would’ve said yes without hesitation. But deep down, something felt off. Because despite doing everything right… nothing felt right. The Silent Feeling I Couldn’t Explain It didn’t happen suddenly. It built up slowly. A constant heaviness. A quiet frustration. A feeling that no matter how much effort I put in, nothing was actually improving. I wasn’t failing in an obvious way. There was no big mistake, no dramatic collapse. But there was no progress either. And that’s what made it worse. Because when you fail, at least you know why. But when things just don’t work—even when you’re trying—it messes with your mind. I started questioning everything. “Am I not good enough?” “Am I missing something?” “Why does it feel like I’m stuck?” The Pressure to Keep Going Anyway The hardest part wasn’t the struggle itself. It was pretending everything was okay. People around me didn’t see what I was feeling. To them, I was just another person moving forward, doing normal things. And maybe that’s why I didn’t talk about it. Because how do you explain a problem you don’t fully understand? So I kept going. Doing the same things. Following the same routine. Hoping something would change. But nothing did. When Effort Doesn’t Equal Results This is where things started falling apart internally. I believed in a simple idea: “If you work hard, things will work out.” But my reality didn’t match that belief. I was putting in effort—but not seeing results. And that creates a dangerous cycle: You try harder You expect more You get nothing You feel worse Eventually, it starts to feel like your effort doesn’t matter. And that’s when motivation begins to disappear. The Breaking Point I Didn’t See Coming It wasn’t a big event. It was a small moment. One day, I sat down to do something important—and I just couldn’t. Not because I was lazy. But because I felt mentally exhausted. I realized I had been pushing myself non-stop… without understanding why things weren’t working. I wasn’t just tired. I was drained. The Truth I Was Avoiding That’s when something finally clicked. I wasn’t doing everything right. I was doing what I thought was right. There’s a difference. I had been: Following advice that didn’t fit my situation Comparing my progress to others Forcing routines that didn’t work for me Ignoring what I actually needed I wasn’t failing because I was lazy. I was struggling because I wasn’t aligned with myself. Changing Direction Instead of Working Harder For the first time, I stopped trying to “push through.” Instead, I paused. I started asking better questions: “What actually works for me?” “What do I need right now?” “Why am I doing this?” I stopped copying others. I started observing myself. And slowly, things began to shift. Small Changes That Made a Big Difference I didn’t fix everything overnight. But I made small, real changes: I simplified my routine I focused on fewer goals I allowed myself to rest without guilt I stopped expecting instant results And something surprising happened. I started feeling better. Not successful yet. Not perfect. But lighter. Clearer. More in control. Understanding That “Right” Is Personal The biggest lesson I learned is this: There is no universal “right way” to live your life. What works for someone else might not work for you. And blindly following what looks right can actually lead you in the wrong direction. Sometimes, life doesn’t fall apart because you’re doing everything wrong. Sometimes, it falls apart because you’re not doing what’s right for you. If You Feel Like This Too If you’re in a place where: You’re trying hard You’re doing what you’re told But nothing feels right Then maybe it’s not about doing more. Maybe it’s about doing differently. Pause for a moment. Ask yourself honestly: “Is this really my path—or am I just following one?” Where I Stand Now I’m still figuring things out. I don’t have everything under control. But I’m no longer forcing myself into a life that doesn’t fit. And that alone has changed everything. Final Thought If your life feels like it’s falling apart—even when you’re doing everything right— Maybe it’s not a sign of failure. Maybe it’s a sign that something needs to change. Not your effort. Your direction. Did you like this feature?
By Matiullah k5 months ago in Fiction
The pulse pt 2
After that, the mind begins to revise what it thinks it saw. Not to change it exactly, but to soften the edges where certainty might have been. I found myself returning to earlier moments, not searching for meaning, but for evidence that something had been different than it now appeared. As if repetition could reveal a hidden instruction I had missed. But there was nothing to find. Only the same quiet precision. The way he would arrive in a space without disturbing its existing grammar. How even attention from him felt like it had been filtered through something careful, something unwilling to claim more than it could hold without strain. It made me think of standing near a door that is never fully opened. Not locked. Just not invited to swing further. And still, I stayed near it in my memory, as if waiting for the hinge to decide differently in retrospect. What unsettles me most is not that it ended. It is that I cannot locate the moment where ending would have occurred. There is no break. Only a gradual thinning, like breath leaving a room so evenly you only notice when you begin to feel cold. I started noticing other things then. How often I had been measuring presence by restraint. How I had mistaken not being overwhelmed for being held. How I had learned to read absence of harm as a kind of care. The realization did not arrive all at once. It came the way weather changes when you are not looking at the sky. And still, even now, there are moments when I reconstruct him incorrectly. Not as a person who left. But as a pattern that stopped continuing. As if continuity itself had been the most intimate thing he ever offered. And I keep waiting, irrationally, for the pattern to resume. Not because I expect return. But because my body still recognizes the shape of almost-contact as if it were a language I once knew fluently. And sometimes, in the middle of ordinary hours, I feel it again. That precise nearness. Not happening. Not leaving. Just hovering at the exact distance where it becomes indistinguishable from memory.
By Taylor Ward5 months ago in Fiction
Happy Harper
May rolled by like another Monday, even though it started on a Thursday this year. Same shit, different day. Except there was one small change. Well, maybe not that small. This year, the school was empty. Same with the office. And the staff room. Not a soul in sight.
By Oneg In The Arctic5 months ago in Fiction
