Young Adult
Lessons in Love
The bell rang with its usual sharpness, signaling the start of yet another class. The classroom buzzed with chatter, notebooks flipping open, chairs scraping back into place. On the third bench near the window, Aarav adjusted his glasses and silently took out his economics textbook. He was always early—always prepared. He liked the order of things. But today, as the sun angled through the dusty panes and cast golden patches on the desks, something in the air felt different.
By Taslim Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Thirsty Crow
Once upon a time, in a small village surrounded by green fields and dense forests, there lived a clever little crow. His feathers were glossy black, and his eyes shone like tiny beads. He was known throughout the village for his wit and intelligence. While other birds would often act foolishly or get into trouble, this crow always managed to find a way out of tricky situations. One particularly hot summer afternoon, the sun blazed mercilessly in the sky. The air shimmered with heat, and not a single cloud floated above to offer shade. All the ponds, rivers, and wells in the village had either dried up or were reduced to muddy puddles. It was a difficult time for every living creature in the area. Birds sat panting on the branches of leafless trees, and animals hid in their burrows and caves to escape the unbearable heat. The little crow had been flying around for hours in search of water. His throat was parched, his wings felt heavy, and his beak was dry. He desperately needed a drink, but wherever he went, he could find no water. He flew over the fields, hovered near the village wells, and searched around the edges of the forest, but all in vain. Tired and exhausted, the crow finally landed on the branch of a tall, old tree at the edge of the village. He sat there for a while, catching his breath and wiping his beak against the rough bark. Just then, his sharp eyes caught sight of something glinting in the sunlight below. Curious, he flew down to investigate. To his great joy, he discovered an old earthen pot lying near a small hut. The pot looked weathered and cracked, but when the crow peered inside, he saw a small amount of water collected at the bottom. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to quench his thirst. The crow eagerly tried to reach the water with his beak, but the neck of the pot was too narrow, and the water was too low. He tried tilting the pot, but it was too heavy for him to move. He even tried dipping a stick inside, hoping it would bring some water up, but the stick was too thick to fit. For a moment, the crow felt frustrated and hopeless. He was so close to water, yet he could not reach it. But being clever and quick-thinking, he didn’t give up. Instead, he looked around carefully to see if there was something nearby he could use. Suddenly, an idea struck him. He noticed that the ground around the hut was covered with small pebbles and stones. The crow recalled something he had seen before: when stones are dropped into water, the water level rises. Maybe, just maybe, he could use this trick to bring the water within his reach. Without wasting any time, the crow picked up a small stone in his beak and dropped it into the pot. Plop! The stone sank to the bottom, and the water rose slightly. Encouraged by this, the crow quickly picked up another pebble and dropped it in. Plop! Again, the water rose a little higher. The crow worked tirelessly, flying back and forth, picking up pebble after pebble, and dropping them into the pot. With each stone he added, the water level rose a little more. Though it was hard work, and the sun beat down on him relentlessly, the thought of finally quenching his thirst kept him going. After many trips and much effort, the water level finally reached the brim of the pot. The crow could now easily reach it with his beak. With great relief, he dipped his beak into the cool water and drank deeply. The water tasted sweeter than anything he had ever known. His dry throat felt soothed, and the coolness revived his tired body. Feeling satisfied and proud of his cleverness, the crow looked up at the bright blue sky and let out a loud, happy caw. He had not only quenched his thirst but had also proved once again that intelligence and determination can overcome even the toughest obstacles. The crow then flapped his wings and took to the sky, feeling refreshed and joyful. As he soared above the village, he noticed other birds still struggling in the heat. Remembering his own struggle, he decided to share his newfound trick with them. He flew to the tallest tree and called out to the other birds, telling them about the pot and how he had raised the water with pebbles. The birds, grateful for the crow’s wisdom and generosity, followed his advice and soon found relief too. From that day on, the crow became a symbol of cleverness and resourcefulness in the village. The villagers would often tell their children the story of the thirsty crow, teaching them that with a little bit of thought and perseverance, any problem can be solved.
By Muhammad Naeemabout a year ago in Fiction
The Night I Accidentally Summoned a Succubus… And Fell in Love
It started as a joke—that’s the part I keep coming back to. If I had known the old leather-bound book in my uncle’s attic was an actual grimoire and not just some weird Victorian erotica, I never would have read the Latin passage out loud. Especially not after three whiskeys.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Fiction
From the Viewpoint of Johnny Oliver
I don’t know who you have already spoken to, but I didn’t do nothing. It wasn’t me. His face was like that when I walked into the room. They are always blaming me for stuff that I ain’t do. Why do they do that. I’m perfectly innocent. They have no proof to pin nothing on me. If they do, show me. I AIN’T DO IT.
By David E. Perryabout a year ago in Fiction
Fallout - Chapter 5
The mess hall was half empty by the time I sat down with my tray – eggs, dry toast, black coffee. Fuel, not food. Conersations buzzed at other tables, but I wasn’t listening. My eyes kept flicking to the far end of the room without meaning to.
By Delaney Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
First Kiss After the Storm
The rain came early that year. It soaked through the rusted leaves of September, and somewhere in the back streets of a quiet little town called Willowridge, a boy named Eliot Harper was turning seventeen with a bitter taste in his mouth and a guitar callus on every fingertip.
By Angela Davidabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Daughter
No one ever left Greyhill. It was a town untouched by the speed of the outside world — tucked between foggy hills and a forest that always smelled like rain. The buildings were old, but the clocks were never wrong. Every hour, dozens of tower bells chimed in perfect harmony, like the heartbeat of something ancient and unseen.
By Inamullah Afridiabout a year ago in Fiction
